Lili

she/her: reblogging my favs

[agnireed]

PAPER THIN WALLS

PAIRING ➩ jack abbot x reader

WC ➩ 19k

SUMMARY ➩ Jack Abbot is the perfect neighbor who is always willing to offer you a helping hand. Until you ask him to take your virginity.

WARNINGS ➩ age gap (reader is early 20s and jack is 50), they have sex and all the things that sex brings along, jack might be ooc

AUTHORS NOTE ➩ Well for once I tried to deliver real smut for you guys so buckle up and leave me some feedback on this one if you like it! NOT PROOFREAD AT ALL and it’s probably obvious so be kind about mistakes lol I wanted to get this to you guys asap!

“I need a favor.”

Jack was used to you asking him for help, had been for the two years since you moved into the apartment directly across from his.

He didn’t mind offering you a lending hand when he saw you struggling to carry your boxes from your small run down car, it wasn’t an inconvenience to collect your mail if you ever had to leave town for a few days, and he really couldn’t complain about having to remind you to get your laundry from the unit down below because it held him accountable too.

It was such a common occurrence, you asking him for a favor, that he wasn’t too surprised to find you at his door. He only gave a soft sigh as you pushed past him to enter his apartment, offering you a lot more patience than he did the newbies at the hospital.

You were always sweet, maybe a little bossy at times, but it gave him some amusement in his otherwise strict routine.

Plus it was admittedly nice to feel needed.

You came to him when your apartment had a leak or your air conditioning went out, knocked on his door whenever it was raining and you’d forgotten an umbrella after locking yourself out, and you even sometimes popped over just to get his opinion on what you should wear out on a random night.

Everybody was always telling Jack he needed a hobby that didn’t involve putting his life on the line, so he rarely told you no and tried his best to brush off Robby whenever he asked what was keeping him so busy lately.

It would be hard enough to explain the dynamic he had with his much younger neighbor but even more so considering you were now standing in the middle of his apartment with a frustrated look on your face, hands on your hips as you tapped your bunny slipper covered foot.

“What is it now?” His voice was gruff and disinterested but you knew well enough that he would do whatever you asked and he was well aware of that too. Still, it helped him just a little to pretend to contemplate it for a second or two first.

“I need you to have sex with me.”

You said it like it was as simple as asking him to come over and check your water pressure, falling out of your mouth casually and landing heavily in the quiet room.

There was no need to pretend this time as he fell into a bewildered silence, raising an eyebrow in your direction and letting his eyes track you as you dramatically sighed and went to flop down on his couch. You’d demanded about a year ago that he got some pillows for it, along with a few other interior design suggestions.

He’d picked up four after his shift that night.

“Please say something.” You were turned around on the couch so you could face him over the back of it, arms crossed as you rested your chin ontop of them.

“I have nothing to say to that.” He shook his head immediately, that stern expression he used on an unruly patient or Robby when he got a little too pushy.

This just made you sigh again, loud and exaggerated as you turned back around to fully lay flat on his couch.

“Why are you even asking me that?” He didn’t want to pry because he knew you well enough by now to know you’d just be encouraged by that but his curiosity got the best of him, circling around to sit across from you on one of the living room chairs.

You didn’t sit up but you turned your head to the side to look at him, a slight frown on your face that he didn’t think was particularly genuine. Your personality was always something Jack admired, not getting a lot of time in his own life to be so bold with his emotions and carefree in the way he spoke and behaved.

He was serious and guarded where you were a walking billboard for spontaneity, coming to him crying about random problems after only half a week of living in the building.

It was mostly endearing but there was the more critical part of him that wondered how lonely you must be to be making friends and finding comfort with some random guy across the hallway, a much older one at that.

Jack knew he had a bit of a hero complex but it typically manifested in a more extreme way, quite literally jumping into battle to save lives or operating on them in their lowest moments. This dynamic with you was a new form of care taking and there’d been a handful of times he’d doubted his own motives.

“Because I have a date next week and I am a complete lost cause when it comes to all things intimacy.” You still had a theatrical flare to your voice, not facing him anymore and instead rambling straight up to his ceiling with your hands gesturing wildly.

He tensed up for two reasons now, one being the mention of a date and the other was your implication you didn’t have any experience.

“But you’ve had sex before.” It came out slowly and half like a question, half like an assumption.

There wasn’t any real reason for him to think that other than his own social expectations. You were gorgeous, one of the prettiest women he’d seen in a very long time, and had a naturally magnetic energy to you that even he couldn’t resist most of the time, platonically but also selfishly deep down, a little more than that.

He’d seen you go on a handful of dates in the last year or two, all guys your age that didn’t seem to know how to pick up a check let alone please you properly.

That’s where Jack’s problem stemmed from.

There had been almost no ulterior motive the first year he had known you, genuinely trying to be helpful and to be a good neighbor. He would get upset when his coworkers would call him anti social or make digs at how unfriendly he was because he hadn’t always been like that and he figured helping out the girl next door was a good first step to getting that part of himself back.

You’d told him after a few months that you had no family on this side of the country, completely starting fresh at a new company you’d applied to on a whim.

It was completely innocent.

Yes, you were undoubtedly beautiful in a way that made his head spin for a second when he first saw you. You had been standing near your car and fighting with a box, both by tugging at it and saying less than kind words in its direction like it could understand you.

Jack had hesitated for a handful of seconds before making his way over and offering to help, feeling this weird pull in his chest when you blinked up at him in surprise and eagerly thanked him.

Once you were in his life, you never left. And he made space for you effortlessly because, quite frankly, he had plenty of it to offer up.

About seven months ago was the first time he had ever seen you with a guy.

He’d been coming home from a long and rare day shift (covering for Robby so he could attend Jake’s graduation), dragging his leg behind him and praying nobody stopped him on the way to his apartment so he could crawl into bed for a few short hours before he had to do it all over again for his own shift.

The only distraction he would have allowed was you but you were clearly busy, standing in the hallway as he got off the elevator and touching the rather small bicep of a guy your age.

Jack hesitated, considered getting right back on the elevator before it could close on him, and then slowly walked to his door.

He had hoped you wouldn’t acknowledge him because his throat was already weirdly tight as he eyed you and the way you stared up at the man (boy, if Jack had to really label it) with that soft and curious expression you always had.

“Jack.” Your voice was full of excitement and he faltered, his key left in his doors lock as he turned to give you an attempt at a polite smile. “Covering somebody again?”

If this had been any other day then Jack would have invited you into his apartment to talk instead of lingering in the hallway. He would have ignored his exhaustion to pair his black coffee with the hot chocolate flavor you liked that he kept in his bottom drawer, complained to you about being tired and listened to you scold him for working too much when he didn’t need to.

But you were in a pretty dress that was clearly on its way to dinner and your date was giving Jack that possessive stare that guys fresh out of college thought was intimidating.

So instead he simply nodded his head and continued to unlock his door.

“This is Asher.” You continued abruptly as he turned his door handled, leaving it cracked as he stopped to look at you again.

He gave you a once over to make sure everything was okay, wondering why you were still insisting on talking to him when you were so clearly meant to be going somewhere else. You didn’t look too uncomfortable but you were watching him back just as intensely so he mentally stored the name and face of the guy anyways, just in case something happened.

“Ashton.” Your date finally spoke and his voice was annoyed and laced with immature bitterness, although slightly valid considering you had forgotten his name.

Your eyes widened, still boring into Jacks, and he smiled a little before giving you a small wave and heading inside.

Jack realized quickly after that encounter that his intentions were a lot less innocent than he had initially thought they were. He’d closed his door before immediately pressing his back against it, listening to the sound of your small heels leaving the hallway as you apologized to your date with a clenched jaw and a pain in his stomach.

The next few dates after that just confirmed what he had already realized from the first one.

He was attracted to you.

Maybe even liked you.

You talked to Jack about almost everything going on in your life, even things he definitely would not have cared about if it came from anybody else, but you never once brought up the dates. At first he had worried you had somehow noticed his weird demeanor that day in the hallway but Jack wasn’t very expressive in general so he figured you must keep that part of your life private for other reasons.

The attraction part was easy to accept mostly, he was only a man and you were clearly gorgeous. Although the age gap was something Jack couldn’t get himself to look past.

You were barely in your early twenties, over half his age younger and overly obviously so. You radiated youth, from your appearance and the way you spoke down to your hobbies and interests.

You were clearly a very young girl and he had felt like a pervert from the moment he saw you outside of that car for the way his body warmed. Jack hadn’t felt much attraction to anybody at all since his wife died, at first out of a lingering loyalty to her that barely faded and then just due to his busyness and his own mental blocks.

That was not a problem when it came to you and he had to give a genuine effort when he was around you to act normal.

You’d come over in tiny sleep shorts or a tight tank top that showed your hardened nipples through the thin fabric, join him for morning yoga in downright sinful leggings and he even was attracted to the stupid bunny slippers you wore.

But you were a young girl and he was a disciplined old man so he barely looked twice in your direction when you were bending over to get mail and he never once touched you, setting boundaries for himself and keeping them.

Which was why it was so hard for him when you slowly shook your head to his question about having sex before.

“What about those guys?” His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you and you sighed like you were embarrassed, a rare emotion to see from you.

“We barely kissed.” You shrugged and finally sat up from your dramatic position on the couch. “Please Jack, I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

“I’m not sleeping with you.” He said immediately, slightly offended you were seemingly only asking him because you had no other options.

You looked completely dejected now but Jack knew there was no way he could possibly accept this request, for too many reasons but especially because of his own moral code. He also didn’t want to ruin what you’d had going on, enjoying your company on his hard nights and finding himself finally letting somebody in after so many years alone.

“Okay so no sex.” You say softly and you stand up when he does, following him as he walks into the kitchen and leaning against the counter to watch him set the coffee machine settings. “But can’t you show me little things.”

He sends you a sharp look that you return with a gentle pleading smile, bouncing in place a little like you think your cuteness is the answer to everything.

And it just might be because Jack sighs softly and turns his full attention back to you.

“Like what?” He knows him asking for specifics will give you hope and he can see it immediately on your face, brightening and taking a step closer to him that makes him tense.

“Maybe just telling me what guys like?” You suggest softly and the words coming from your mouth make him almost groan, keeping his face flat and emotionless as you speak. “And some kissing lessons.”

“You know how to kiss.” He shook his head at you and went to turn back to his coffee but your hand wrapped around his wrist to stop him, successfully keeping his attention on you. He realized that it might be the first time you’d ever actually touched him, skin against skin. “I’ve seen it.”

His posture tightens as he reminds himself of that fact, easily recalling the vivid memory of leaving his apartment to head to work and finding you coming home from a date and making out with a guy against your door.

You hadn’t noticed him at first but he had slammed his door harder than normal, shamefully intentional.

There’d been a pang of guilt when you jumped in surprise and separated from the guy who looked the douchiest out of all of them but it was hard to feel it when you have him a slightly grateful look on his way to the elevator.

You were blinking at him now, almost like you were realizing something, and he looked away in favor of glancing at the clock on the wall.

“Not a kiss that feels good.” Your voice was more serious now, sounding genuinely disheartened by the conversation and the slow unveiling of your inexperience.

He sighed again, just trying to get rid of the tightness in his chest, before shaking his head firmly and fully turning away from you to fill up his coffee mug.

“I’m not doing it.”

—

Jack thought about your offer for the next two weeks. Obsessively.

He waited to hear you bringing somebody else over, someone who had jumped on the golden opportunity to touch you for the first time when he hesitated. You didn’t seem to go on any dates but he supposed you wouldn’t have told him anyways.

The thought of you experiencing sex with some asshole you met off a dating app, nervous and unsure on what to do without guidance, was eating away at him.

Jack was a fixer, he liked to help you, and he had already accepted the fact that he was extremely attracted to you. It wasn’t like he didn’t recognize the jealously in his stomach everytime he saw you with somebody else, a type of anger he hadn’t felt since he was preparing to go into a real life war.

Subdued by age and a calmer reality now but it was still fresh hot anger that he couldn’t shake no matter how much he tried.

You came to him with this problem, not just for pointers and tips but you had actually asked him to be the one to take your virginity.

Virginity.

Jack couldn’t get the concept out of his head and while he hadn’t necessarily considered himself somebody who would care about that type of thing, especially not as he entered his fifties, it did bring a wave of heat over him whenever he thought about it.

You’d never been touched before outside of a few unsatisfactory make out sessions. You, the pretty girl with downright sinful choices of pajamas that consumed his day to day life so easily after he spent such a long time alone.

He thought about it endlessly until it led to him knocking on your door, a rare switch of the usual dynamic that left him feeling a little awkward before you answered.

The sensation went away when you looked up at him, eyes a little wide with confusion as you silently stepped back to let him inside. It was rare for you to be so quiet but maybe you could tell what he was thinking by the look on his face, maybe you were thinking about the same exact thing.

“I’ll help you.” His voice was gruff and flat, waiting until your door closed behind him before he spoke. Your face immediately lit up but he silenced anything you were going to say with a raised hand, your parted lips closing as you waited for him to finish. “But I’m not sleeping with you.”

You pouted a little at the condition but stepped forward after a few seconds, far too close to him for his sanity but he figured you’d be getting a lot closer soon so he forced his breathing to stay level.

Jack used to consider himself quite smooth, still a natural flirt when he joked around with older patients or teased Robby.

But he was completely thrown off of any existing game when it came to you. He didn’t even know he could still feel this way about somebody, the yearning and lustful feeling having been dormant for a long time before you moved in.

“I’ll take whatever you give me.” Your voice was soft now and he’d never heard you like that, maybe a bit of a whine when you impatiently asked him to help you with something, but never so pleading.

You’d shifted even closer as you spoke and he couldn’t help himself now that he practically had permission, his large and rough hand sliding over your waist to rest on the small of your back.

You sucked in a sharp breath at the feeling and he was suddenly aware of how much fun this was going to be if you were that sensitive.

“Not tonight okay?” He replied and his low tone made your eyes soften, nodding eagerly and hesitantly letting your hands land on his chest in balled up fist. “We can talk about it more later and work out some conditions.”

“You’re giving me rules?” You’d collected yourself enough to finally give him some of that familiar attitude, smiling slightly as you stared up at him. He rolled his eyes but let his hand tighten against your back, moving you forward and just trying to test your reaction to the touch.

You lost your smile immediately, shuffling closer until you were pressed against him as your eyes darted all around his face with surprise. It was clear you didn’t expect him to accept at all let alone this easily, despite his two weeks of contemplation, he wasn’t at all hesitate now.

“You need them.” He retorted and his free hand brushed some of your hair behind your ear, the first time you were ever really touching each other being this intimate was sending another wave of affection through him.

A few years ago, Jack couldn’t even get himself to look at another woman, let alone hold one so gently. Even with the slightly out of the ordinary circumstances, he cared for you and you trusted him and that was all that really mattered in his eyes.

“You’re mean.” You’re whispering it and his head tilts at the sound it, overly fond and curious how you can affect him so much just by changing the tone of your voice. “Kiss me atleast.”

It comes out a demand and his eyebrows naturally furrow at the sound of it, knowing immediately that will have to be one of the rules he gives you when you talk them over.

Manners.

He doesn’t respond for a second but you seem to understand before he even needs to scold you, lips parting in realization before they form a small pout and you unclench your fist so your palm is flat on his chest now instead.

“Please give me a kiss Jack.” You sound sweeter now and he would think it was an act, making fun of him for his sudden silent sternness, if it wasn’t for the genuinely pleading look on your face.

The knowledge that you listen so easily, even when he doesn’t actually say it, overrides his senses so much that he actually does bend down to kiss you.

It’s soft at first which you don’t seem to understand, immediately trying to eagerly make out with him like that’s all you really know. He moves one of his hands from your side to hold under your jaw, applying a little bit of pressure near your throat to indicate he wants you to slow down.

You melt against him at the touch but do as he silently communicates and relax a little bit, still moving your mouth a bit sloppily against his but learning to adapt to his slow and easy pace.

Eventually you get the rhythm down perfectly, lips moving together without anything extra added. You asked Jack to teach you so he was going to do exactly that, starting from the basics.

Your face was completely dazed when he pulled back, instinctively shifting forward to try and kiss him again and making a small disappointment noise when his hold near your throat tightened in warning.

“You asked for a kiss.” He said in a low voice, still close to your face so he could perfectly see the way your widened eyes shifted around his features.

He was a bit mesmerized by the way you looked now, so unlike yourself on any other day. It both made his guilt over being perverse grow and also solidified that he didn’t care how wrong it was as long as you kept looking at him like that.

“Get some sleep.” He waited a few seconds before taking the necessary steps away from you, taking a sharp breath as he turned and left your apartment.

His own door had barely closed behind him before there was insistent knocks on it, his head immediately hanging since he knew exactly who it was.

Your eyebrows were furrowed when he pulled the handle to reveal you in the hallway, standing stiffly and glaring up at him but not making any move to come inside. You shifted in place and let out a huff of annoyance as you seemed to search for the right words to convey what you wanted.

“Can you kiss me one more time?” You eventually settled on the blunt question, shifting closer so you were both halfway in his doorway.

While he had a foot inside his apartment still, you had one in the hallway. It left you standing too close for his sanity, feeling it slip almost entirely again when your small hand landed on his forearm and rubbed softly.

“What’s wrong?” He asked softly, sensing your frustration but not knowing where it was stemming from.

He cupped your face with one of his hands, letting the other rest back on your side. You stared up at him as he took a few slow steps forward, backing you up with each one until your back hit the doorframe and took a soft near gasp from your lips.

“Nothing I just…” You trail off as you pout, scanning over his face and then down his chest until you can’t bend your head anymore to look. “I want one more. Please.”

You added it as an afterthought but it was enough for him, pressing his mouth back against yours.

This time, apparently a very quick learner, you were able to meet his pace right away and your mouths moved softly together. Your arms went around his neck so you could fully cling to him as you kissed deeply, heads tilting and quiet pleased noises rumbling in your throat.

You only got louder when his tongue pressed lightly into your mouth, mostly just to test your reaction but unable to stop himself when you were eagerly matching the actions.

It was sloppy and a little too wet, sounds of your tongues tangling together filling the silent hallway and sending a sharp heat down to his gut. He liked how clumsy you were, growing addicted to the way you seemed to have no idea what you were doing but too desperate to stop yourself and ask him for his help.

Jack knew he liked feeling needed but this was a whole different beast, one that came paired with some light shame.

You weren’t innocent and you knew exactly what you needed to about sex but your body was inexperienced and it was getting clearer by the second, your little gasp when he kissed you deeper and the way you tightened your hold on him everytime he went to pull back and attempt to slow down.

You’re red in the face by the time he manages to get you to stop eagerly kissing him, still instinctively shifting closer when he moves back. He gives you a lighthearted sigh, occupied by the softest smile he can manage so he doesn’t actually hurt your feelings when he presses you back against the doorway with the hand that’s still on your hip.

“Time for bed.” He tries to keep his tone light but it comes out more authoritative than he had meant for it to, most likely driven by the way you automatically started to frown as soon as he held you away from him. “We can talk tomorrow.”

You clearly weren’t happy about that but you surprisingly gave him a soft nod, shifting your body until you were out of his entrance and closer to your own.

He watched you and your dazed face, slightly wobbly on your feet, as you disappeared behind your apartment door with a small wave.

-

Jack had started off his day rough the following morning, barely able to sleep after what had happened.

It was a completely split mixture of wanting you so bad it was driving him to literal insanity and feeling disgustingly guilty for even looking in your direction.

He almost considered calling Robby about it but he really didn’t need to hear the lecture that would undoubtedly come his way about the situation. Plus he figured that whatever Robby knew, Dana knew, and if Dana knew then it was only a matter of time before the entire emergency department was gossiping about Jack Abbot and his young neighbor.

The dilemma was so strong that he had almost completely forgotten about the fact he had told you that you’d talk today, although almost intentional.

He was halfway avoiding having to actually sit down and make this arrangement a reality, still having a hard time believing what had happened last night was even real.

He had just started to get changed for work when the knocking on his door started and he knew it was you immediately, standing still and hanging his head for a few seconds like he figured he could just wait you out.

It didn’t take long for his senses to kick back in and he was pulling on a plain black shirt before making his way over to the door, raising his eyebrows at you when he saw how irritated you looked.

You brushed past him immediately and he lingered with his hand on the door knob for a moment before closing it and preparing himself to face whatever wrath you were about to send his direction.

“You didn’t come over.” You immediately accused, finger pointing in his direction as you stood in the middle of his living room with an angry expression. “You didn’t even text me.”

He was already walking closer to you as you spoke and your defenses naturally crumbled at the proximity, especially when his hands were sliding over your ribs to both hold you steady and let him feel your breathing as subtly as possible.

“You can’t just kiss me like that and then ignore me.” You continue on but your tone is a lot softer now that he’s touching you, already getting that dazed edge to it he had heard last night.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you.” He shakes his head and frees a hand to tuck some hair behind your ear, your features have completely softened now at the movement.

Jack wonders for the first time if you might have feelings for him beyond trust and attraction.

For some reason, he hadn’t really considered the possibility before. You were practically his polar opposite and he had nothing in common with any of the boys you went on dates with.

But now, with you blinking up at him like you were hanging on to his every word, he let himself think it might just be likely.

“I figured you changed your mind.” Your words are a little slurred from the insistent pout you have on your face and he sighs again, gently leading you over to sit on his couch.

Your knees brush together as you scoot closer to him the second he’s settled on top of the cushion, your hand wrapping around three of his fingers and squeezing lightly as you wait for him to respond to your fear of being rejected.

“I didn’t but I want to make sure you understand what you’re asking.” His voice is low and nearing stern, the same tone he uses on the new med students who seem a little more cocky than they are willing to learn. He knows that’s not the case with you, knows you’re desperate for any expertise he can offer you, but he still wants you to pay attention and properly understand him. “There’s other ways for you to do this.”

“What, like other guys?” Your eyebrows furrow like the thought confuses you.

His stomach tightens immediately, sick at the thought of it, but he stiffly nods his head.

You’re shifting even closer immediately and he lets out a breath when you’re leaning over his knee nearly, closer to his face than before and scanning over it again.

“I don’t want another guy Jack. I just want it to be you.” You’re whispering now and he can’t stop himself from pressing a light kiss to your mouth, brief but necessary when his brain processes the lack of distance between you. That makes you smile finally and he suddenly feels very stupid for ever questioning you when you’re making a request like this.

“Tell me why.” He mumbles, easily sliding his hands around your middle so he can tug you over more and into his lap. You kiss him again once you’re settled in his lap, still quick like you’re both using it as punctuation during your conversation. “Why me?”

He wants to hear you give a legitimate reason, to undo the hesitance you gave him when you said it was only because you didn’t have anybody else to ask. That’d been weighing on him more than anything else, the thought that you had just settled for your older lonely neighbor who was clearly willing to help you with anything in spite of himself.

Your next kiss was much longer, deeper as you fully sink down in his lap and move your mouth against his desperately. He’d accept that alone as an answer, big palms rubbing over your back and sides so he can keep pulling you impossibly closer.

Your nose is rubbing against his when you pull back, the sounds of your breathing being heavier now making his head spin with the necessary impulsivity to keep making terrible decisions with you.

“You’d make me feel good.” The answer you’d landed on was much more devastating than he was prepared for, his eyes darkening at how confident you sounded in that fact. “I know you would.”

His hands tightened around your soft skin for a second, needing to take a deep breath to ground himself.

It takes a second for him to reply, tucking his face into your neck and inhaling sharply. You smell as sweet as you always do but it’s intoxicating to have it this close after so long, skin soft under his lips as he kisses you softly.

Your breathing gets shaky, arms looping around his neck so you’re practically hugging him. You’re warm on top of him and making the sweetest noises when he moves along your jaw, shifting in his lap to try and get his attention back on your conversation.

“You’ll do it right?” You ask softly, running your hand through his hair and tugging just enough to make him finally look back at your face. His eyes are dark and unfocused as he stares at your pretty features. “Jack?”

“Yeah honey.” He says back after another long silence, voice deeper than he’d ever heard it as he leans in to kiss you again.

You kiss for a long time, wiggling around in his lap when your tongues tangle together and you get to taste him properly again. It’s addicting for both of you, both of your hands running all over the other’s body like you’re trying to learn every part of it you can reach.

Eventually you’re fully rocking against him from your neediness and it takes a second for him to process it, snapped back to focus when he hears the way your whines are getting higher pitched. A near growl leaves his throat as he grabs your hips firmly, thumbs pressing into the bone so he can stop you from moving on top of him like that.

“Jackie.” You whine desperately, kissing him again and successfully distracting him long enough that you can start humping again.

“Stop baby I have work soon.” He scolds in between the sloppy kisses, lips and chin slightly wet from how uncoordinated you still are.

You make another soft noise and he’s confused for half a second before he realizes it’s because of the pet name, smiling softly from his fondness for you as you hide down in his neck for a second.

“You’re hard now, I can feel it.” You’re whispering right against his skin and a shiver runs over him at the lewd words falling from such a pretty mouth, high pitched and almost innocent voice making the sentence sound so much dirtier than it needed to be.

At first Jack doesn’t think you’re right, knowing himself and his body enough to expect he’s not stirring down there even if he wants you so bad it makes him feel insane.

He’s had issues with it for years now, a deadly combination of his age, his traumas, and the carousel of medications he has to be on for a variety of things he wouldn’t disclose to you out of his own pride. That was the reason Jack had stopped trying to hook up with people years ago, giving up on porn entirely when he’d have to spend an hour trying to get hard before he could even attempt to actually get himself off.

It was in the back of his mind when you’d asked him to help you with this but he figured this was about your pleasure, he wouldn’t need to be hard to get you off especially if he stuck to his guns about not actually having sex with you.

He was sucking in a deep breath to explain this to you in less detail, make sure you understood that he wasn’t hard but it had nothing to do with you or his attraction to you, when you gave a particularly deep and slow roll of your hips.

And the effect was completely undeniable.

A shudder ran over him, eyes dropping to his lap that you were still rocking on top of. Your tiny little shorts were so clearly pressing against the tent in his scrub pants, catching on it whenever you lost the energy to move properly as you let out another needy whine and hid back in his neck.

You were completely unaware of his current mental situation, baffled at how easily you’d gotten him to this state from just some sloppy kissing.

You must’ve thought he was ignoring you because you picked up your head to glare at him, a pout on your swollen lips.

“Sorry sweetheart.” He sighed and kissed you gently, rubbing your sides up to your ribs and coming back down right when he felt the swell of your breast against his fingertips. “I really have to go.”

“Let me suck you off.” You requested easily and his breath caught, nearly choking at how simple you made it sound. “I wanna learn and you’re so hard right now Jackie. Please let me do it.”

“That’s not the point of this.” He shook his head immediately and moved you by your hips so you were sat next to him and no longer settled in his lap, clearly upsetting you as you scrambled up on your knees and gripped his bicep so he couldn’t get off the couch yet.

“The point is to teach me things about sex and I’ll need to know this.” You counter, eyebrows furrowing in confusion at why he’s rejecting you.

He finds it a little amusing that you’re so used to him accepting your requests for things that you’re genuinely lost when he doesn’t immediately fold for you. It’s a bratty habit he should have corrected months ago but he can’t find himself caring too much, liking how dependent you’d become on him.

Jack has to contemplate this because he knows you’re right, stomach turning a little at the reminder that you’re going to use whatever he shows you on somebody else down the line.

That selfishly makes him want to cancel this whole thing and leave you completely clueless, hopefully to the point you decide to swear off sex with other men entirely. But he knows how stubborn you are and how stuck you get on something once it catches your attention, figuring you’d get on a dating app and find some idiot in finance to take your virginity as soon as he put an end to this arrangement.

So he lets you slip to your knees off the couch, taking his hesitance to decline again as a positive sign.

“Wait.” He interjects and you freeze, sighing in annoyance as you prepare for him to give another reason you can’t do it. Instead he pulls one of the pillows off the couch and slides in near his feet, your eyes softening as you shift so you’re kneeling on the plush cushion instead of the floor.

“How do I start?” You ask softly, eyeing the bunched up fabric in front of you with interest. He has to stare at the ceiling for a second, slightly losing it at the sight of you kneeling on his floor between his legs. “Do I have to get you ready?”

“No.” He says it gruffly and you tense again, his tone way sharper than he’d meant for it to be. “It’s… I’m ready baby trust me. Just give me a second.”

That calms you down immediately, enough that you rest your head on his knee as you try your best to be patient. His eyes go back to you at the touch and he watches the way you squirm against the pillow, clearly still riled up from the kissing and maybe even the thought of taking him in your mouth.

“Has it been awhile Jack?” Your voice is ridiculous now, clearly teasing him and developing this soft purr that almost irritates him.

His hand goes into your hair at the sound of it, tightening enough that you lift your cheek off his knee and stare up at him with wide eyes.

“Watch it.” He says lowly, using his free hand to untie his scrub pants as you eye the movement with fascination. Your lips part as you stare at his hand and the way his fingers twist the strings, he has half the thought to make you choke on the digits before you try and take anything bigger but your attitude has left him feeling just as impatient. “We’ve got to work on your manners if you want me to teach you.”

That makes you snap back into focus, frowning at his words and shaking your head as you straighten up on your knees.

“I have manners Jack.” You’re clearly trying to convince him, small hands smoothing over his thighs.

He starts to deny it but he’s cut off when you lean forward to nuzzle against him, face pressing right where he’s currently aching under two layers of fabric. His breath catches in his throat and he instinctively tightens the hand that’s in your hair, mumbling out an apology when you make a pained noise but barely loosening it after.

He feels like he needs to keep it there to have any sort of control in this situation, especially given the way you’re almost desperately rubbing your face on his lap.

“Should’ve told me you were this needy.” He half scolds as he shifts his waistband down lower, waiting for you to notice and pick yourself up just long enough to get his pants down.

You don’t give him long at all before you’re back to obsessing over the sight in front of you, eyes fully dazed now that it’s just his boxers separating you from putting your mouth on his hard length.

You’re clearly trying to be patient in an attempt to prove you have any sort of manners, a little pride rippling through him similar to the feeling he got when you had corrected yourself the other night to politely ask him for a kiss.

“You wouldn’t have done anything about it.” You say softly, not accusatory but confident in it like you know it’s true. You lean forward and kiss against the covered bulge, a groan leaving him. “You’re too good of a guy.”

“Clearly not.” He rasped just as you start to lose that faux patience you’re trying so hard to pretend you have, tugging at the waistband of his underwear and smiling softly when he lifts his hips off the couch without arguing. “And you know I never tell you no sweetheart.”

“Yeah?” You’re still trying to talk to him but now you’re completely lost in the sight of him half naked and sitting there with his legs spread in front of you, too desperate to even be intimidated by the size of him. “You would’ve let me do this months ago Jackie?”

He sighs and tightens his hold in your hair again, bringing you forward until he can feel your breath where he’s most sensitive.

Your eyes flicker up to him and the sight is devastating for how deprived he’s been, a pretty young girl like you sitting so nicely on your knees for the first time ever. He can barely even feel that guilt and slightly sick sensation, knowing how perverted it is that he could probably get off just looking at your face and thinking about the way he’s about to corrupt you.

“Stop talking.” He instructs gruffly and you nod eagerly, eyes back on his length and only now looking a little nervous as you swallow before your lips part in anticipation. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Want it so bad.” You don’t hesitate to answer and your voice is a little whinier, swaying forward like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

Jack lets you move until you’re right there, eyes locked on your face as you give him a nervous look and try to take him in your mouth.

It’s awkward and you’re tense, expression full of hesitation like you’re waiting for him to tell you how to do it properly but he lets himself bask in this for a few seconds.

He knows it’s sick but he finds you the most beautiful like this, confused and desperate to please him without knowing how to. You go between sucking and licking at the tip of his length and while it feels good, no doubt about that especially after how long it’s been, it’s nothing compared to how clearly inexperienced you are.

Finally, he snaps out of his sick fantasies of watching you embarrass yourself trying to please him, and he decides to actually do what you’d asked and teach you something.

“Relax your jaw baby. Just take what you can okay?” His voice is low and gentle, hand loose in your hair but clenching into a tight fist whenever you brush against his sensitive skin with your teeth on accident or try to overachieve and take him deeper.

You do seem to calm down a little now that he’s finally speaking, shoulders slumping and your eyes fluttering shut as you get used to the feeling of him on your tongue.

You’ve barely taken him at all but he’s transfixed by the sight, perfectly content to sit here and cock warm your mouth until you were ready to move him down your throat.

He watches you closely as you pull back to take a few deep breaths, pouting a little at his length and hesitating before you’re touching him with your hand. It’s all experimental, tugging and feeling the skin against your palm while he grunts above you and tries to control himself.

It’s barely sexual on your end considering how fascinated you are by the new experience but he’s halfway losing his mind knowing this is the first time you’re touching somebody like this.

“I gotta go soon sweetheart.” He says and your eyes finally snap back up to him, turning a little red considering you’d been caught just staring at his length as you touched him. “You can play with me all you want after my shift.”

Now you’re full on blushing but you nod your head obediently and lean back in to take him in your mouth again, a little more confident now as you lick around the head and repeat movements whenever it draws a sound out from him.

Jack can barely stand it and he has to put both hands in your hair to keep himself from fucking up into your warm mouth, groaning from the effort it’s taking and considering telling you to get back on the couch before he goes too far with you too early.

You’re clearly just as impatient because you try to take more of him finally and immediately gag at the sensation, pulling back and frowning up at him.

“Help Jackie.” Your voice is whiny and has a little rasp to it now and he kisses his teeth at the sound, petting your hair back out of your face.

“I can’t help with that baby, you’ve just got to practice.” He tries his best to soothe you but you’re clearly frustrated.

“Can’t you just force my head down?” You’re rubbing his thighs as you speak in that ridiculously bratty voice, wiggling around on the pillow like the thought alone is exciting you.

He wants to say no, wants to tell you why it’s such a terrible idea for him to forcefully fuck your throat right before he has to go to work. There’s a million reasons he should be rejecting you right now but that sick voice in the back of his head is struggling to get the words out, especially when you go back to softly kitten licking at his length to keep him hard.

“Fuck you’re nasty.” He gruffs out and your eyes light up at the words, nodding your head and taking him back in your mouth as you keep trying your best to fit him deeper. “You want me in your throat that bad?”

You can’t talk now but your desires are obvious.

He eyes the way you’re shifting on the cushion below you, adjusting his foot the best he can so it’s between your thighs as you kneel. That seems to make you even more desperate, rubbing against him almost feverishly now as you try to focus on having him in your mouth.

There’s no option to do so when he brings his hands back to your hair, silently showing you he accepts your request when he moves his hips off the couch and keeps your face firmly in place so he can push deeper down your throat.

He feels you gag slightly around him but your eyes roll to the back of your head at the same time and you hump against his foot even faster so he can’t find it in himself to stop, thrusting slowly to make sure you don’t end up getting sick or feeling too sore by the time he’s finished.

Jack knows this is far beyond teaching, he’s not even speaking anymore and instead just using your throat to get himself off but you’re even more eager for it than him and he’d never deny you anything you asked for.

“This tiny little throat.” His voice is nearing a growl as he helps move your head up and down his length, reveling in the way you gag and drool around him. “You’re doing so good baby.”

The praise seems to do it for you more than anything else, rubbing your core against his foot so eagerly that you can barely focus on sucking him off. You’re getting too messy to control yourself, mouth slipping off every few thrust before you whine at the loss and immediately take him back in your throat.

Jack takes pity on both of you, both for his own sanity and because he can’t stop thinking about the fact he’ll need to leave as soon as this is done.

You’re clearly upset when he pulls you off, making a loud noise of disagreement that barely sounds like an actual word and frowning at him when he sends you a stern look and wraps his hand around himself instead.

You seem to forget your anger pretty quickly as you watch him touch himself, hips slowed down to a slow rock against his foot as you stare at his length and the way he’s making himself feel good above you.

Jack has to look away when he comes because he feels pretty close to forcing your head back down and making you swallow it, although half positive you’d actually enjoy that more than him judging by how eager you are to try things.

You’re laying your head back on his thigh while he grunts and curses, tightening his fist and going back to staring at your face just for a brief moment so he has a clearer picture to think about.

It’s quiet in the living room afterwards and he feels an odd sense of embarrassment, a rare vulnerability considering you’re still fully clothed and kneeling on the floor. He fixes one of those problems by effortlessly pulling you up by your arms, settling you back against the cushions.

He stands and pulls his pants up while he does so, knowing he’ll have to shower off before he can go to work and get a new pair of scrubs anyways.

There’s a second of hesitation before he goes to get you some water, leaning over your dazed frame and kissing you softly.

“Was it good?” You ask quietly against his mouth, hand tangling in his hair like you don’t want him to go anywhere without answering you first. “You stopped me.”

“You were perfect.” He answers simply and he means it, would probably feel the same if you had accidentally bit him though.

“I wanted to taste you.” You’re pouting again and every time he thinks he gets used to you, you prove him beyond wrong. He sighs and leans further against you on the couch so you’re fully sinking into the cushion below you.

“Next time.”

It comes out before he can stop it and he fully plans to backtrack but your eyes light up at the idea of him letting you do that again so he doesn’t, letting it linger for a few seconds.

“Not when I have to leave you right after. You won’t like it and I don’t want to hurt you.” He’s talking in the stern and no nonsense way he does at work, trying to make sure you understand even though you’re slowly starting to smile as he speaks and he realizes you’re probably not paying any attention.

“You won’t hurt me Jack.” You whisper and it’s so sweet he almost considers calling in so he can stay with you a little longer. “Not in a way I won’t like.”

That makes him scoff out a laugh, a rare sound from him and you look even more pleased at the noise.

“You don’t even know what you like sweetheart.” He says softly and brushes your hair out of your face, letting both his fingertips and eyes trail down your neck until he reaches your collarbones. “But I’ll show you.”

“You’ll show me?” You’re teasing him now, biting your bottom lip to try and hide your smile to no avail.

“Yeah I will.” He smiles too and kisses you again, a little too soft considering what you actually are to each other.

He eventually manages to get off of you long enough to get you some water, watching carefully as you take a few sips and rubbing your knee when you wince at first. He wants to feel guilty for making your throat sore but he can’t, sick enough to admit he just feels the urge to make you take him deeper next time to see if you’ll really let him.

You’re still laying on his couch when he gets out of his brief shower, having changed his pants and taken a few deep breaths while staring in the mirror to try and get ahold of himself. He needs to switch back to reality for atleast a few hours, become the weathered doctor who doesn’t lose his mind over a pretty girl asking for favors.

You set your phone down on your chest, giving him your full attention as he moves towards the door to tug his shoes on.

There’s no indication you plan to leave before he does but he can’t find it in himself to mind the intrusion, going back over to the couch to give you a kiss on the forehead.

“Staying here?” He says in a low voice and you nod eagerly, eyes locked on his.

He lets himself think about his entire way to work, the image of you being there when he gets home from a hard shift. It had been a long time since he had someone to come home to and having you across the hall was already a gift within itself.

Now you’d crossed a line and if he let himself forget the terms and conditions, the fact you were loosely using him just to end up with somebody else as the actual end goal, then he could pretend for a moment that you were the person he got to crawl into bed with when work was tough.

Despite how much he thought about you during his shift, every moment he wasn’t being bombarded with questions or saving somebody’s life on autopilot, you weren’t actually there when he came back.

He knew it before he even opened the door, confirmed by how neatly the pillows on the couch were placed again and the fact your glass of water was rinsed and put away in the dishwasher.

You’d made it look like you were never even there and he knew you still enjoyed his company, maybe enjoyed the newly added sexual dynamic even more, but that didn’t mean you wanted to comfort him after he lost a patient or help soothe him when his leg was bothering him from standing all day.

Jack had to remind himself of the part he was playing in your life currently and try his best to not be disappointed.

It’s two days until he sees you again and he thinks it’s one of the longest spans you’ve gone without talking in almost a year.

He’s just about to start really acting out of character by banging at your front door and asking if you’re avoiding him when he runs into you downstairs, freezing as soon as he enters the lowly lit laundry room to find you leaning against one of the washers and looking extremely bored.

You’re as beautiful as always, casually dressed in nothing but an old band shirt that hangs off your shoulder and a pair of shorts so small he’s pretty sure it’s just boxy underwear.

You don’t look up when he comes in until his leg slightly catches on the step, accustomed enough to the sound of the light dragging he sometimes can’t stop from happening when he’s extra tired.

It’s a relief to find that you don’t have any awkwardness on your face, no sign of being uncomfortable or upset with him.

Then he figures that might just be worse.

He would just about die if he had done anything that made you want to avoid him but the alternative seems to be that you just didn’t want to speak to him and that makes his chest sting.

There’s nothing but silence and the rattling of the old washer as it rocks back and forth on the cement floor, both of you seemingly having decided to not speak to each other first.

(sorry for the brief awkward spacing tumblr says this is too long)

It’s another five minutes of the now awkward stretch of quiet before you clear your throat, turning to face him where he’s fidgeting with his laundry baskets broken handle just to have something to focus on.

“So I went on a date last night.” You say softly, eyebrows raised like you’re genuinely interested in his reaction.

His stomach turns but it’s a relief to have you looking at him again so he takes it, swallowing hard and racking his brain for a response that’s appropriate.

“How’d it go?” He’s asking out of politeness but he’s silently praying you suddenly decide you don’t want to tell him about it. It wouldn’t even make him feel better to hear it had ended terribly, not wanting you to feel any type of negative emotions even if it technically was in his benefit.

He definitely can’t take any sort of mention of you being with another guy physically. He knows it’s coming eventually, it’s the sole purpose behind why he even gets to touch you, but he’s not ready just yet.

You’re quiet again and he really looks at you now, takes in the silent contemplation on your face and the way you tap your fingers on the metal of the washer for a second before pushing off of it entirely.

Then you’re in his space again and it’s like an instinctive move to cup your face, hand on your waist so he can lightly push you back against the machine he’d been in front of. You touch his chest, lightly rubbing in soft circles, and he wants to sigh in relief if that wouldn’t be so painfully obvious.

“Wasn’t a great time.” You whisper and your eyes are on his lips as you speak.

His eyebrows raise and his hand on your body tightens slightly at the same time he uses his thumb to press under your chin and make you tilt your jaw back.

“Why not?” He hates the thought of getting details but he needs to know some idiot from a dating app hadn’t done anything to hurt you.

You don’t answer right away, just standing there and letting your eyes scan over his features on rotation. You finally let out a small breath like you’re about to speak but it never comes, small hands moving to grip his biceps.

“Did he touch you?” He can’t stop himself from asking even though the question makes his voice come out low enough that your eyes flash with surprise for a second, snapping away from his mouth to meet his stare again like you’re looking for something in it.

You shake your head immediately, squeezing his arms and shifting against the vibrating machine.

He’s kissing you then and he tells himself it’s out of relief, the knowledge that you’re still untouched by anybody except for him instantly making this conversation easier.

You’re returning it right away and he’s pleasantly surprised by how quickly you caught on to the type of kissing he likes, his personal preference. He figures he should eventually tell you that not ever guy was going to like your constant licking into his mouth but for now he lets it be, wants you to be trying to please him specifically and not whoever you’d use these lessons with.

It’s ridiculously cute how desperate you get, only needing a few seconds of your tongue inside his mouth before you’re arching off the machine and making soft noises against his lips.

His hands are all over you as soon as he notices the state of you, sliding down to cup your ass with both palms and tug you tighter to his frame.

That makes you out rightly whimper, clumsily trying to hitch a leg around his waist and sighing in relief when he holds your thigh to keep it there. The wet sounds of your mouths fill the small room, body slightly shaking both from need and from the way the washer is vibrating against your back.

“Missed you.” You whimper it out when he pulls back to let you breathe, kissing down your jaw and tightening his grip on the soft curve hidden under your underwear. “Didn’t call me.”

“Were you waiting for me to call baby?” He asks softly, despite how much it had been bothering him, he would never want to make you feel guilty for not reaching out to him after what you’d done.

You don’t answer so he pulls his head out of your neck to look at your face, seeing the soft frown and the hesitation in your eyes.

“Hey.” He breaths out and pushes your hair back to get your attention fully on him, your body softening and completely leaning against his to the point you’d definitely fall if he took a step backwards. “I wanted to give you space. Let you decide when you wanted to continue this, if you did.”

“I don’t want space.” You counter and it’s a little past bratty but he’s so beyond fond of you that he can’t help but let the corners of his mouth turn up at the sound of it. “You’re supposed to take care of me.”

He’s not sure when your dynamic became this way but he feels it as much as you apparently do, knows it’s his duty to make sure you’re always fine and not needing anything he can’t fix. Now there’s the added element of making you feel good, touching you in ways you’re not used to and showing you what pleasure can be like, and he’s not taking it lightly.

“Then I’ll call.” He say softly and your eyes lock on his as you nod in agreement, his hand cupping your cheek so he can keep you still enough to kiss you briefly. “You want me to chase you and I’ll chase you.”

“Right now I just want you to kiss me.” You whisper and he doesn’t need to hear anything else.

You’re back to kissing and it’s feverish now, more tongue than anything and your hands groping each other anywhere you can touch.

He’s lifting you up off the ground just so he can press himself between your legs and swallow the soft needy noises you let out at the feeling, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist so he can’t pull away at all. You’re pressed back against the metal with his hands under your shirt and wrapped around your frame to make sure you don’t fall, thick fingers splayed out against your ribs.

It’s getting hotter in the room and it’s mostly due to the way you’re whining and trying to roll your hips into him, unsuccessful considering how hard he’s got you pinned back to the washer.

“Jack please.” You pant and pull away from his mouth, tucking into his neck and rubbing your soft cheek against his stubble like a needy cat. “Please touch me. Do anything.”

He’s grunting at the request and gently setting you back down on your feet so he can free up a hand, using it to push your shirt up to your neck. He’s not too surprised to find that you’re not wearing anything underneath and your surprised gasp swallows the sound of his low groan.

You’re whining lewdly when he leans down to press kisses against your skin, middle of your breast first to avoid putting his mouth where you really want it. You’re panting, chest rising and falling under his mouth, and tangling a hand in his ash colored curls to try and steer him where you need him.

He wants to smack your hand away and warn you to be patient but he wants you too bad to try and discipline you right now, letting his mouth latch onto to one of your hard nipples so he can hear whatever noise that brings out of you.

It’s loud and intoxicating, his head spinning a little as he keeps sucking and licking your skin, letting your shirt rest on the top of his head so he can use his other hand to roughly grope your other breast and make sure you’re getting equal attention.

“Oh fuck Jack.” You’re whimpering and trying to hump against nothing, back arching as you whine and hold him to your body like he has any plans of getting away from you. “T-that feels so good.”

“Come upstairs.” His voice is so rough it surprises himself, picking his head off your chest and letting your shirt drop so he can kiss you swiftly.

You frown at the loss of contact, rubbing your nose against his and still lightly petting his hair.

“Why not here?” You ask softly and he gives you a disapproving look that makes you sigh and rest your forehead down against his shoulder for a few seconds while you catch your breath. “It’s too far.”

He thinks for a moment before he’s adjusting his stance to pick you up off the ground, abandoning your laundry and his that both likely need to be switched out soon. He’d gladly let it sit and wash it again later if it means getting you up to his apartment as fast as possible.

You make a small surprised noise and cling to him, arms behind his neck and legs wrapped around his middle and he makes his way up the few stairs towards the elevators.

“Jack your leg.” The sight of the steps seems to remind you of his disability and he’d be more irritated by your worry if it didn’t sound so genuine.

You clearly don’t ever think too much about his leg restricting him, never shying away from asking him to lift heavy things or walk with you down to the store. You don’t treat him like he’s fragile or any less of a man for having limitations and he’s always liked that about you, same way he somehow likes your gentle concern even though it would have bothered him if it was anybody else.

“Think I can’t throw you around because of my leg?” He mumbles and you tense in his hold as he walks like you think he might be serious before you’re breathing out a laugh and hiding in his neck.

Jack finally gets back to his apartment, going crazy from the way you’d started to kiss his jaw and whine impatiently in the elevator. Your hands run up and down his arms like you’re marveling at the strength it takes to carry you for as long as he was, making soft needy noises and squirming around.

He can’t even care about the possibility somebody could see him with you, one of the neighbor he’d lived next to for years watching as Jack Abbot carries the much younger girl next door through his entry way as she whines for him to touch her more.

“Calm down baby.” His voice is soft once he gets to his room, setting you down on his bed and taking a few seconds to stare at you as you lay there and pout up at him.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and his gut twists a little at the observation, a mixture of desperate unfamiliar need and the same guilt from before accompanied by a new layer of it.

He thinks of his wife for the first time in a while. He used to spend every waking second with her on his mind but she had naturally started to fade from his mind once he met you, something he hadn’t even noticed until you’d already been living across the hall for a few months.

You’d came over for the first time and asked him to borrow some ingredients, strolling around his living room and eyeballing the photos on his walls while he poured some sugar into a small tupperware bowl for you to take back to your place. You had turned to him with a curious face and asked him where his wife was, obviously confused considering you’d never heard of her before despite how frequently you and him small talked.

That was the first time Jack noticed how little he’d been thinking of her lately, not just in the painful mourning way he’d been suffering through since she passed but in general too.

Now he was waking up in the morning and anticipating the next time you’d knock on his door, focusing on his health again so he could occupy you on your walks and not picking up too many extra shifts at work just incase you needed something and he wasn’t there.

Jack was thinking about her again now as you laid on his bed but only because he couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted something this bad, trying to compare the feeling of you to how he felt in his marriage and still thinking it fell short.

He had loved his wife, undoubtedly, but he craved you in a way that almost felt inhumane.

“You’re being mean to me.” You say softly to break him out of his trance, having zoned out just staring down at you and the way your chest was rising and falling with every deep breath.

“I’m never mean to you honey.” He whispers back and finally moves to lay down with you, hovering over your frame and running a hand from your waist to your ribs as he kisses you softly. “I take good care of you, don’t I?”

It’s a bit mean to throw your words from earlier back in your face, especially as he lets his mouth trail down your neck. You make a whiny noise and grip his shoulders, nodding your head and shifting under him so your legs are spread further.

“Yes Jack yes, you take care of me.” You’re practically whimpering and he feels almost drunk from how easily you get this needy, pausing his soft kisses to shift up on his knees and tug your shirt over your head.

You’re the prettiest sight he’s ever seen and he can’t help himself from bringing his mouth right back to your chest, drinking in the way you gasp and moan while he’s licking and sucking on your nipples. His other hand is softly groping whichever breast he doesn’t have his mouth on at the moment and your backs arching off his bed, scratching his shoulders through his shirt.

“Please touch me.” You’re begging after only a few minutes of the slow torture and he lets out a sharp breath, shifting so he’s more to the side of you than on top.

You’re quiet when he rubs his hand down your chest and over your stomach, rubbing at the waistband of your underwear for a few seconds just to hear the way you pant before he’s smoothing over your thighs.

Your back is basically against his chest as he hooks your leg over his to make sure yours are nice and spread for him, kissing your neck softly when he rubs your hips above your underwear.

You bare your neck for him easily and he’s selfish in the way he marks you, sucking any part of your warm skin he can reach so you’re left purple and red all over. He wants anybody you see for the next week or two to know you’ve been with somebody else, to see the claim he laid to your body even if he doesn’t let things go as far as you want him to take it.

Jack doesn’t need to be asked twice to touch you, big hand leaving your hip so he can fully palm your core.

Your reaction is just the way he had hoped it would be, sharp gasp leaving your lips as you instantly buck up against his touch. You whine desperately when he goes back to rubbing your thigh instead, giving you a second to work yourself up to the point he wants you to be at.

“Jack.” You don’t even sound like yourself now and it’s intoxicating, so pleading and broken. “Please.”

“Please what?” He’s practically whispering, perfectly calm and the direct opposite of how broken you sound just from him lightly touching you.

He moves you so you’re fully between his legs, back against his chest as he cages himself around you to keep you from moving.

You’re practically shaking, whimpering and moving your hips against nothing with the hopes he’ll cave and end up touching you again. You’re distracting to look at, body bare except for the pathetic excuse of underwear shorts you’d been wearing under your shirt, like you’d just been hoping he would be the one to find you in the laundry mat.

He has half the thought to make fun of you for that, make you tell him exactly what you were thinking when you left your apartment wearing so little, but he doesn’t think you could handle him saying much at all right now especially not something so demeaning.

“I’m going to touch you.” He says gently instead and kisses the side of your head, letting his hand go back to groping your chest just to make sure you stay worked up.

Even though he doubts at this point he even needs to touch you for that to happen.

“Yeah yeah.” You’re nodding in agreement, seemingly pleased at his decision as you relax back against him and let him touch you freely.

His other hands back between your legs now, letting you get used to the feeling of somebody touching you where you’re most sensitive. He’s just rubbing back and forth, listening to the way you pant and pulling back whenever you start to try and shift against his hand on your own.

“You’re wet just from that?” His voice is a little mean now but you don’t seem to mind, trying to clamp your thighs around his hand but being stopped by the sharp swat he sends to your skin. You wince but move your foot back to the other side of his leg so yours stay open, pouting softly at the silent punishment. “Answer me when I ask you something.”

“I’m always wet around you.” You admit with an embarrassed tone lacing your words, squirming like you wish you could hide yourself from the way he’s staring down at your body. “Want you so bad.”

“I want you too.” He kisses the side of your head, still rubbing you with just enough pressure to make you feel the friction but not to actually get off. “Gonna make you feel so good, you’ve just got to be patient.”

“Stop being scared to hurt me.” Your voice is shaky but as firm as possible, trying to show him you’re a big girl and can handle a little bit of the roughness he’s so clearly holding back.

It’s obvious in the way he was grabbing your throat your first kiss, moving your body around easily whenever he needed to, and scolding you just enough for you to be able to catch the mean tone seeping in accidentally.

Jack clearly has a darker side to him that he’s not letting you see and it’s obviously frustrating you, wanting to be taken seriously.

“I’ll hurt you if that’s what you want sweetheart but not for your first time.” His words don’t leave any room for argument so you don’t even try, sinking back against his firm chest and letting out a deep breath when he shifts behind you and presses himself forward.

It’s not long before you’re not able to wait anymore and he lets you scramble to tug down your underwear, keeping his fingers lightly rubbing between your folds and watching as you struggle to get the fabric past his insistent hand.

Eventually he lets you pull them off and then he’s right back to touching you, bare this time. You both suck in a breath at the contact and you’re practically laying down from how far you’d slid down his chest, spreading your legs as wide as they can go and whimpering while he touches you.

“Do you touch yourself like this baby?” He can’t help the curiosity, the image of you in your bed trying to get yourself off stuck in his mind now.

You shake your head and frown, trying to twist your neck to look at him but being stopped when he uses his free hand to roughly grip your chin and make you keep your eyes on the way he’s touching you, thumb on your sensitive clit now while you roll your hips the best you can.

“No I…” You can barely think let alone speak, clearly struggling as you make a pained and desperate noise. “I get nervous.”

Jack sighs and collects some of your wetness on his middle finger before finally pressing it against the tightness of your hole, not pushing in just yet but teasing it with light pressure and letting you get used to the feeling.

“When you’re with somebody, they should always be this gentle with you at first.” He’s saying softly, remembering that he’s supposed to be actually teaching you something and not just getting you off because he desperately wants to.

You frown deeply as he starts to talk and he doesn’t really understand why, thinks maybe you’re still being pouty that he won’t get rougher with you.

He tries to distract you by finally pressing a finger inside of you and it seems to work for a second, another gasp leaving you as you instinctively clench around the intrusion. He groans, his length throbbing against your back at the thought of being fully inside you instead of just a finger.

“Fuck you’re tight.” He rasps and buries his face in your hair for a few seconds to try and collect himself enough to keep teaching you something, anything at all so he doesn’t keep letting himself think this is something it isn’t. “They’ll have to really get you stretched before anything okay? You need to remember that baby.”

It bothers him so much he can barely focus, the thought of somebody not taking their time with you. He doesn’t want to picture you with another man in general but especially not in a way that hurts you, leaves you too sore the next morning with nobody to take care of you.

He’s so distracted by his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice your face stiffening at first, body a little tenser against him even though you’re still softly squirming to try and get him to put his finger deeper inside you.

“Jack stop.”

He does so immediately and goes to pull out of you before you’re making a panicked noise and closing your thighs around his hand. He lets you this time, pauses all movements just to wait for whatever it is that you need.

“N-no don’t stop that, god please don’t stop that.” Your voice is breathier now like the thought of him taking his hand away from you makes your chest tighten. “Just… stop talking about anyone else.”

It takes him a few seconds to register that and then his hands moving again, enough for you to relax and spread your legs back open.

You’re both quiet now as he adds another finger, lingering in the weight of your request and what it could mean if anything. He’s half sure you only asked because it was pulling you out of the moment, maybe making you nervous to think about doing this again with actual stakes, but the way you desperately tried to stop him from pulling away lets him pretend it was for another reason.

He’s selfish in the way he touches you now, thick fingers moving in and out of you while you cry and whine, gripping at his forearm whenever it feels like too much. He likes the way your nails dig into his arm when you think you might be close, thighs clenching and shifting when his thumb gently circles your swollen clit and how your lips part in breathy cries of his name.

He especially likes that.

You come with moans of his name filling the room and nobody else’s after you’d specifically asked him to stop mentioning other guys. Jack knows it’s selfish, even a little sick and perverted, but he could probably finish just from hearing that.

He’s throbbing against your back and he’s sure you’d be able to feel it if you were able to focus on anything after coming, body shaking a little as you pant endlessly and fall limb in his hold.

There’s a lot of softness that comes after, kissing the side of your head and being gentle in the way he cleans you up. It’s torture to be between your legs and getting to fully appreciate the sight of you for the first time without be able to touch you more but he doesn’t want to overstimulate you so early on.

He does let himself think about that vividly though, kissing against your thighs and picturing when he’s going to be able to put his mouth on you.

You’re quiet above him, eyes a little tired but still overly soft as you run your fingers through his hair and watch him wipe you down.

Then he’s back ontop of you and kissing you softly, shifting your back so you’re laying back against the pillows and not sitting up. It’s soft and bordering on romantic which makes his chest tighten, hoping you have no plans to leave his bed anytime soon.

“You okay?” He asks quietly against your mouth and he can feel you smiling, still touching his hair with one hand and letting the other drift down to the back of his neck.

“Felt so good.” You whisper back and your voice is a little hoarse from all the whining you’d been doing, nose bumping against his and then rubbing on his stubble for a few seconds. “Can I take a nap here?”

“You can do anything you want.” He says immediately, no hesitation as he gets up to get you one of his shirts and help you get comfortable, jumping at the opportunity to keep you with him just like he wanted.

Jack typically has a hard time sleeping through the night in general so he definitely never naps, needing to be truly past the brink of exhaustion to ever rest.

Yet he finds it to be the most simple thing in the world to crawl into his bed with you after taking off his leg, kissing you for a few more minutes before he’s wrapping you in his arms and tugging you back against his chest. He’s rubbing your stomach softly, hand under the shirt he’s given you, listening intently until he hears your breathing even out and then drifting to sleep right after you.

—

It’s one of the highlights of his decade to get to wake up with you still there, warm and making soft tired noises when you feel him start to stir.

His room is dark now other than the slight illumination coming from the moon outside of his window, casting just enough light for him to be able to watch your eyes flutter open.

You give him a soft sleepy smile and instinctively lean in to give him a kiss.

It’s easy to pretend that you are more than whatever this is when you act like this, mouths moving together sensually as if you have nowhere else you’d want to be.

Jack groans softly when your tongue pushes into his mouth, meeting it eagerly with his own and moving so hes hovering over you. Your hands are on his back, spreading your legs below him to let him slot between them.

He feels like a teenager again from how quickly he gets hard, your soft body under his putting him under some sort of spell. His hips shift and you let out a needy whine, scratching his shoulders lightly like you’re trying to encourage him.

You’re still making out slowly when he starts to thrust down against you, slow rolls of his hips to give you just enough friction to start to get desperate.

You’re tugging at his shirt fabric and he takes only a second to sit up and pull it over his head, back on you immediately and kissing you even more frantically. He’s moving your own shirt up towards your ribs but neither one of you wants to stop long enough to take it off, only able to when you need a quick second to take a breath.

It’s the first time you’ve both been nearly undressed together and he feels the effects of it instantly, your chest pressing against his when he lays back over you. Your skin is soft and hot to the touch, those now familiar soft whines leaving you when he lets his hand knead at your chest again.

“Jack please.” You’re whimpering and he finally stops kissing you in favor of sucking at your neck, bringing those marks from earlier back to the surface. “Can’t you just fuck me?”

He groans at the words and has to tuck his face in your shoulder, still rocking his hips against you even though they stuttered when you said that in that whiny voice of yours.

“Trust me, I want to fuck you so bad I can’t even think.” It leaves his mouth before he can stop it, not wanting to reject you again without making sure you know how badly he wants you.

“Then do it.” You’re begging now and he picks his head up to look at you, eyes wide and a little frustrated like you know he’s going to say no. You gasp when he thrusts down even harder, biting your lip as you stare at each other desperately. “Please Jack? Want you inside me.”

“I can’t baby.” He growls and kisses you to give himself a second to think without you arguing.

You’re quick to forget you were trying to convince him of something because you’re kissing him back deeply, angling your head so his tongue can get further and further inside your mouth.

He has that sick and perverted thought again that he’s coincidentally training you to be the perfect girl for him, kissing in a way he likes and not knowing how else to do it. Jack is selfish and wants everything you do to be for him, wants your body to instinctively move and react how he taught you regardless of who gets you next.

The thought of somebody else makes him want to forget his morals and fuck you like you’re begging him, be the one to take your virginity and fill you up for the first time.

He starts to reason with himself that it would actually be a good thing because Jack would never let himself hurt you in a way you didn’t like, he’d make sure you felt good around him and came so hard you weren’t able to see straight.

There’s nobody else who could fuck you like he could so he’s almost convinced himself that it’s a good idea when your phone rings on the nightstand.

You both stop, you’re completely tense under him and he sighs as he kisses you one more time and rolls off of you.

He lays there on his back as you sit up to grab your phone, screen a little too bright in the dark room and causing you to wince. He stares at your pretty face under the light as you open it up and answer it, not thinking much about the interruption despite the small disappointment he feels.

His hand is on your bare knee and rubbing your skin is soft circles, soothing both you and himself by keeping the contact.

“Hello?” Your voice is as soft and sweet as always, a little confused sounding which makes his eyebrows raise. “Oh Carter.”

Jack tenses up at the sound of a males name leaving your lips, his hand freezing and falling still on your knee. You’re avoiding looking at him as you listen to whoever it is speak on the other line, a deep voice bleeding through the speakers just enough for him to hear but not enough to make out the words.

“Tonight?” Your eyes go to the small digital clock on Jacks side of the bed, having to glance over his body in the process. You meet his eyes just for a second before they’re darting away again and it makes the pit in his stomach grow in understanding. “Of course I didn’t forget. I’ll be ready by nine.”

You’re hanging up after a quiet goodbye and now it’s suffocatingly silent in the room.

You’re still sitting up with your legs crossed under you, avoiding looking at him like you’re not still wearing his shirt and covered in marks he’d given to you. He waits for a minute before he’s sitting up and running a hand over his face, on the opposite side of the bed from you and facing the wall so you can’t see his expression when he finally gets himself to speak.

“You’ve got a date tonight?” He rasps out, trying his best to sound unaffected even though it comes out low and tight.

“I forgot.” You whisper back and you sound further away now, a glance over his shoulder confirms that you’d stood up off the bed and are searching for the shirt you’d shown up in so you can swap out of his. “He’s taking me to some art show downtown.”

Jack stares at you as you move around the room, eyes scanning over your body when you pull his shirt over your head and neatly fold it before putting it on his dresser. It feels really final to watch you change back into your own clothes, turning to meet his eyes and letting out a soft sigh when you see he’s already watching you closely.

He hopes it doesn’t show on his face, doesn’t want to be too obvious that he’s probably about two seconds away from throwing up.

“Carter.” He says simply and now you really stiffen.

You stand there for a few seconds like you’re waiting for something, eyes a little expectant and then full on disappointed when he scoffs and moves to put his leg back on so he can stand up and get out of the room that’s suddenly suffocating.

You leave his apartment and all the warmth goes with you.

He stands in his dark kitchen with regret sitting heavy on his chest, wishing he had stopped you and asked you to stay with him instead.

He isn’t sure if it’s the fear of rejection or his own guilt that stopped him but he knew he couldn’t ask you to do that. You deserved better than him and his baggage, his late hours at work and his dangerous hobbies that he needed to keep himself busy with to not think about the things that sent him spiraling.

He couldn’t imagine forcing you into a life where you had to explain him to your friends and family, ignore the curious and judging looks from his own when they realized just how young you were.

Jack knew you were lonely, it was obvious considering how much time you willingly spent with him and it was bad enough he’d taken advantage of your desperation for connection and nearly slept with you.

He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he stopped you from enjoying your youth, having a fun late night in the city surrounded by artsy people your age and not stuck on his couch watching old reruns because he’s too tired after work to properly take you out.

Jack hates himself for thinking all this and then still obsessively wanting you.

So much so that he purposely lingers near his truck right around the time you’d told your date you’d be ready. In his defense, he did actually need a few things from the corner store, so he sat in the parking lot and waited until he saw you come down.

Your date met you at the entrance of the lobby but didn’t take your purse from you or the jacket you were holding, smiled at you politely but couldn’t be bothered to open the door of his car or even wait for you to get in before he did.

It made Jack sick to his stomach all over again, jaw clenched as he sat in the dark interior of his truck and watched you drive off with some asshole only an hour after he’d had you sleeping next to him, panting under him and begging him to fuck you.

Jack decides right then that it all needs to stop, not just the sex lessons but helping you in general. He can’t be that person for you without wanting more, he’s selfish and possessive over somebody that was never supposed to be his and he knows it’s not fair to you.

So he doesn’t answer any of your texts that night, stays quiet in his living room whenever you knock on his door and waits until he hears you leave for work before he goes to check the mail.

He feels terrible for avoiding you but keeps trying to convince himself it’s in your best interest.

Jack is half asleep when the silent treatment finally breaks.

He’d fallen asleep on his couch accidentally, a beer can too many on the table in front of him and the same movie he’d been watching beforehand starting to roll credits. He should have been in bed sleeping after pulling a double at work but he couldn’t stand being in there lately, tossing and turning and trying to catch the faint scent of you lingering on his pillows.

There was a second of confusion, not sure why he had waken up in the first place, until the sharp knocks on his door made him flinch.

He was standing up on autopilot to open it, wincing at how stiff and sore his leg felt from falling asleep with it still on.

Any thought of his pain was gone the second he opened his door and saw your face, tears on your cheeks and your eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

“I need to talk to you.” You said immediately and he ushered you into his apartment, not necessarily wanting to be in an enclosed space with you but recognizing your tearful voice was far too loud to have a conversation in the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” He said softly and takes a few steps towards you on instinct, cradling your cheek and staring down at you when you nuzzle against his touch. “Why are you crying?”

“Because you’re an asshole.” You seem to remember that you’re mad at him because you step away from his touch, pushing his arm back down to his side and storming further into his apartment.

He stands there completely frozen as you toss your purse onto the chair near the couch, your eyes scanning over the beer cans and the obvious indent of where he’d been sleeping.

Then you’re back to looking at him and he knows what he probably looks like to you. The exhaustion is obvious on his face, clothes a little baggier than normal from a lack of taking care of himself and a constant awkward shifting on his leg to keep pressure off of it.

“Why aren’t you talking to me?” Your voice cracks a little and he deflates, taking a few steps closer again even though he doesn’t think you want him to touch you. “Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” His face faces in disbelief at the idea you could ever do anything wrong in general, especially to him. “Of course you didn’t sweetheart.”

“Then why?” Your words are louder now and they linger in the tense air, face pained as you wait for him to answer.

He sighs and runs a hand over his stubble that desperately needs some maintenance, wishes he had the time to plan out everything he wanted to say to you so he doesn’t accidentally fuck it up more than he already had.

“I just… I can’t do it anymore.” He lets his hands fall to his sides with a loud defeated clap and shrugs his shoulders. “I can’t watch you go out with these idiots knowing they can’t take care of you.”

He hopes what he’s trying to say is an obvious to you as it is to him, not able to bring himself to actually voice the fact that he has feelings for you beyond helping out a neighbor.

“You didn’t stop me.” You sound devastated, head shaking like you don’t believe anything he’s saying to you.

You’re not crying anymore thankfully but you look so hurt and disappointed that it makes him physically ache, moving to grab your arm softly and guide you to sit down on the couch with him.

“I waited for you to stop me and you didn’t.” You continue once you’re sitting beside him, legs pressed together in a small amount of addicting content. “Isn’t it obvious by now that I only want to be with you?”

The words hit him so hard that he doesn’t even have time to process them, eyebrows furrowing as the need for more information pushes him to speak.

“Why would that be obvious? The entire point of this was for you to be ready for other people.”

You look a little embarrassed at his sound logic, staring down at your lap where your hands are fiddling with your fingers. He sighs and takes one of them in his, squeezing it softly until you let your gaze drift back up to his.

“I don’t want other people.” You whisper, staring at him with a small amount of hope in your eyes like you’re just waiting for him to understand. “And I don’t want you to be with anyone else either. I just figured… you wouldn’t cross that line without a good reason.”

Jack thinks it’s a little juvenile of a plan but he also knows you’re not wrong. He would have never touched you without the feeling of helping you out with something, no matter how much he had wanted you since the second you moved in.

That little lie was all he needed to get himself through the shame and guilt, the ability to pretend it was for a greater cause and not because he was sick and desperate for a girl half his age.

“Jack.” You sigh when he doesn’t respond for a few seconds, turning so you can face him better and press a soft kiss to the side of his jaw. “Stop thinking.”

“That’s a big ask.” He mumbles back but he gladly turns to give you a real kiss, holding your face in his hand and keeping your mouth against his.

You kiss until you run out of breath, pulling back from him but rubbing your nose against his and letting your small hands grip his forearm desperately.

“Then just be with me for tonight.” You try to reason with him in any way you can, rubbing his arm softly and blinking at him with those big pretty eyes that drive him so crazy.

He stares at you for a moment before he’s standing up off the couch and tugging you along with him, ignoring the little surprised noise you make in favor of lifting you up with his hands on the back of your thighs. You gasp and then giggle softly once he’s got you in the air, arms behind his neck and legs around his middle as he starts to walk you to his room.

“You’re crazy if you think you’re going anywhere after tonight.” He tells you once he gets you settled on his bed, kissing the smile off your face as he climbs over you.

It’s a direct mirror of the other night as you get each other undressed fully this time, kissing the entire time and tasting his tongue deep in your mouth when it starts to get more heated.

“You’re going to be mine.” He says firmly once he’s got you in nothing but your panties, making sure your eyes are locked on his when you hear it. His free hand is all over your body, rubbing from your smooth thigh up to your chest and cupping around your neck for a brief moment while he waits for you to respond. “If I fuck you then you’re mine.”

“I’ve been yours.” You whisper easily, like you didn’t have to put any thought into it.

He falters, hand tightening around your throat on instinct and then releasing the pressure when he sees the way your eyes light up with interest.

“Don’t be nasty baby.” He’s teasing, kissing the corner of your mouth and bringing your leg up so it’s around his waist and he can press himself against you. “Gonna be gentle with you for your first time. You deserve it.”

“I want you to fuck me.” You’re pouting and gripping at him impatiently, running your hand between your bodies to touch his stomach and fidget with the waistband of his boxers. “That’s what I want Jackie.”

“Didn’t ask what you wanted.” He grumbles back, not caring that it comes off a little mean because you whine at the sound of how rough his voice had gotten and he knows you like it.

He’s back to kissing you and it’s filthier than normal, more tongue and spit than anything else.

You’re as vocal as always, whining and begging impatiently when he gets your underwear off and starts to touch you again.

Jack can barely think straight when he’s back inside of you, fingers pushing in easier this time now that you’ve felt the intrusion before and know what to expect. You’re gasping and crying out immediately, unintelligible words that he blocks out in favor of focusing on how you feel when he’s stretches you out.

“Want it so bad.” Your near sob gets through to him and he hisses through clenched teeth at how wrecked you sound already, shushing you softly and kissing your cheeks to try and calm you down.

“I know baby I know.” He’s whispering but you don’t seem to be hearing him, spreading your legs further to try and make space for him to slot back between them instead of using his fingers.

Jack is just as impatient as you but he’s terrified of hurting you too early, although throbbing so hard in his boxers that it’s painful to shift around.

It’s not long before it’s too much prep for both of you and you’re watching him with your chest heaving as he gets himself undressed the rest of the way, leg going on the floor right alongside your underwear that he had slowly pulled down your body before climbing back over you.

Your eyes go down between your bodies where his leg is and he tenses for a second despite knowing you mean well with the concern you have on your face.

“Let me ride you.” You say softly and his chest tightens with that old familiar shame he was still actively working on ridding himself of.

“I can fuck you.” He says gruffly and your eyes flash with regret, pouting a little like you’re worried you’ve hurt his feelings with your thoughtful suggestion. He kisses the expression off your face, a long deep one followed by a few quick pecks to try and ease your mind. “Next time baby.”

He says it both because he knows realistically he has limitations, there will be plenty of nights he’s not able to rail you into his mattress like he wants to, but also because he knows he would die a happy man the second he got to see you bouncing on top of him and desperately trying to get yourself off.

You look like you want to argue but you’re stopped when he’s pushing your legs apart and moving between them, sharp gasp leaving you when you feel his hard length pressing against you finally.

“Fuck Jack.” Your voice is sharp and already a little pained just from the dull sensation of him lining up with your hole, a growl leaving him at the sound of your distress.

“Just relax baby.” He says as softly as he can even though his throat feels tight and raw, kissing you gently to try and get you to calm down enough for him to push in. “You’re too tight sweetheart.”

“I… I can’t.” You let out another sharp cry when he shifts forward, nails digging into his shoulders so deep it makes him wince and lower his head down on your shoulder.

Jack has to use every ounce of self control he can muster to not just fully push himself into you and feel that tight heat he’s getting a taste of, that same sick and selfish part of him that wants you in the first place begging him to just take you already.

Instead he takes a few deep breaths before he’s kissing you with more focus, going back and forth between softly rubbing your side and massaging your inner thigh to try and urge your body to relax and accommodate him.

It’s a torturous ten minutes, especially due to your soft whimpers and the way you cry his name whenever he accidentally moves himself deeper.

Then you’re finally calm enough, bare chest rising and falling with the deep breaths he’d instructed you to take.

“Want you inside Jack.” You’re whining in his ear, clinging to him tightly and almost suffocating him when he immediately takes your queue and pushes in. You tense up again at the brief surge of pain and then let out a satisfied cry when you feel how full you are, clenching around him so ridiculously that he almost needs to pull out to give himself a break despite barely starting.

You’re both too overwhelmed to speak much more once he starts to actually fuck you, deep thrust accompanied by filthy kisses to keep you from waking up the neighbors with how desperately you’re whining for him to keep giving you more.

It’s pure need on both ends, your hips eagerly rocking upwards to try and meet his thrust sloppily while he uses his free hand to roughly push down on your stomach and keep you in place.

“Jackie.” It’s nearly a sob from you now and he can tell you’re close from how much tighter you’d gotten, almost an impossible squeeze for him to keep fucking you through.

He’s grateful you’re so inexperienced because he doesn’t think he’d last long either, not with the way you look as you stare up at him with teary and trusting eyes.

“I know baby you’re doing so good for me.” It’s more of a growl than anything else but he can barely think let alone speak enough to keep encouraging you. “Taking me so well sweetheart.”

“I’m so full Jack.” You whimper and cling to him tighter, nearly pulling him fully down on top of you and knocking him off his balance. “Feels so good.”

You’re stuttering through your sentences and slurring each word, eyes a little dazed in a way that makes him need to squeeze his shut to avoid coming inside you just from that fucked out look you have.

It’s more sweet than heated when you actually do finally reach your peak, holding onto him still and kissing the side of his jaw softly with your face buried in his neck as you squirm and shake your way through your orgasm.

He stays inside of you for as long as he can so you’re not shocked from the sudden feeling of emptiness but you’re squeezing him too tight and he has to pull out as soon as you’re starting to relax. You whimper immediately at the lose and pick your head up to pout at him, eyes panicked like you’re genuinely distressed he didn’t finish inside you.

He shushes you gently and kisses your face over and over, rubbing your side as he lets you fully come back to reality before attempting to clean either of you up or get you dressed.

“Jack.” You’ve got the needy and frustrated tone he loves so much and he knows you’re not dropping it, meeting your eyes with a fond sigh as you glance down at where he’d came instead of inside you.

“Next time.” He promises again and he means it, fully intending to have that conversation with you ahead of time now that he’s got you like this.

Jack isn’t too opposed to the idea of getting you pregnant, not even sure he’s able to with the amount of pills he takes, but he has to push down that thought along with the rest of the sick ones he gets when he looks at your needy eyes.

You smile a little at the loose promise and tuck yourself back into his shoulder, soothing any concern he has about what just happened or how you’re supposed to operate going forward.

He’s undoubtedly the luckiest guy in the world to have you wanting him like this, feeling safe in his arms and desperate for him in the way he’d been for you since the second he laid eyes on you.

Jack was never the type of person to take the duty of taking care of somebody lightly and he doesn’t plan to let you down for even a second, kissing the top of your head softly and letting himself forget about any shame or insecurity just to hold you for awhile longer.

[opulentpeony]

favorites - professor!jack x college student!reader

word count: 5.3k warnings: dead dove: do not eat, rape/non-con, fem!reader, he calls you “doll”, unprotected sex, cockwarming, mild anal play, forced orgasms, squirting, fear play, predator/prey dynamic, he wears a mask and you don't know it's him (oops!), semi-public sex (in a dark alley), gun play (look away if you don't want a gun in your mouth!), humiliation/degradation kink, blackmail, coercion, possessive behavior, mutual pining, age gap, just a crumb of angst (only a crumb!)  summary: ever since an ex-boyfriend of yours copied one of your papers during your freshmen year, professor jack abbot has had you wrapped around his finger. he's kept your secret, in exchange for your body.  but now you're about to graduate and…your professor doesn't want to let you go. 

a/n: this one sort of grew a mind of its own. like idk what happened and how the gun play got thrown into the mix but uh lmao whoops! scary scary! this is for my fear play lovers, everyone else look away!! 

hope it's a sick read ♡ 

Professor Jack Abbot has the smallest office out of all the faculty. It's because his office, though it's more like a supply closet, is right next to the elevator. This was the university's attempt at being mindful of his physical disability. He finds it a bit facetious but he bites his tongue because it serves one very good purpose. 

He can only fit a desk and a singular desk chair in here. His students have to stand during his office hours if they have any questions. 

Or sit on his lap, like you're doing right now. 

Though, you're the only one he'd ever let sit on his lap like this, with his cock buried inside of you under your skirt. 

“Please, Professor Abbot.” You whimper as he plays with your clit, making you clench around him more. “I need to go home and study.” 

“You can study right here.” He points to your laptop that's set up in front of the two of you. “I still have to get some grading done. We aren't leaving until I'm finished.”

And he is referring to both iterations of the word. 

“Am I…coming over again?” You try to not sound too nervous when you ask that but your nerves spill out anyways. 

Jack nips at your earlobe, chuckling at the shivers that run through you at his words, “are you scared you'll cum like you did last time?” 

“We can't do that again.” You could barely walk the next morning. “My midterm—”

“You'll do fine.” He kisses the back of your neck before biting down, marking you there. “I'll give you an A, like always.” 

“Professor Abbot, I should get an A on my own.” You are a good student. You can aced his midterm without his help. 

“I know you will.” He says all low in your ear. “My brilliant student, who is going to cum so hard on my cock right now.”

You bite down on your hand because you do cum hard when he starts rubbing your clit furiously. You grip the edge of his desk with your other hand, trying to steady yourself but he's making your whole body shake.

“Stop, stop, please!” You cry out as you squirt on his cock from how much he's abusing your swollen clit. “It's dripping—”

“You like leaving a mess for them to clean up, don't you?” He moves his fingers away from your clit and swirls the tips of them along the tight ring of your ass instead. “Let's see how hard you'll cum from this.” 

“No, Professor, don't…” You wriggle in his lap when you feel his finger push into your ass slowly. 

“You need to focus on studying, doll.” He pulls your laptop closer to you, pointing at it. 

You can't concentrate on your notes though, not when his cock is buried inside of your pussy and he has a finger thrusted completely in your ass. You blink back tears when his other hand goes back between your legs to torment your clit again. 

All the sensations altogether make you cum so much, you can't see straight. Your hands are gripping the edge of the desk with all your might, trying to steady yourself, trying to remind yourself of where you are and who's fucking you right now. 

But your mind is getting fuzzy from the pleasure.

Like it always does. 

Jack smiles when you finally lose yourself, grinding against his lap, letting him thrust another finger into your lovely tight ass. You know what he's prepping you for later. He knows you're looking forward to it. 

So he lets you cum a few more times like this and then pulls his fingers out of you. He opens his desk drawer, grabbing out some disinfectant wipes so he can clean his hands. Then, you squirm a bit when you see him wiping down the plug he's been using on you. 

“Deep breaths, doll.” He pushes it in place, ensuring that you'll stay ready for him later. “Good girl. Now let's get some work done, shall we?” 

You don't know how many times your professor has tortured you like this over the years. But you've grown so used to it. You've grown to crave the alone time you get with Jack. 

But you're graduating soon. 

Then it's off to medical school. 

You got into a very good one, though it's far away from here. 

You don't like thinking about how much you'll miss him.

Because you know your relationship with him ends the moment you go away. 

And you shouldn't have feelings for your older professor that's been fucking you, his much younger student, since your freshmen year. 

But you do, unfortunately.

Even though you're sure he doesn't feel the same. He just likes the sex. You are thankful you're the only student he does this with. But that will surely change once you're gone. Then he'll have his eyes set on another pretty student. 

And you'll be a piece of the past. 

So, you decide you'll try to enjoy yourself for these final few months. Especially since your professor has been having you stay over at his house a lot more recently. 

You lay next to him in bed, watching how peaceful he looks while he's asleep. You never used to spend the night. You don't know why he's been letting you. Usually he drives you back to your apartment after he's fucked your brains out. 

But tonight, like many other nights recently, he told you to stay.

And you weren't going to say no. 

Even though staying makes your heart ache a little more than it should. 

Because you can't help your desire to lean in and kiss him. Just one little kiss on the lips. He doesn't usually kiss you so this is the only time you allow yourself to do it. When he's fast asleep and has no clue that you've done it.

Though, shouldn't you know him better than that? 

Jack knows you've been kissing him whenever you think he's asleep. He finds it adorable, how much you feel for him. He doesn't know what to do with your feelings, though.

He planned to let you go. He didn't expect this physical relationship between the two of you to end up lasting so long. 

It all started because you were dating this prick during your freshmen year and he copied your research paper word for word, turning it in as his own after he promised to turn yours in for you so you didn't have to lug it all the way to campus. Jack always preferred hard copies over submitting papers online. 

You ended up getting a zero on that paper and when you came into Jack's office to ask why, he explained that you never turned it in. So you showed him the paper you wrote and it was a carbon copy of the one your boyfriend turned in. You, of course, being the sweet girlfriend you were, didn't want your boyfriend to get in trouble so you asked if there was anything you could do. 

And Jack knew then that he wanted to ruin you. He wanted to make it so that you would never go back to dating that asshole who would risk your perfect grades so that he didn't have to write a paper. 

So, Jack bent you over and fucked you right on his desk until you promised to break up with the guy. Only then would he give you an A for your paper and let your now ex-boyfriend's mishap slide. 

Ever since then, Jack has held that over your head. And you let him because…the sex was better than anything you've ever felt. 

The release you got after all the stress of school was something you looked forward to, despite how it started. 

Now it's going to end. 

And you don't want it to end…

“Another A plus.” Jack says to you as he hands you your midterm back at the end of his lecture. “Great work as always.” 

You nod, feeling so flushed whenever he praises you. He praises anyone who does well in his class, so it's not like you're special. You try to ignore the pangs of jealousy when you hear your professor compliment other students in your class for their high marks. 

It's foolish for you to be so hung up on a man who was inevitably going to throw you away once he was done with you. You sigh, putting your things away into your book bag and heading out of class. 

Jack stops you before you do, asking you, “have you applied for the scholarship I told you about yet?” 

You glance around, seeing that there are still a few stragglers in the class. He doesn't normally pull you aside unless there aren't people to see. 

Why is he now? You've already emailed your application for the scholarship he's talking about a while ago. 

“I did, Professor Abbot.” You stare at him, puzzled. “Why do you ask?” 

“I haven't received an email yet asking for my letter of recommendation.” He explains, since he's been waiting for it. 

“Oh.” You don't know how to tell him this so you just say outright, “I didn't put you down for the letter of recommendation. I asked Professor Shen and Professor Ellis for theirs.”

That makes his jaw tense. “Why didn't you ask me?” 

“Well I…” You look over at one of your classmates, Dennis Whitaker, who is gesturing to you if you're heading out with him. You're supposed to go out for drinks with all of them after the midterm. 

You wave him off, mouthing that you'll meet them there before you turn your attention back to your professor. 

The classroom is empty now. It's just the two of you, standing at the front of the class. It's eerily quiet, since this lecture takes place in the lower levels of the underground library on campus. They usually stick seminars down here. 

“Did you not think I'd write you one?” Jack tries not to sound angry but he doesn't understand why you'd ask other professors for their letters of recommendation and not him. 

“No, no, it's not that, it's just…” You didn't want to burden him. 

“Ah, I see.” He steps closer to you, his body suddenly flush with yours. “You didn't want to owe me anything, right?” 

“No, that's not—” 

You can't contain how shocked you are when Jack grabs your face and kisses you all of a sudden, making you drop your bag. 

Because he rarely ever kisses you. 

And definitely never like this, with so much passion. 

You feel lightheaded from how hot his kisses are, his tongue tangling with yours, his body pressing you up against the podium where he stands for his lectures. 

“Professor…” You push him off of you, your eyes darting to the door. “There might be people—”

Jack cuts you off. “There aren't any. I always book the last slot in the day. There shouldn't be any other lectures down here and I'm sure after that midterm, everyone has run off. Like you were planning to.” 

“I was just going to get drinks with a few of them.” You don't know why you're explaining yourself to him. 

“And you will. After I fuck you.” He grabs you again, crashing his lips back against yours.

The way he's kissing you makes your heart ache too much. The way he's touching you, his hands roaming your body so softly, so gently, unlike how he ever has before.

It's killing you inside. 

You can't take it.

“Stop!” You shove him off of you, trying to regain your composure. “We can't do this here. We can't.” 

You'll let him fuck you in the privacy of his office. In the privacy of his house. Even in your apartment sometimes. But never have the two of you done it in a classroom. 

You can't do this here, of all places. 

You have enough twisted memories with him already. You can't add another one to the books for you to fantasize about in the future. 

Especially when he's being so…passionate right now. 

You go to grab your bag from the floor, slinging it over your shoulder, then you say, “I have to go, Professor Abbot. I'll…see you next class.”

You head out then, leaving Jack to contemplate what the fuck just happened. 

Because this is the first time you have ever rejected him. 

“Fuck.” He slams his fist against the podium, running his other hand through his hair, trying to understand what's going on. 

Are you over him? Are you done with him? 

Jack has had your letter of recommendation written since he told you about that scholarship. He loved writing about how good of a student you were, how you'll make a great doctor and eventually an amazing professor once you're done practicing medicine like him. 

And now it sits in his computer, unused, unwanted. 

Like how he feels right now that you aren't in his arms. 

Jack knows you're out drinking with your classmates. He knows where the students like to drink. He could go there. He could see you. 

But how would he explain himself? 

He shouldn't even be thinking about you like this. You're his student. You're about to graduate. You're going to go on and do big things. 

Leaving him behind, like everyone seems to do in his life. 

Self-loathing is something Jack is used to. It's what he's in therapy for. The main source of his depression. He feels worthless. Unlovable. Undesirable.

Until he thinks about those soft, secret kisses you'd give him. 

Jack knows you feel something for him. He doesn't know what exactly, but it's something. And he can't lose that. 

He can't lose you. 

So, he gets in his truck and drives to your place, waiting in the parking lot. Your car is there, which means someone is probably going to drop you off from the bar or you'll call a rideshare. He waits for you.

But you don't come home. 

You don't come back to your apartment until the very next night because you had crashed over at your friend Trinity's apartment after drinking with everyone and then the two of you went out and had a day trip to the beach to celebrate the end of midterms. 

“That was so fun.” You say over the phone to her once your rideshare drops you off at your apartment. “We definitely have to do that again sometime.” 

“Did you make it back safe?” She's always such a worrywart. 

“Yes, I did. Thanks for letting me spend the night last night. I had a really good time staying up with you.” Since you and Trinity got drunk and sang karaoke in her living room until you both passed out on her couch. 

“Anytime! Can't wait to do that again, have a good night!” She tells you before hanging up the phone. 

You smile at your phone, texting her a goofy picture you had taken of the two of you last night. Then, you tuck your phone back into your pocket and go to unlock your front door. 

But…it's already unlocked…

You freeze, your hand hovering over the doorknob. 

Why is it unlocked? 

You live alone. No one should have access to your apartment besides your landlord. 

What's going on? 

You go to pull out your phone. 

But you don't call the police. 

You call your professor as you quickly walk away from your apartment, going down your stairs, whispering over the phone, “Professor Abbot, I need your help…”

“What is it? What's wrong?” 

“You told me to call you if anything weird ever happened. I think—” You hear footsteps approaching you from above. 

You sprint away, holding your phone to your ear, fear lacing your every movement as you hear those same footsteps trailing behind you.

It's the middle of the night. There's barely any working streetlamps where you live. And whoever is following you is gaining on you fast. 

“Someone's chasing me!” You cry to Jack, tears streaming down your face as you turn the corner of the block, running past businesses that have been closed for hours now. “I don't know what to do!” 

“Stay quiet. Find a place to hide. I'll come get you.” He tells you, his voice calm and reassuring. “Everything will be okay. Just tell me where you are once you've found a spot.” 

You duck into an alley, running down the stone steps to an unlit hallway that leads to what must be a service entrance into the boiler room of the adjacent building. It's dark down here but at least you definitely can't be seen from the street. You wait a few seconds, catching your breath, listening to your surroundings. 

Jack taught you a few survival skills over the years from his time in the military. He wanted you to be prepared in case anything happened, which is why he told you to call him if you were ever in any trouble. 

Because he'd take care of it for you. 

And he's thankful you remembered. 

Because he would've been much more angry if you had called the police on him… 

If Jack was an actual criminal, you'd surely be fucked because he can hear your heavy breaths from the top of the steps leading down to where you're hiding. But he does have better hearing than most. And he has your location pinged right here since you're currently on call with him. 

So maybe you would've gotten away from someone else had they been the one chasing you.

But Jack is the one chasing you. 

Because how dare you spend the night with someone else. He can't believe what he was hearing, you all smiley over the phone for some other person. 

You are only allowed to show that side of yourself to him. 

He's going to make sure to punish you well for making him worry all day and night about where you were. 

Jack steps far enough away so you don't hear him twice when he asks, “are you safe?” 

“Yes, I think so.” You whisper back into the phone, your voice so shaky, so lovely, Jack could just fuck you right now. “I'm at the bottom of—”

You clamp your hand over your mouth, hearing footsteps walking down towards you. Then, Jack hangs up, the call cutting off suddenly. You stare at your phone, hitting the redial button. 

But it goes straight to voicemail. 

And before you can call the police, your phone is snatched out of your hand and smashed onto the concrete below you, shattering into bits. 

You try to scream but a gloved hand covers your mouth, muffling it. 

Then, you feel a body against your back and a man's voice saying, “be quiet if you want to live.” 

You have no idea that it's Jack because he's wearing a ski mask and is covered up from head to toe. And he loves how scared you are, shivering so much in his grasp. 

“Please don't hurt me.” You whimper out into his palm, tears flowing out of your eyes nonstop. 

“I won't hurt you as long as you don't scream.” His gloved hand lifts off your mouth, testing you. 

Jack told you to fight like hell if you were ever in this situation, so he braces himself for you to do so. But you're just standing there, frozen in fear.

That won't do.

How is he supposed to trust that you'll be safe at medical school now, where you'll be far away from him? 

You don't even push him away when he shoves you up against the wall in front of you, pressing your body flush against it. 

He has to teach you a lesson, like always. 

“Hands on the wall.” He taps the wall with something metal and you glance up to see that he's holding a gun. 

“Please don't hurt me.” You put your hands up against the wall above you. 

“I said I wouldn't. You don't trust me?” He presses the barrel of his handgun against your temple, watching as you sob from the contact. “Should I pull the trigger?” 

“No, don't, please. I-I trust you.” You obviously don't but you want to live. You have so much to live for. 

He worries so much for you. 

How could you be so easily swayed by a perp? 

Hadn't he taught you better? 

“Open your mouth.” He instructs, dragging the gun down your face, pressing it against your lips. “Come on, open up.” 

You let the metal pass through your lips, choking on your sobs when you taste it on your tongue. He pushes the barrel as far back as he can before you gag on it. 

Then, you feel his hand slip into your pants. You shake your head, trying to stop him, but the moment you go to lift your hand off the wall, he undoes the safety of the gun. 

“Keep your hands where I can see them. I won't ask again.” He tells you, his voice full of menace. 

You can't say a word. You can't scream. You can only pinch your eyes shut when his fingers dip past the fabric of your underwear, grazing along your folds. He can feel how much slick has built up. 

He should've figured you'd like being taken like this. 

There's a reason you never reported him the first time he raped you. He's been wondering why ever since, why you kept coming back to him. 

This must be why. “You're so wet. It's like you're looking forward to getting raped.” 

You shake your head fiercely but then freeze in place when he shoves the gun further into your mouth. 

“Move again without my permission and I'll put this gun where my fingers are right now.” He says as he thrusts two fingers inside of you, the thickness of them filling you up completely. “Though, maybe you'd like it if I raped you with my gun. You'd probably cum so hard.” 

You're clawing at the wall, your body tensing up so much from his fingers curling inside of you. The taste of metal is rotting your mind, the fear of him shooting you mixing with the pleasure of his fingers fucking you. It's like he knows exactly where to touch you to get your legs to wobble. 

“You're about to cum, aren't you?” He starts to knead your clit with his palm and you have to clench every muscle in your body to stop yourself from exploding right then. “Don't hold it in. It'll feel better if you just let it out. Let the man who broke into your apartment make you cum. You know you want it.” 

You don't want it. You don't! 

But your body is reeling, so desperate to burst.

Then, all hell breaks loose when he says, low into your ear, “cum right now or I'll pull the trigger.” 

You've never cum that hard in your life, the gun in your mouth muffling the moans that you can't keep contained. You're squirting all over his fingers while he continues to fuck you through your intense orgasm, driving you back over the edge again and again. 

You feel like you could faint from the heat that's blurring your vision, a mix of embarrassment and raw fear clouding your mind. He lets you breathe for a moment, his fingers slowing to a halt before slipping out of you. You hear him lick the taste of you off his fingers, the sound sending chills down your spine. 

“I bet you've never cum like that before.” Jack knows you haven't. He's never felt your pussy squeeze that tight before. 

He pulls the gun out of your mouth, flicking the safety back on before tucking it back in the hidden holster he has on. He loves watching your chest rise and fall so rapidly as you gulp in breaths of air. 

“Please just let me go…” You don't think you can handle another orgasm like that. It would destroy you. “I promise I won't tell anyone. I didn't even see your face.” 

“I know you won't tell anyone.” He says clearly to you, his tone frightening. “How would you explain why your underwear is so soaked if you went to the police station? Let's take these off. They're ruined anyways.”

Jack unbuttons your pants for you, tugging them off you completely, taking your underwear with it. You're completely exposed from the waist down. 

Even though no one could possibly see you and Jack down here, you still can't believe you're half naked in a public place. Nor can you believe that there's a hard cock sliding between your thighs, teasing your clit with every stroke. 

“No, please don't.” You can't let him do this.

“Why don't you run if you don't want it?” Jack needs to see you have at least a little fight in you. 

You should be hitting him, going for his gun, tearing his skin off with your fingernails. But you're just taking it, letting him fuck your thighs until he can feel you squirt on his cock from the orgasm that he pulls out of you. 

“Hadn't anyone taught you to defend yourself?” He asks because he did and you were a great student then. 

“Yes but…” You just never thought you'd be in a situation like this. The fear paralyzes you. 

“So you're a very bad student, then.” He shakes his head at you. “Sounds like you need to be punished in order for you to learn your lesson.” 

“No, no, please stop—” You bite down on your lip when you feel the tip of his cock push into you, splitting you apart from how big he is. 

He's huge. You've only taken one cock this big before and you've never taken it standing like this. 

You're so tight from the fear that Jack can't get more than halfway in. Your body is trying so hard to reject him. 

“Just take it.” He growls into your ear and that loosens you up a little. “Take it like I know you can.” 

His hands grip onto your hips and he starts pounding into you from behind, stuffing more of his cock inside of you with every thrust. You give into it eventually, unable to hold onto your last shred of dignity.

You let yourself cum from being taken like this. You let yourself cum when he cums inside of you, his release spilling in so deep. 

And that's when Jack says, “you've always cum so well on my cock, doll.”

It's like all the tension in your body releases at once at the realization that it's been Jack this whole time. You clamp your hand over your mouth, suppressing the wails of emotion that filter through you. 

You don't know if you should feel relieved. But you do. You are so grateful you aren't being raped by some stranger right now. 

But you were just raped by your professor. He just made you cum with a gun in your mouth. He made you believe he was some criminal out to get you. 

Why? Why would he…

Jack slowly pulls out of you, turning you around, tugging the mask off his face so you can see him in the low-light. You reach up to cup his face with your hands, to feel that it's really him. 

Then, you ask, “was it you who unlocked my front door?” 

He nods. “You didn't come home last night. So I waited for you in your apartment. I wanted to see if you'd be stupid enough to go in. I'm glad you didn't. I'm glad you called me. But I'm disappointed in you.” 

Jack backs you up against the wall again, his body locking you in place, not letting you move an inch. 

“You were supposed to fight me.” He sees how much you're still trembling from fear. “I taught you better than this.” 

“I'm sorry, Professor. I just…I was so scared…” You cling onto him, gripping his shirt. “I couldn't move.”

“That's why you won't move.” He decides right now. “Not without me.” 

“What?” You look up at him, confused. 

“I can't leave you alone during med school. You'll be out during odd hours of the night. This could happen to you for real and I wouldn't be nearby to help. I can't be apart from you.” Jack leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, needing to feel you close to him. “I have to know you're safe.” 

“You…want to move with me?” You're so stunned by everything that just happened that you're unsure if your hearing is shot too. “But your job here.”

“I put a few feelers out. They're looking to hire at your med school.” Jack would take the pay cut if it meant he was near you. He would've done it anyways, he realizes. 

Because there was no way he was going to let you go out there on your own. 

There was no way he'd let you forget about him that fast. 

He was never going to forget about you, his lovely student. 

His favorite student. 

“But why?” You understand that you definitely should've fought better and hopefully you will actually do so in the future if this scenario ever happened again but…you can't wrap your head around why Jack would want to move with you.

“You're a smart girl.” He looks you right in the eye as he states, “you can figure it out.” 

You blink back at him. 

There's no way. Is there? 

Does your professor like you? 

Your eyes drift down to his lips and instead of saying anything, you just lean in, kissing him like you've always wanted to. And the moment you feel him kiss you back with that same passion you felt before in his classroom, everything clicks. 

He likes you. 

And you like him. 

“If you keep kissing me like that, I'm going to fuck you again.” He breathes out against your lips, his voice so heavenly now. 

You can feel his hard cock pressing up on your lower belly. You know you shouldn't want to fuck him outside like this but… 

“You can if you want to.” You spread your legs, inviting him to do so. 

“Haven't you learned your lesson? Never give me too much. I'll keep demanding more, doll.” He grabs his cock, rubbing it back and forth along your slit, teasing you. “Do you really want me to fuck you out here in the open?” 

“You have to punish me somehow. I've been a very bad student, Professor.” You smirk at him and he lets out a dark chuckle in response. 

“You have been such a bad student.” Jack thrusts his cock deep inside of you before he grabs your thighs and hauls you up. 

You wrap your legs around his hips as he fucks you into the wall. You dig your nails into his back, stuffing your face into the crook of his neck to suppress the moans you're letting out from how good it feels to be fucked by him like this. 

“Do you like getting fucked by your professor?” Jack asks you, nudging you to look at him. 

You nod then ask him, “do you like fucking your star pupil?”

“Yes, I do. Very much.” He leans in then, kissing you with so much affection that you practically melt in his arms. 

You feel a surge of pure bliss when you cum at the same time he does, all while your lips never part. You've always wanted to cum while kissing him. 

What a treat.

“Can we do this again?” Your words surprise him when he sets you back down on your feet.

“Do what?” He catches at the heated look in your eyes. “You want to fuck outside again?” 

Jack could make that happen again. He can scout a few spots after you two move that have no surveillance. 

“I want you to scare me again.” You don't hide how that made you feel. You want to know it's something that can happen again. “Is that okay to ask for?” 

“Hmmm.” He smiles devilishly at you. “If you aced my seminar, maybe I'll consider it.” 

“Well, that's easy.” You press yourself against him, giggling. “I'm already fucking the professor. I'm sure he'll give me an A.” 

Jack laughs at your antics and he knows then that you will always be his favorite student. 

And he'll surely stay your favorite professor. 

a/n: this one i definitely have to add more to in the future, mainly bc the freak4freak really sings in this one! jack following you to med school, what a romantic (absolutely psychotic professor) ♡

hope you enjoyed the read! 

[letthelightsbleed]

tags: incest. dad!jack abbot. smut, mdni. unprotected p in v. everyone is of age. free use. somnophilia. dub/noncon.

-you are responsible for your own media consumption. read the tags and don’t engage with this content unless you are 18 or older. I do not condone any of these actions in real life—this is a work of fiction-

dad!jack who uses you for stress relief when he comes home from his shifts.

"big stretch, sweetpea," he murmurs as he sinks into you, not even bothering to wake you. the sun light just starts filtering into your room, painting your face golden. his cock splits you apart, no prep, no nothing. he presses his hand over your lips to swallow your pained gasp when he feels you wake.

you had been sleeping so prettily—on your tummy, one leg hiked up, only wearing one of his shirts and a cute pair of baby pink panties.

now, he fucks you so deep your teeth rattle and your hips ache.

grunts in your ear, telling you how pretty you are. how much he loves you. how you're the best thing in his life—the only good thing left in this world.

his tummy—a little bit of softness over the hard muscles—presses into your back as he thrusts in and out of you. his weight grounds you through the pain and pleasure.

"you're being so good for your old man," he praises. "such a good fucking girl. taking me so well. fuck..."

his hand on your mouth shifts to pry open your lips. you choke on his middle finger as he presses down on your tongue, forcing you to take him in deeper. spit dribbles down your chin, but daddy doesn't mind the mess. no, baby, you're doing just fine.

"doing so good, kid," he rumbles softly. "gimme two minutes. so fucking close. only need this pussy and nothin' else."

the tip of his cock drags deliciously over your g-spot, making you see stars. the pain has faded by then and made space for those tingles that creep up your spine.

"attagirl," jack whispers as he feels you clench around him. "give it to me, pretty girl. c'mon."

he fucks you harder, makes you gag on his fingers until you're coughing—every flutter of your lungs has your walls tightening around his cock. he moans as he feels you pulse.

"fuck, baby... cum for me. cum for daddy. make that pretty face."

if you liked this but you don't want to publicly interact with this, don't be shy and reach out through my inbox!! cum come at me with compliments or smutty thots

[miserymorgue]

my (wo)man on willpower | j. abbot

pairing jack abbot x fem!reader

summary you and jack have always been a hands-on, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other kind of couple—until you decide to commit to a month-long “detox.” no sex, no touching, no shortcuts. jack feels like the least sought after man in the land. (ao3)

(inspired by sabrina carpenter’s my man on willpower (2025)!)

tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship, living together, unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (mutual), mentions of masturbation, praise & teasing, domestic, hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), wellness / “spiritual” themes, r. can do splits, santos being santos (mentions of santos/garcia breakup), robby lowkey ur third lol, healthy, sane relationship, more romcom than angst (much less sad than the actual song) (written by a law student, not a doctor—medical accuracy idkher)

wc 16.5k words

“I’m sorry,” Jack says slowly, like he’s trying very hard to be reasonable, “I’m still… a little lost here—what exactly are you doing?”

You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.

“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”

“—right there,” he cuts in.

You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”

He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”

You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”

Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.

“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.

You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”

You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.

“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”

You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate. 

He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”

You try not to smile. You fail, a little.

“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”

“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”

You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.

You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate. Just a second too long.

“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”

He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.

Then—

“And this is just penetration?” he asks.

You freeze.

Your silence is loud.

Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”

You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”

“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”

“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”

That earns you a look.

“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”

You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”

“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.

You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”

“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”

You grin. “Oh, here we go.”

“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”

“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”

“Debatable.”

You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.

You hand him a fork.

“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”

He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”

“You could always use more.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.

His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.

“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.

You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”

He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.

A pause.

Then—

“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.

You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”

“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”

“‘Course I can handle this.”

★★★

“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.

Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”

“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”

Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”

“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”

“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.

“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”

Robby pauses.

Then looks up slowly.

“…Spooning.”

“Don’t,” Jack warns.

Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”

Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”

“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”

“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.

“You stayed,” Robby counters.

Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”

“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”

“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”

“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.

“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.

Jack hesitates.

“…Two days.”

There’s a beat.

Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.

Jack doesn’t answer.

Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“You’re like this after two days?”

Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”

“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.

“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”

“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”

Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.

Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.

“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”

Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”

“Ambulance crashed!”

The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.

★★★

Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.

He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.

He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.

But this. This thing you were doing…

The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.

From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.

That includes the easy things. The soft things.

And yeah—sex too.

It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.

And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake. 

Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.

You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.

Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.

You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.

Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.

“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.

Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.

“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”

Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”

Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”

Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.

Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.

“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”

You were already moving.

Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.

You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.

“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”

Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”

“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”

Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.

You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.

Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.

“You busy?” you asked, softer now.

You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.

Then you leaned in.

Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.

Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.

Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.

“We’re heading out,” he said.

Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”

“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”

Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.

You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.

And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.

You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.

You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.

And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you. 

It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.

★★★

Day Six.

He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.

The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.

The second— You.

On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.

And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.

Why does Santos know where you live?

Why is Santos doing yoga?

Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?

“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.

“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.

“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.

The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.

He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—

—and you shift just slightly.

It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.

His kiss lands on your cheek instead.

You don’t even break the pose.

“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.

A beat.

“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”

There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.

“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”

You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.

He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.

She rolls her eyes.

“Next pose,” she says flatly.

You shift without hesitation.

“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”

“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”

“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”

Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”

“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.

You let out a small laugh into the mat.

“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.

“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”

Santos chimes. “And spite.”

Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.

Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.

“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”

He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.

You glance up, watching him go.

There’s a beat of silence.

Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”

You follow, steady.

“He seems… stable,” she says.

“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”

Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”

“We’re touchy people.”

“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.

“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”

“You could just… not text her.”

Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”

You smile slightly.

“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”

“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”

“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”

“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.

“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”

There’s a pause.

“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.

Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.

“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.

You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”

★★★

Day Nine.

Virgin Mary, my ass.

That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.

The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.

He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.

His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.

You startle just a little, then relax.

“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”

“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.

He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.

“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.

“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.

“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”

He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.

“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”

His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.

You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.

Your hand stills completely on the counter.

“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.

He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.

“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”

You don’t answer.

Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.

His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.

Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.

“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.

“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”

But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.

Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.

“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.

“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.

“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”

His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.

“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”

The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.

He doesn’t move.

“Jack.”

“Just one kiss?” He asks.

You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.

You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.

“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.

You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.

You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—

You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.

It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.

If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.

You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too. 

Easy, natural, constant, release. Escapism, almost. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie. 

Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.

It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”

★★★

Day Twelve.

“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”

Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”

“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.

“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”

“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.

“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”

“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”

The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.

Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.

“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”

He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.

Robby stares straight ahead, deadpan. “Please stop talking.”

Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”

“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.

“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And she keeps wearing—”

“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.

They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.

Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”

“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”

Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”

Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”

“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”

Robby stops walking.

Grabs his shoulder.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”

“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”

Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.

Locks. You.

At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.

You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.

“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”

“Don’t.”

“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”

Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”

“You aren’t going there.”

“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”

“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”

“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”

“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”

“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”

Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.

Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.

You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.

Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.

Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”

“I told you. Psychological warfare.”

McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.

“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.

“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”

“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.

“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”

McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”

You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”

“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”

You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”

“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”

“Santos encouraged it.”

“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.

“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”

Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”

You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”

You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”

Mel nods seriously, concentrating.

McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”

You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”

“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.

You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.

“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”

You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”

Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—

“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”

You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”

“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”

“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.

“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”

You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”

Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”

“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”

Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.

You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.

Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.

Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.

“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”

He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.

“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.

You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”

He stares at you.

“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.

You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”

He stands there for a second. Then another.

Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.

“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.

Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.

★★★

Day Eighteen.

You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.

Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.

“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.

You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.

He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”

You hum like you believe him. You don’t.

He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.

They stay on you.

Track every adjustment.

You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.

“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.

You shoot him a look. 

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”

“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”

And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.

One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.

Jack actually goes still. That’s new. 

“…Right,” he says, quieter now.

You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.

“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”

You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.

Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.

He’s trying to be good. You can see it.

Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.

You keep going anyway.

“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.

“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.

“Nope,” you say immediately.

You don’t look at him.

Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.

You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.

“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.

“Who?” His voice is tighter now.

“Isla’s husband.”

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”

You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.

Jack looks away this time.

Briefly.

Then back.

Like he can’t help it.

“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”

You glance at him now.

“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.

“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.

“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”

You don’t disagree with that.

You look at him. Really look.

He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.

You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.

He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.

“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”

His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.

“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”

That earns a small smile from you.

“Responsible of you,” you say.

“Have you?” He asks.

“Nope.”

“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”

You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.

“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.

You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”

“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds. 

Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.

“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”

Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”

“Two more weeks,” you repeat.

You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

It’s small. Controlled. Safe.

Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.

He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.

Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.

You shouldn’t.

You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.

“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.

“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”

A pause.

“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.

You look at him for a second too long.

Then you nod.

His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.

You kiss him again properly.

It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.

Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.

His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up. 

A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.

His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.

He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”

You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.

You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.

“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”

“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.

You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.

He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.

You glance down.

He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.

You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.

“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”

“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”

You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”

“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.

You don’t look back when you walk out.

★★★

Day Twenty Two.

You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.

Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.

We resist.

You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.

So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.

So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly. 

So you added structure.

Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.

You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.

You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.

But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.

You’ve also tightened everything else.

Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.

The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.

“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”

Pitch black room. Eye mask on.

“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.

He’d watched it alone. Hated it.

Even the small stuff has become intentional.

You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.

He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.

And still—you function.

You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait. 

The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity. 

And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.

The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.

Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.

You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.

Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.

“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.

“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”

“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”

You nod, moving in.

The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.

You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.

“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”

“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”

Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.

You.

He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder. 

Three weeks of this… discipline.

And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

“Traction,” Park says.

You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”

“Now.”

You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.

Whitaker visibly winces.

“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.

Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”

Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”

“Good. Splint.”

You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.

Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.

You hold his gaze for half a second.

“Doctor,” you say, light.

He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”

You blink. “Are you—seriously?”

“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”

You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.

“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”

Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”

Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”

“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”

Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”

“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.

“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”

Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”

“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”

“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”

You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.

“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”

You correct it immediately. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”

Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”

“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.

A beat.

Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”

Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”

“Robby,” Jack says, warning.

“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”

“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.

He opens his mouth—

“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”

You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”

“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”

Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”

“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.

Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.

“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”

“Oh—right—sorry—”

“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”

“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”

Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.

He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.

“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”

You don’t look at him. “Depends.”

“On?”

“How much you told Robby.”

He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”

“Debatable.”

“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.

“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.

There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—

“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”

You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.

“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”

You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.

Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.

Still looking at you like that.

By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.

“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.

“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”

You huff. “How is he doing?”

Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.

“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”

“And not clinically?” you prompt.

He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”

You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”

“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”

You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.

You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”

Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”

You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”

“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”

“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.

He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.

There’s a small pause, then—more casually—

“Soup was good, by the way.”

You blink. “The vegetable one?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“He called it punishment.”

“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”

You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”

You laugh under your breath.

He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.

You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”

“You too,” he says, stepping aside.

You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.

“See you at home in a few hours.”

He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.

“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.

You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.

“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”

Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking. 

“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”

★★★

Day Twenty Nine.

“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.

McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.

“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”

You glance over. “Why?”

“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”

“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.

McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”

“Yeah.”

“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.

“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”

Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”

You glance at her. “You miss her.”

She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”

“You brought her up first.”

“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”

McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”

You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.

“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”

“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”

“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”

McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”

Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”

You blink. “It’s just discipline.”

McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”

You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”

McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..

Santos, however, immediately does.

“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”

McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.

“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”

“Like… personality-wise?” you try.

Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”

McKay mutters, “Oh God.”

Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”

You nearly choke. “Santos—”

“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”

McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”

Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”

You stare at her. 

“That’s not an answer,” she says.

McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”

“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.

Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”

You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”

“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”

You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”

McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”

Then, casually—

“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”

McKay exhales through her nose.

Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”

“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”

Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.

“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”

“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.

Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”

Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”

You look at her like salvation. “Help.”

Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”

Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.

Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”

Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”

Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”

★★★

Day Thirty Two.

Your schedules have always been a mess.

Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.

Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.

You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.

Eat something.

You too.

Left food in the fridge.

Miss you.

Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.

He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.

Something smells good. Really good. Definitely not green. Lacking salt, maybe, though.

“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”

“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”

Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.

“…You are not my girlfriend.”

Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”

Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.

Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”

Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”

He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.

“I followed her recipe,” he adds.

Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”

“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”

A beat.

“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.

Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”

Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”

Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”

“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”

Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”

Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”

“…Did I what?”

Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”

“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.

“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”

Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”

Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.

“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.

“I salted it.”

“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”

Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”

“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.

“You two haven’t seen each other?”

“Not properly.”

Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”

Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”

“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.

Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.

The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.

“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.

“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.

You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.

“When’d you get back?” you ask.

“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”

“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”

“Shocking,” Robby mutters.

You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.

You pull back just as fast.

“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”

His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.

You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”

“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.

You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.

“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”

Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.

Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”

“Tell her I said hi,” you call.

“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.

He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.

“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.

“Out!” Jack says.

Robby leaves.

The door shuts.

And just like that—

It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.

“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.

“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.

He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.

“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.

“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”

You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.

“C’mere,” he says.

You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.

“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.

You nod.

“Speak,” he adds, low.

“Yes.”

That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.

“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.

His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.

You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.

His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.

“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.

You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.

He exhales, eyes still locked on you.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.

“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.

“Mhm.”

He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.

“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.

His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.

“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”

You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that. 

You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.

Behind you, the stove clicks off.

A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.

“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”

He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”

“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.

“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”

You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.

You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”

His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”

You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.

“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.

“What else?”

“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip. 

You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.

“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”

“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.

He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you. 

The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch. 

You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.

“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.

“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.

He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass. 

He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.

“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric. 

He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement. 

“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”

You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.

He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.

“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe. 

He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.

“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.

His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.

You shake your head.

“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.

He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”

He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”

You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.

“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.

He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”

He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.

“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.

You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.

 “Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.

You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.

He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say, 

His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.

“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man. 

His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.

You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”

You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.

“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”

“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head. 

You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him. 

You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.

“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.

“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.

“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”

“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.

“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.” 

He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”

“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”

You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.

“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.

“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.

Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect. 

His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back. 

He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good." 

You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch. 

He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps. 

He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?" 

“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.

He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him. 

His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.

Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”

He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar. 

He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him. 

He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.

“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.

He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.

“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”

You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them. 

You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch. 

“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.

You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp. 

You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense. 

You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.

He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm. 

His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.

His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?" 

His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat. 

“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”

“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.

“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.

“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.

“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.

“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”

His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.

"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely. 

You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.

You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.

Like he doesn’t want to.

You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.

“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.

Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”

There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.

You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.

“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.

You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”

“Sure you were.”

“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”

He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”

“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Feel like it,” he mutters.

“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”

He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.

You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.

It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.

You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.

“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.

You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”

“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”

You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”

He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.

“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”

“I can help, I’ll—”

“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.

You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.

When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.

“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.

He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.

You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.

There’s a pause.

“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”

He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”

You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.

“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.

He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.

You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.

A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.

Who would you pick?

Who do you think I’d pick?

Are we about to say the same name?

“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.

There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”

You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”

“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”

You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”

You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.

“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.

“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”

His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.

The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.

You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.

Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.

a/n: i love this song! I got this though from when i watched a robby x abbot tiktok edit to my man on willpower, and if im desperate for inspo i go to my tiktok edits and see if i can spur some ideas, and i was like, oh maybe abbot like not fucking you or something because of some self care thing and i was like, god he’d never do that. he’s fucking whenever, life is short, he would want to treat his partner as much as he can mentally and physically handle i think. And then i was like. Wait, lets switch the beat…. anyway i had to restrain myself from writing more orlike writing everyday and unpacking different interactions. i wrote a scene where'd try to seduce you with his "slutty pyjamas" (his army uniform) and you gaf or something but i felt too much 2nd hand embarrasment. im so tired i have triivia to go to now i have no idea if this is good i just want it done so i caan study and work on the lawyer series!

[honeypiehotchner]

i've got it -- jack abbot x fem!reader

Jack said "i'll pay for it" and i blacked out. here's this. (the gif is def brett richards but ignore that!)

Summary: A short trip to the ER one night spirals into an unlikely accidental sugar daddy relationship with a certain night shift attending that you never expected.

Warnings: SMUT mdni 18+ only!!, medical innaccuracies (never been to the ER for a mild allergic reaction so just <3 look past any mistakes), slight miscommunication trope, jack is WHIPPED from day 1, sugar daddy jack yes god, lots of complicated feelings abt money, reader is trying her damnest to still be independent, so much fluff, robby has his whimsy back in this, jack is trying his hardest to be Normal abt you (he is failing), oral f!recieving, fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (and the crowd...cheers? wear a condom!)

WC: 16.5k (I SAID I BLACKED OUT)

The last place you expect to end up on your birthday is PTMC’s ER and yet, that’s exactly where you sit.

For the record, you think you’re fine. Your friend thinks otherwise, hence the fact that you’re now at the ER and not still at the restaurant. At least she drove you here instead of calling an ambulance -- you do not have the money for that -- but she didn’t stay with you. Which you kind of understand. ER’s aren’t the best place to be, and it’s late and she has to work super early and you told her to leave. 

You just also hadn’t entirely expected her to go without any pushback, but what can you do?

Still, it just seems par for the course. The course being your entire life. There’s never any fight, no one ever really wants to stay. It’s-- Well, you’d say it was weird if it wasn’t your normal, everyday life.

But it’s fine. Again, you’re the one who told her she didn’t need to stay and that you would be fine because you are fine. So, you’re having a little allergic reaction. So what? It’s not like your throat is closing up or anything. It’s just been like, sort of, itchy. And maybe you have hives. Maybe.

The ER isn’t empty by any means, but there are empty chairs and in your ER experience, that’s a rare and good sign. You hope it means this won’t take long at all, and that you aren’t exactly high priority.

Until you’re called back before a lot of people who definitely checked in after you.

You go through the motions of triage, explaining what’s wrong, insisting that you’re fine, but apparently the hives look bad and apparently the little cough you have might be a bad sign, because before you know it, you’re in a room of your own.

You huff, which turns into some coughing, and you grimace. Your throat does not feel great.

You don’t have to wait long at all before the curtain pulls back so abruptly that you flinch, and then lock eyes with an absolute silver fox of a doctor. Suddenly your breathing issues have nothing to do with the alleged allergic reaction that you might be having.

“I’m Dr. Abbot, it’s nice to meet you, though I’m really sorry it’s under these circumstances.” The corners of his lips quirk in a small smile when he turns to look at you. “What brings you in tonight?”

“Um…” you swallow uncomfortably. “Possible allergic reaction?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Possible?”

“I don’t have any allergies,” you say. “Not that I know of, anyway. But I was eating dinner and then my throat started to feel really scratchy and water wasn’t helping it, and then like, apparently there’s hives on my neck--”

“Okay,” Dr. Abbot listens intently, straightening up. “Are you having any trouble breathing now?”

You shake your head. “No, my throat is still scratchy, but I can breathe fine, I just keep coughing a little because it feels like something is stuck.”

He nods. “Okay. Let me know if that changes, as soon as it changes. I don’t care if you think it is, let me know. Okay?”

You nod this time. “Okay. Got it.”

“Now,” he smiles softly, walking to your bedside. “What was for dinner? And do you mind if I take a look at that rash you keep scratching at on your arm?”

You freeze, literally caught in the act, nails still digging into your forearm before you slowly move your hand away. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, sitting down on the stool beside your bed. “Don’t apologize. Can I?” You nod and his fingertips touch your skin. “What was dinner?”

You explain what you had and at what restaurant, and Dr. Abbot listens. He lists some possible allergens, but that it’s impossible to really know. It could even be a case of cross-contamination, but since you don’t know of any allergies in general, it’s hard to say what it could be exactly.

All the while he’s examining your skin, leaning so close you can feel his breath. His fingertips ghost over the hives, applying pressure here and there, which apparently tells him something, but what exactly, you have no idea.

“You ever taken Benadryl before?” he asks, leaning back to look up at you.

You nod. “Yeah, just when I’m like deathly sick.”

He laughs. “Good. I’m going to get one of my nurses to bring some in because you do have some pretty good hives on your neck, now making their way onto your arm here. The bad news is it absolutely looks like an allergic reaction of some kind, but the good news is it seems to be an extremely mild one. I am going to need to keep you for a couple hours to monitor you, make sure the Benadryl works and that your breathing doesn’t change. Is that okay?”

You nod. It’s not like you have anywhere else to be. “That’s fine, yeah.”

“Okay,” he smiles, squeezing your hand once, and it’s only then that you realize you had begun to start scratching again.

It’s also when you realize he’s wearing a goddamn wedding ring.

You wedge both of your hands under your thighs, looking away as you let out another small, “Sorry.”

Even in your peripherals you can see he gives you a strange look before he shakes his head. All he says is “I’ll be right back” and then he disappears.

You lean your head back against the pillows and sigh, loudly. Which turns into a cough, but it’s small, and doesn’t hurt anymore.

And then it’s like Dr. Abbot appears out of fucking nowhere, curtain flinging back, his eyes wide as he peers in. “Are you okay? Trouble breathing?”

“No, sorry,” you lift your head, putting on what you hope is a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. I was just…”

He watches you steadily for a moment. “Okay. Let me know if that changes.”

You nod again. “Roger that.” Why did you just say that?

He smirks as he leaves again, and this time you toss your head back into the pillows a little more aggressively.

You cannot look so flustered every time he speaks. He’s married, for Christ’s sake, and he is not flirting with you. He is your doctor.

You expect the next time the curtain opens for it to be a nurse with your Benadryl, but it’s Dr. Abbot yet again. He has a cup of water in one hand and the little packet of Benadryl in the other.

“Are you okay taking pills?” he asks, handing you the water, and you ignore the way your fingers brush. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, watching him as he sits down on the stool again. He definitely doesn’t need to be the one giving you the medicine, let alone sitting down at your bedside to do it, but you don’t call him out on it.

You take the two pills from him and swallow them with some water, feeling his gaze on you but keeping your eyes focused on the door. When you finish, you sneak a glance over at him, and he’s watching you. Still.

“Good.” He says it so softly that you almost don’t hear it. “I’ll come back in a bit to see how you’re doing, but if anything changes, you can press this button right here and it’ll send a signal to the nurses’ hub. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

You nod, but he doesn’t budge, so you add, “Yeah, okay. Thank you.”

He pulls the curtain behind him as he leaves, and part of you wishes he had turned the lights off, too. It’s late as hell and you were already tired to begin with from working as many extra shifts as you can get your hands on. The allergic reaction certainly isn’t helping your tiredness.

It feels like barely any time passes before Dr. Abbot comes in to check on you again. It does seem odd, just how often he’s checking in, but maybe it’s a slow night. There were empty chairs, after all.

You sit silently as he checks your hives from his place on the stool. He hums a little as his fingertips ghost over your skin. You answer his questions about how you’re feeling. Better, less itchy, your throat doesn’t hurt anymore. You blink slowly and Dr. Abbot notices, smiling at you, but this one is strangely soft.

“Feeling sleepy?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Sorry, forgot Benadryl hits me kinda hard.”

“That’s okay, it’s normal,” he assures you. “Did you drive here?”

“No, my friend dropped me off.”

His eyebrows furrow. “She didn’t stay?”

“She has to work super early shifts,” you wave him off. “It’s fine, I’ll just Uber home or…or something.” Which is still not ideal because it’s money you don’t want to spend, and maybe you could get your friend to come back and pick you up, but you don’t want to wake her up if she’s asleep already.

He eyes you warily. “Why don’t you sleep this off for a bit, and then we’ll talk about getting you home. Okay?”

You’re too tired to argue, honestly. You clearly haven’t taken Benadryl in ages because it’s hitting you like a freight train right now.

You don’t argue, but you do say, “Are you sure?” and Dr. Abbot just nods, patting your arm.

“You stay put, I’ll come check in on you, but I want those hives to go down some more before you leave,” he says, which, you have no idea how this works, so this is probably typical protocol, who knows.

“Okay,” you shrug. “As long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” he smiles. “You’ll be okay here. Get some sleep.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

+++

You’re still sleeping soundly by the time six a.m. rolls around, which leads to a lot of questions, all directed at one Dr. Jack Abbot.

“So…” Robby leans onto the desk next to where Jack is charting. He showed up a bit early today for who knows what reason, but clearly one objective is getting on Jack’s nerves as soon as possible. “Want to tell me what’s up with the patient in 12?”

“Allergic reaction, not sure what caused it,” Jack rattles off the usual descriptions necessary at handover, except he won’t be handing you over to anyone. “Her friend dropped her off.”

“So you’re waiting for her friend to come get her…?” Robby asks, eyebrows furrowed and head shaking. 

“No,” Jack says. I’m taking her home, he wants to say, and nearly does, but he can’t say that because he hasn’t even asked you if you want that. You said you’d Uber, but you didn’t exactly look like that idea appealed to you for some reason. 

“Jack,” Robby sighs. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Jack bites out, logging back on to triple check something that he definitely doesn’t need to triple check. He knows he has a bad habit of getting attached to certain cases, but those cases are usually veterans and their families. Not…not pretty young women who come in alone and insist they’re fine when they’re clearly on the cusp of anaphylactic shock (how you didn’t end up in shock, Jack still doesn’t know, but he’s glad you didn’t get worse).

“She’s a patient,” Robby says flatly. “She’s your patient.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Jack repeats, eyes scanning over your file some more when his eyes lock on the date. Your birthday.

Your birthday was yesterday now, when you got here. You didn’t mention anything about that.

Strange.

He logs off and turns to Robby. “I’ve got her cleared for discharge and I’m going to go let her know now. Happy, boss?”

Robby holds his hands up in mock surrender.

Jack turns and heads toward your room, well aware that he shouldn’t have let you stay this long. You’re taking up a bed that they probably need, but in his defense, this is the first time in a long time that there aren’t any beds lining the walls when dayshift comes in. He counts it as a win. And justification that you’re fine to take up one bed. They still have the pedes room empty, anyway.

He knocks on the door before opening it, sliding the curtain back gently, remembering the way you flinched earlier. 

“Hey,” he says, smiling without thinking. You’re awake and sitting up, which is a good sign. But you’re glaring at him. “How are you doing?”

“Why am I still here?” you ask, arms crossed over your chest. “You were supposed to let me sleep off the Benadryl, not sleep through the night.”

He chuckles, grabbing the stool and wheeling it over so he can sit at the end of your bed, putting some distance between you this time. “Because you clearly needed the rest. I came and checked on you every hour; you were out cold.”

You grumble something and then huff. “Well, I need to go, I have to work in like…four hours. So. Can I go?”

He doesn’t like the idea of you working after a night in the ER, but he also knows he can’t exactly tell you not to. Medically, you’re fine. “Yeah, you’re free to go, that’s what I was coming to tell you, actually.”

“Great.”

He fucked this up. He doesn’t know how, and he’s not sure why he’s even thinking that there’s something to fuck up. You’re his patient. But still, it feels like he’s ruined everything. Whatever everything is.

“Uh, here’s your paperwork,” he says awkwardly, handing over the sheets. “Just a review of what you were treated for and with what, and who saw you.” He pauses. “If you need a note for work--”

“I’m fine,” you say, taking the papers. “Thanks.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Well, if you--” How does he fix this? Why does he feel like there’s something to fix? “If you feel any worse again, come back, or…”

You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Or if you just want a check up,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as ridiculous as he feels. “You can stop by any night.”

He hears your breath hitch and he graciously ignores it. 

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” you murmur.

He nods again. “No problem. I’ll uh…let you get out of here.” So I can do the same. And go crawl in a hole.

He leaves without another word, trusting that you can get yourself to the exit without him. 

He finishes handover with Robby, welcomes the rest of the dayshift as they come waltzing in, and then he gets the hell out of there. 

He almost goes to the roof, but thinks better of it. He grabs his stuff from his locker, shaking his head at himself the whole time. He leaves the ED through chairs like always, grimacing when he sees it’s filling back up already. Dayshift will have their hands full, no doubt.

He’s just walking up the sidewalk to the parking deck where his truck is when he spots you. Still here. Sitting on a bench in the park across the street.

Jack doesn’t think. He just looks, crosses the street, and walks right up to you.

You’re looking down at your phone and muttering under your breath. He doesn’t want to startle you, but that’s probably inevitable. Still, he tries not to, and clears his throat to (hopefully) announce his presence loud enough.

It works. You lift your head and your wide eyes stare back at him. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoes. “Everything okay?”

You open your mouth and he can already see the I’m fine forming around your lips. He expects it. He expects you to tell him to get lost, that he’s being a creep. But you don’t.

You shut your mouth, roll your lips into your mouth, and sigh. “No, my uh…My friend works on the other side of the city, and I know her schedule so I know she’s already halfway to work, so I can’t ask her for a ride, so I was just going to Uber to my place, but my fucking-- The app keeps declining my card. It’s never done that before, so I’m trying to figure out what the fuck it’s doing, but it keeps saying it’s not accepted and--”

“I’ll pay for it.”

You blink, his words forcing the rest of yours to die in your throat. “What?”

“I can pay for it,” he says again. Then adds, “If that’s okay with you.”

Your mind is clearly still stuttering, gears grinding to a halt, trying to catch up. “Why?”

Jack can’t help it, he laughs. “Because you’re my patient and I’d really recommend you get home soon and rest before your shift at work,” he says. He still doesn’t want you to go to work. He wants you to show your boss the discharge paperwork and take the day off. 

But, he realizes, maybe you can’t afford to do that.

“Here,” he says, reaching in his pocket for his wallet. He produces one of his old credit cards, one that he hardly ever puts anything on aside from gas for his truck. He holds it out to you. “Use this one. See if it’ll accept it.”

You blink again. After far too long of a pause, your hand reaches up and you take the card. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” he says, shifting on his feet as he watches you put the information in. Some weird part of him hopes you save the card. Some weirder part of him wants you to take the card entirely. 

But, of course, you don’t do that. You put the information in, wait for it to process, and then you hand the card straight back to him.

The app accepts it. Your phone dings as a driver is found.

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you look up at him with a soft smile. “Thank you so much, seriously. And I’ll delete the card after--”

“Don’t worry about it,” he shakes his head. “Consider it a belated birthday gift.”

You hang your head at that with a small laugh. “Thanks.”

He smiles again. “Get home safe, okay?”

He figures it might be a step too far and too weird to wait here with you until your ride shows, so he makes his exit.

But if he waits in his truck in the parking deck until he sees you get in your Uber, well, that’s his business and his business only.

+++

How much variation can one have in their ramen? It’s about all you can afford at the moment, so you’re trying to think of some things to add in to make it less pathetic and…repetitive to eat every single day.

You’ve gotten some frozen edamame, and some cheap frozen gyozas, because why the fuck not. A poached egg would be nice, but eggs aren’t exactly in the budget at the moment, so instead you stare wistfully at them as you pass by.

And that’s your Big Mistake of the day, because instead of watching where the fuck you’re going, you’re looking at the eggs like they’re your long lost husband. Which means you collide right into the person your delusional friend thinks is your long lost husband.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” you blurt, your hands reaching out to steady Dr. Abbot just as he’s doing the exact same for you. It’s a hilarious gesture on your part because he isn’t the one who needs help staying on his feet. You’re the one about to fall over. 

“Dr. Abbot,” you gasp, stepping away from him, your basket swinging on your arm. “What are you doing here?”

The question makes him pause and his lips quirk. “Um…buying groceries? Is that allowed?”

Fucking duh. “Yes! Sorry, I just meant-- Never mind.” You glance at his basket and see he’s put two steaks in and some butter, but nothing else. “Wow, steak dinner,” you joke. “Celebrating something?”

You expect him to say yes, my wedding anniversary or something of the sort. Because he’s still wearing a ring-- because, of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be? It’s only been two weeks since you were in the ER. And it’s not like you know anything about his personal life, wife included.

He laughs, looking down at his basket like he forgot what he’s buying. “No, not really, just craving steak. I sometimes have one after I work a double. As a reward, you know.”

“Right,” you nod, like you understand what he means. Like when you pull a double at your job, you do the exact same thing. Like you can afford to do that. “Well, enjoy.”

“I will, thank you,” he says. Then, he commits the highest form of treachery. He glances at your basket. “Ramen?” he starts, then you see his brain register the other items. “Fancy ramen?”

“Gotta make it healthy somehow,” you joke.

He nods slowly, eyes cutting to the side at the eggs. You wonder if he noticed the way you were staring at them. “I sometimes do a fried egg with mine,” he comments. “Adds to it.”

“Yup,” you say. “It does.” But have you seen the fucking price of eggs right now? “Anyway, I should-- I need to get going, but um, enjoy your steak and days off, I’m guessing.”

He accepts your abrupt end of the conversation with a humble nod. “Will do. I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

“You too,” you say over your shoulder, making a beeline down a random aisle just to get away.

You end up down the cereal aisle which isn’t such a bad idea. You have some milk left at home, but even if it’s gone bad, you can eat the dry cereal. 

You stare at all of the boxes like they’ve personally offended you, wondering when these prices went up too. Maybe they haven’t. Maybe you’re just dealing with a lot of extra expenses right now, and it’s fried your brain. Probably.

You grab the cheapest, off-brand bag you can see. It’s ridiculous and massive and definitely meant for parents of four kids, but it’s cheap and it’ll last you. So.

You wander aimlessly around the rest of the store, debating over some other snacks and food that you don’t really need, but you do want. In the end, the not-needing wins, so you head for the checkouts.

The self-checkout is crammed for some stupid reason, so you pick a mostly empty line and hop in. You hate not using the self-checkout, but it’ll have to do.

“I swear I’m not following you,” a voice says from behind you.

You glance back and see that it’s Dr. Abbot and you laugh a little, awkwardly. “Sure,” you tease. “I totally believe you.”

He cracks a small smile then, setting his things on the conveyor belt behind yours. The steaks, butter, and now eggs, milk, and bread have joined. Along with a four-pack of beer.

“Healthy,” you raise your eyebrows. “Don’t know what I expected from a doctor who works nights, though.”

“Funny,” he says. “How are you doing, by the way? I didn’t get a chance to ask.”

“I’m okay,” you reply, stepping forward as the person in front of you pays. “Thanks for asking.”

“You never came back to see me,” he says, his eyes just a little sad and his voice a little too soft.

“I didn’t get any worse,” you shrug, ignoring the way his statement made your chest grow tighter and butterflies kick around in your stomach. “And a check-up isn’t really in the budget, Dr. Abbot.”

“Please,” he says, exhaling. “Call me Jack.”

You give him a strange look before greeting the cashier as she scans your things through.

You did the math on your phone as you put things in your basket, but the fucking taxes get you every time. And now you’re not sure if you overshot or not.

You try your debit card and, as you dread, it declines.

“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself. “One second, sorry.”

“No problem,” the cashier says, and to her credit, she doesn’t sound like she feels any sort of way about it. She probably deals with this a lot.

“Here, I’ll try a different card,” you smile, hating every second of your fucking life. You didn’t want to put this on your credit card, but fine. If you must.

Except that fucking declines too. Fuck. Did you freeze it so you’d stop using it while you paid some of it off and forget to unfreeze it for emergencies like, say, a surprise ER trip and work cutting your hours?

Probably.

“Um…” You can feel the back of your neck starting to sweat from the embarrassment of it all. “I’ll just have to-- I’ll come back, or--”

“I’ve got it,” Jack says, stepping forward and handing cash over to the cashier before you can stop him. He does at least glance at you and ask, after he’s handed the money over, “If that’s okay?”

It’s not, not really. Because you already owe him for the Uber, and you don’t want to owe him for this too, but you really need the fucking food. So, you swallow your pride and say, “Yeah, thanks,” instead.

You shove your things into a bag as Jak takes his change from the cashier. He pockets it, thank god, because you think you might’ve exploded if he tried offering it to you.

She scans his stuff and he pays with a card, and you really don’t know why you’re still standing here, but you are. You’re just…frozen. He’s been so nice. But. Your eyes catch on the wedding ring.

He puts everything into two bags and thanks the cashier before smiling over at you. “Ready?”

You just nod numbly, walking with him toward the exit. “Thank you,” you say as the two of you are outside. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs. “It’s not a problem,” he says, pausing with you on the sidewalk. “It’s the least I could do.”

You’re not sure what he means by that, and you don’t ask. 

“Let me walk you to your car,” he blurts. “It’s dark.”

The parking lot is extremely well-lit, but you let him have this one. There’s no real harm in it. “Sure. I’m over this way.”

You realize that it isn’t as well-lit where you’ve parked, so you’re glad you let him walk you.

You unlock your door with your key and lean over the console to set your groceries in the passenger seat. You straighten up to see Jack still standing there, looking a bit awkward himself.

“Well,” you murmur. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

“Hopefully not in the ER,” he says, dropping his head with a chuckle. “As much as I’m glad I was able to help you, I really don’t want you to be a patient again.”

“You and me both,” you mutter, remembering the bill you have to chip away at. “Goodnight, Dr. Abbot.” He gives you a stern look and you roll your eyes. “Jack. Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight,” he smiles, then turns and walks through the cars.

You sigh so heavily that you feel it in your bones, sliding into the driver’s seat, pulling your door closed with you. You tip your head back against the headrest with a stupid, giddy smile that feels ridiculous and floaty.

And then, you turn your keys in the ignition.

Now, ideally, the car will start after a second. Normally, the engine fucking starts. Except this time, all you hear are clicks. The clicks of doom.

“Fuck,” you say out loud because you, unfortunately, know exactly what the clicking means.

The fucking battery is dead. Because of course it is. Because of course you needed one more goddamn thing to happen that will cost money that you don’t have.

You lean forward and rest your forehead on the steering wheel, hitting it just a little too hard, but you’re too tired, stressed, and frankly fed up to even care.

How the hell are you supposed to get home now? You can’t call a towing service because how the hell are you supposed to pay for that? And despite the fact that you know what’s wrong with your car, you have no idea where the nearest car parts store is. Sure, you can Google that, but right now it feels like lifting your head is too much effort.

You try turning the key one more time, just to see if it was a fluke. Clickclickclickclick. Fine.

Then, there’s knocking on your window, and it makes you jolt so hard you nearly slam your head into the top of your car.

You turn your head, heart racing, but it’s just Dr. Abbot. Jack.

You open the door just as Jack is saying, “I heard the battery. I have jumper cables if you want…?”

“Please,” you exhale, not even caring that you sound desperate and that this will be yet another thing you’re indebted to him for.

“Give me a second, I’ll pull my truck around.”

“Thanks.”

He gives you another one of his ‘no need to thank me’ smiles and walks through the cars again. Soon you hear a truck starting, and you realize he parked just a few cars over from you on the other aisle.

You step aside so he can pull into the empty space beside your car. You try (and fail) to not look at him and think about how handsome he looks while he drives.

To keep your eyes under control, you bend down and flick the switch to pop the hood on your car, walking around the front to lift it up.

Jack walks over with the cables, hooking them up despite you reaching for them. “I’ve got it,” he says, not unkindly. “You jumped a car before?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle. “My old car was a piece of shit. Even with a brand new battery, it would decide it wanted to be jumped sometimes.”

He whistles as he turns and finishes hooking up the cables. “Damn.”

“Yeah, at least this is the first time this one has needed it,” you reply. “But I haven’t put a new battery in it since I got it like…two years ago, so.”

“Might be time then,” Jack says. “Alright, we’re good. Want to try starting it now?”

“Roger that,” you say, and you’ve got to stop saying that around him. It must be your go-to when you’re flustered, which is just ridiculous. You need a better phrase.

You slip into your driver’s seat and try the key again. It stutters once, but then it starts, and your body sags with relief. 

You leave the car running and step out to thank Jack again. He’s looking at your engine with furrowed brows, though, and that’s not what you want.

“No…” You groan. “What’s that face for?”

“One sec,” he says, then heads over to his truck, leaving you there at the hood. You hear rustling and turn to look, but his door and your door are blocking your view.

Next thing you know, he’s leaning into your driver’s seat, saying something about checking some light on the dash.

You have no fucking idea. You don’t remember seeing a light pop up when your car started, but then again, you were just elated that your car allowed itself to be jump-started at all.

Then he’s done, as quickly as can be, shutting his truck door and joining you at the hood. 

“You need an oil change,” he says.

“I know,” you roll your eyes. “About a hundred miles ago. I’ll get it done soon.”

You can tell by his face that he definitely doesn’t believe you, but it’s not his problem. You reach over and disconnect the black cable, raising your eyebrows at him so he’ll go disconnect it from his truck. He goes without arguing, and then waits for you to disconnect the red before he disconnects his. He takes the cables from you with what you think looks like an apologetic smile.

“Thank you for the jump,” you say. You don’t want him to feel apologetic, you just…

“It’s no problem, seriously,” he says. He starts looping the cables and loosely knotting them. “Do you need any help with the battery, or…?”

You just give him a wry smile. “I’m a big girl, Dr. Abbot. I can get a new battery for my car.”

“Right, sorry,” he nods, taking a step back. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Jack,” you say, meaning it this time.

He waits until you get in your car and drive away before he even gets in his driver’s seat. You see the little smile on his lips in your rearview mirror.

When you get home, you find a second bag of groceries tucked beside yours on the floor of your passenger seat.

You huff as you take both inside your apartment, setting them on the kitchen counter. You glare at the bag that has eggs, bread, and milk in it as if it disgusts you. Maybe what disgusts you about it is the fact that you aren’t upset about it, not really. You need the food. You just hate that he did so much for you tonight. And that other night in the ER.

You take everything out and shove the eggs and milk in the fridge, tossing the bread into the cabinet. And that’s when you see it, floating down from where it was likely stuck to the bread because of the static electricity.

A receipt. Or the torn-off end of one with some scribbled writing on the back.

Call if you need anything. Or if you just feel like calling. -Jack

You almost snort at the message, but it is sweet. You imagine Jack furiously writing it in his truck before sneaking the groceries over, hands shaking as he writes his name and number.

You put a new contact in your phone -- Jack Abbot (ER Dr) -- but you don’t text him. You’ll save that for another day. Maybe.

+++

By some grace of some higher power, your car starts the next morning -- after a little bit of stuttering. Plus, you were able to figure out the nonsense with your credit card, so you make the drive to get a new battery.

The guy at the autoparts shop takes pity on you (or maybe he’s flirting, but you aren’t interested) and he changes the battery out for you, free of charge. You know how to change it on your own, but since he offered, you let him. Sometimes you just don’t feel like dealing with shit.

You at least have half a tank of gas still, so there’s that. It should last you for a while, as long as you’re careful about getting to and from work. You can walk, it just takes thirty minutes, but it isn’t a bad walk by any means when the weather is nice.

The key phrasing here being when the weather is nice. And you swear, you fucking swear, the weather was supposed to be nice today. There was nothing in the forecast about rain.

But there fucking should’ve been, because here you stand, looking out the front windows of your job -- a small coffee shop that can only give you part-time hours right now -- as it fucking pours.

You can’t even stay in here because the shop is closed now and the security alarm needs to be set. You need to leave before your boss texts you and asks why you haven’t already left.

But you have a long ass walk ahead of you in this shitty weather and you’d rather die. Honestly.

At least it isn’t thundering. Although, maybe being struck by lightning would be nicer.

“Fuck. Me” is the most eloquent thing you can think of as you exit the shop and lock up, waiting to hear the alarm beep three times over the sound of the rain. You hate when it stops beeping like it should because that means nothing is wrong which means you have to leave.

You didn’t even wear a jacket with a fucking hood this morning.

After a few more minutes of (foolishly) hoping the rain is going to slow down, you say fuck it and head out, soaked through your clothes within a minute.

You’re going to have to put your fucking phone in rice when you get home, rice that you aren’t even sure if you have, because if you did, you’d eat it.

You make it to a nearby awning of another shop when a thought occurs to you. A very stupid, ridiculous thought.

You grumble as you dig your phone out of your pocket, surprised that it’s even somewhat dry. You find Jack’s contact and open a new text thread.

Hey, you start, and then you realize you should introduce yourself so you give the whole spiel and then, anyway are you at work rn?

His reply comes within seconds. Not yet. Why?

The raindrops on your screen keep causing you to type the wrong thing and then before you know it you’re fucking calling Jack Abbot.

“Fuck!” He picks up far too quickly. “Hi.”

If he heard your expletive, he doesn’t mention it. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say automatically, and then you grimace. “Well, no, not really--”

“Where are you?”

You rattle off the street name. “I was at work, but we’re closed now, and I didn’t drive today because I’m trying to save gas and I thought the weather would be nice, and now it’s fucking pouring and I’ve walked like, five steps and I’m soaked, and I just--” You take a deep breath, hating the way your voice cracks. “I could really use a ride.”

“I’m on the way,” he says, and you realize that it already sounds like he’s driving. “Are you somewhere dry right now?”

“Yeah, I’m under the florist’s awning,” you sniffle. “Sorry about like, being a nuisance in your life lately, geez.” You add a laugh, hoping he’ll join you, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t say anything, and in that moment you regret calling. You almost think he’s hung up, but you can still hear his truck. His turn signal. His breathing.

So, you stay on the phone, for who the fuck knows why, stewing in your embarrassment, and already planning on how to tell him this will be the last time. And that you’ll even let him block you if that’ll make it…better. Or something.

You finally hang up when you see his truck rounding the corner.

He does a three-point turn so the passenger door is at the curb, and you should not find that as hot as you do.

Next thing you know, he’s leaning over the bench and opening the door for you from inside, waving you in. You jump in, probably slamming the door but you’re too soaked to care.

“Fuck me, I didn’t even think about getting your truck all wet--”

“It’s fine,” Jack says quickly, and a little too short. “Some rain won’t hurt her. Are you cold?”

You don’t know why, but you feel scolded. You sink into the seat and buckle yourself in, shaking your head. “No, I’m fine.” It’s a lie. “Thank you.”

He turns the heat on anyway, then turns all the vents toward you.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He just nods. The truck doesn’t move.

“Oh!” you blurt. “My address. Do you have a GPS--”

“You’re not a nuisance.”

You blink. “What?”

“On the phone,” he says, turning to look at you. “You apologized for being a nuisance, but you’re not one. You don’t need to apologize for calling me when you need something. That’s why I gave you my number.”

“Why?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Why what?”

“Why did you-- Why do you want to help me so much?”

He smiles softly at that. “Because it doesn’t sound like you have a lot of people in your life who help you.”

You’re not sure how to respond to that. Because the problem is that he’s right. You don’t. Not close by, anyway. And you can’t really ask for help because the whole point of you moving out here was to be independent. It won’t look great if you start asking for money if the whole point of moving was to have some space and find your footing on your own.

You stay quiet just a beat too long. Because then Jack adds, “Or maybe I just like you, or something.” 

Your eyes snap to his and he’s smiling still, but a bit playful now. 

“Or something,” you repeat, a smile tugging at your lips. “Should’ve known you throwing money around was you trying to flirt.”

“You saying it wasn’t working?”

You open your mouth to protest, but you can’t. You turn your gaze away and wave your hand at him. “Just drive.”

He chuckles, “Yes ma’am.” He puts the truck in gear and starts moving. “I do need your address, though.”

You tell him your apartment complex, again asking, “Do you want me to put it in Maps?”

He scoffs. “Maps. I know my way around.”

You don’t know why, but you find that hot. Really hot.

But your traitorous eyes glance back at his left hand, and the wedding band is still there. It makes something heavy settle in your stomach, and you unconsciously shift closer to the door.

You’re not sure if the air shifts in the cab of his truck, but it sure feels like it.

The ride is silent except for the rain as Jack takes all the correct turns, knowing exactly where to go without you pointing or anything. When he pulls into the complex, you direct him over to your building, and he pulls up as close as he can to the doors.

“Thanks for the ride,” you tell him with a probably too obviously forced smile. “See you.”

Jack opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but you can’t hear him over the rain, and then you slam his truck door closed. On accident. It’s just raining really hard and you don’t want to get his truck wet any more than you already have. That’s all.

It’s definitely not because you’re mad at him for not mentioning the ring and not because you’re mad at yourself for not bringing it up and for forgetting it was even there.

You stomp up the stairs and into your apartment, glancing out the window once you’re inside, and feeling another wave of anger at yourself when you realize you’re disappointed that his truck is already gone.

What the hell are you doing?

+++

Jack doesn’t hear from you for a week. He tries not to feel anything about it. 

But he’s feeling everything about it. Obviously.

“Rough night?” Robby asks, backpack still slung over his shoulder, mistaking Jack’s faraway stare for something else. The confusion is clear on the dayshift doctor’s face. The board is tidy, chairs is mostly empty, only a couple beds line the walls out here.

And Jack looks haunted. He knows he does. “Nope,” he says, forcing a tight smile and pushing off the nurse’s hub. “You’re welcome for cleaning up your mess from yesterday.”

Robby barks out a laugh at that. “You’re welcome for giving you something to do.”

Jack scoffs. Rolls his eyes. Looks away and thinks about you again.

Robby, who is way too nosy for his own good, catches the shift. “Seriously, are you good?” He pauses. “Is this about her?”

Jack whips his head around so fast he swears he cracks his neck. “Who?” 

Robby’s smile is soft. Knowing. “The patient you let sleep in and then ordered an Uber for.”

Jack hasn’t even told Robby about the grocery store, the car battery, or the rainy day car ride. All Robby knows is that day and the Uber, and Jack is obvious from just that alone. He can’t imagine how it’d all sound if Robby knew everything. Jack probably looks like a creep. Objectively.

“It’s nothing,” Jack says, and he doesn’t know what the hell he even means by that.

“Did something else happen?” Robby presses. Too nosy for his own damn good.

“No,” Jack says automatically, which he knows is a mistake.

Robby’s eyebrows lift skyward. “Have you seen her again? Jack, buddy, you’re holding out on me!”

“Nothing has happened!” Jack snaps, not unkindly. And saying it out loud reminds him: nothing has happened. So why does he feel like something is broken again? Like he needs to apologize and fix it? What is there to fix?

“Well you’re acting like a lot has happened,” Robby teases him just a little more. “Or like there’s trouble in paradise.”

It’s barely been a month and a half since your ER trip. There is no paradise for there to be any trouble in.

Still, Jack rubs his forehead. “There’s not. She’s just--” Quiet? But are you quiet? Or is this normal? Jack has no idea. He has no idea why he can’t bring himself to just…call you. Or text.

Dana chooses the perfect time to arrive, catching the way Jack’s anguished voice said she. The dayshift charge nurse comes over with a shit-eating grin. “Girl troubles? You’re better off asking a brick wall if you’re trying to get advice out of this one,” she jabs her thumb in Robby’s direction.

Robby leans over with a smile, getting eye-level with Dana. “And a very good morning to you too.”

“Morning, chipper,” Jack smiles at Dana. “No girl troubles.”

“Liar,” Robby coughs.

“Come on, Dr. Abbot!” Dana cackles. “Tell me your woes, let me see if I can help.”

Jack glances warily at the too-eager Robby, and then back at Dana who seems genuine in wanting to help. He takes a deep breath. “I gave her a ride home a week ago and she hasn’t spoken to me since.”

Dana raises her eyebrows, eyes a little wide. “Ride home from where?”

At the same time, Robby says, “I thought you ordered her an Uber?”

Dana’s eyes go really wide then. “An Uber from where?”

Jack clarifies. “No, the Uber was over a month ago, when she was in the ER. The car ride was a week ago-- remember the day it fucking rained like it was a hurricane? She was working and had walked that day.”

“So she…” Robby shakes his head, trying to puzzle this one out. “She asked you for a ride? How?”

“I gave her my number.”

Robby’s face breaks into a smile. Dana practically screeches, “When!”

“When I…” Jack sighs, lowering his voice. “When I ran into her in the store and then her car battery died so I had to jump her car and then I gave her my number in case she…needed anything else.”

“Oh my god,” Robby whistles. “Jack, you are--”

“Don’t say it,” Jack nearly growls. He never blushes, but right now, he can feel the heat crawling up his neck.

Dana graciously doesn’t mention the blush or how far gone Jack is already. “Okay, so, she has your number from that time, she texts you and asks for a ride home in the rain, you give her a ride, and…?”

“And?” Jack echoes. “What?”

“You tell me, Abbot, you were there!” Dana laughs. “What happened next? Did you go up with her--”

“No!” Jack hurries to clarify that too. “Jeez, Dana, what do you take me for? I dropped her off and then came into work.”

“You didn’t say anything to her.”

“No, we spoke.”

“So what the hell did you say!” Dana laughs louder. “Jesus Christ above, it’s like pulling teeth with you. Don’t laugh, Robinavitch, you’re just as bad.”

Robby’s jaw drops at that, clearly wondering why he’s getting any heat right now.

Jack chuckles and recalls the conversation. Everything he said to you. Everything you said back. It dawns on him slowly. “She was confused about why I was helping her, called herself a nuisance, so I told her to not think about it that way. I’m helping because I want to, and because I…” He sucks in a breath, looks away. “Because I like her, or something.”

Dana’s grin only widens at his admission. She gazes up at him like a proud mother. He can tell even though he won’t look at her. “What did she say?”

Jack smiles. “That she should’ve known I was flirting.”

“And?”

“And…I don’t know.” Jack crosses his arms, shaking his head. “I drove to her place, and she was watching me, but she just…got quiet at one point.”

Dana hums for a moment. Glances down at his hands. She narrows her eyes when she looks back up at him. “Jack.”

He finally looks her in the eyes again. “Yeah.”

“Were you wearing your ring?”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I always wear it.” Dana knows this. He doesn’t understand what this has to do with anyth-- “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” Dana laughs, shaking her head at him. “You’re welcome for the revelation. Next time disclose the wife before flirting with another woman. Poor girl has probably been sitting at home kicking herself for this all week.”

“Shit,” Jack says again, as if it has more meaning this second time around. In a way, it does, because he doesn’t want you to be beating yourself up over this. Over him being an idiot and not disclosing that he’s a widow who still wears his ring.

Robby claps him on his shoulder. “See you in a few minutes for handover, brother. Then you can call your girl.”

Jack opens his mouth to argue that you’re not his anything, but Robby is already following Dana off to the lockers.

+++

It’s a little after noon. You’re cleaning your apartment for the third time this week when Jack calls. You’re too far in the zone to screen his call, realizing far too late that it’s his voice on the other end.

“Hey,” he sounds a little shocked that you even picked up at all. “Can we talk?”

You nearly hang up. That’s far too serious of a question coming from a man who is married and who you’ve had only a handful of interactions with.

But, because you’re stupid, you say, “Yeah, I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?”

“I do have a wife,” he says.

You’re so caught off guard that you reply, “Good for you?”

“Or…had, I guess.” 

Great. So he’s divorced. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse, and it’s hard to tell from his tone. “Okay?” You rub your temple. “Look, Jack, if this is about last--”

“I’m a widow,” he says, and that stops you cold, your eyes widening. He lets out a weak laugh. “Sorry for saying that in the most roundabout way possible.”

“Oh,” you elegantly reply. Then, inelegantly, you add, “Fuck, I mean, sorry. I’m so sorry, Jack, for your loss.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s been years. But that’s why I have a ring.”

“Of course,” you breathe, leaning back against your kitchen counter. “That’s okay. Obviously it’s okay. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.”

“No, it’s not your fault, and that was a logical conclusion to jump to,” he says honestly. “I just should’ve told you before I said I liked you and was flirting with you.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle. “Might’ve saved me a freak out.”

You can practically hear his frown. “I’m sorry.”

“Enough of that,” you murmur, waving your hands in your empty apartment. “Thank you for telling me.”

“If it’s not-- If you’re not…I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” he breaks off with a soft laugh. “Can I take you to dinner?”

“Absolutely,” you reply. “I’d love that.”

Jack asks if you can do dinner that evening. Thankfully, you’re free, but honestly, you would’ve found a way.

He’s leaning against his truck when you come down from your apartment. He’s in dark jeans today, and a white t-shirt that almost looks a little too tight. You try not to ogle his arms too much, but it’s his fault for crossing them. Does he have any idea how good that makes his biceps look?

“Hey stranger,” you say, which is the worst attempt at flirting you’ve ever heard, but it’s what your brain spits out, so you commit to it. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I didn’t want to wait until you nearly bowled me over by the eggs again,” he teases.

You gasp. “Rude!”

He smiles, walking around to the passenger door to open it for you. He nods into the truck. “Hop in. We have a little drive.”

“Ooh, how mysterious.”

He chuckles as he shuts the door. You watch him as he rounds the truck and he catches your gaze through the windshield. You don’t hide your smile. You watch him even as he gets in the driver’s seat.

“Do I get to know where we’re going for dinner?” you ask, buckling in. “Or is it a surprise?”

“Depends,” he says, turning the key. “Do you like surprises?”

You smile. “I’ll allow this one.”

“Thank you,” he says. As he pulls onto the road, he asks, “How was your day?”

You tell him about the deep-cleaning. “I clean when I’m stressed, so I was in the middle of that when you called actually. I wasn’t planning to pick up.”

If he’s hurt by that, he hides it. Mostly. “Oh.”

“Well, I thought I was on the cusp of an affair,” you joke. “But it’s fine, the stress wasn’t entirely you. Work is cutting hours again, my friend might be moving states, and I’m just--” You cut yourself off with a laugh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says genuinely, turning his head to glance at you. “I asked because I want to know this stuff.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, a similar gnawing feeling in your stomach that isn’t hunger. “How was your day?”

“Good,” he nods. “Little stressful, but the ED always is. Dayshift left a fucking mess for us to clean up.”

You roll your eyes, saying, “Assholes,” automatically, like you know. Like you get it.

Jack just smiles harder. “Yeah, exactly. They’re assholes.”

When he turns to enter the highway, you give him a strange look. “How far are we going?”

“Just a couple towns over,” he explains. “Just faster this way.”

You hum.

“I’m starting to think you don’t like surprises.”

“I said I’d allow this one.”

“Ah,” he laughs. “So you don’t.”

“Not at all,” you admit, sinking into your seat. “But I’m trying to be cool.”

“You are cool,” he says honestly. “You don’t need to try.”

“Okay,” you breathe. And then, helplessly, you cave and ask, “Where are we going?”

He laughs, not at you, and not unkindly. “I’m taking you to this little family run restaurant I love. They make great pizza. The owner is a friend of mine.”

You relax a little, knowing the exact plan, and something warm settles in your chest at the information. A friend of his. A place he loves. And he’s taking you.

His arm has been resting on the console between the two of you this entire time, and it’s only now that you brave the distance and place your hand over his. He looks over at you with the sweetest smile, turning his hand over to press your palms together. You lace your fingers through his. He squeezes your hand, and it’s like all the nerves melt out of your body.

+++

Dinner with Jack becomes a regular thing. Once, sometimes twice a week. He always takes you somewhere new. He always pays. And you always let him.

It’s nice to not have to worry. You hate to admit it, but it is. You don’t have to worry about gas money, or money for the dinners, because when you offered to pay for both one time, he looked at you like you’d just slapped him.

“I’ve got it,” he always says. “Don’t worry about it.”

You try not to.

But he pays for so much. You forgot to delete his card off your Uber app and ordered a ride one day, the charge automatically approved, and then you saw the card number. You freaked out and texted him, apologetically saying you’d pay him back.

Don’t worry about it, he wrote back. Sorry I can’t give you a ride right now.

You rolled your eyes. I know you are not apologizing for being at work.

He took a minute to reply, but when he did, it said, Wouldn’t dream of it. Home safe?

You mentioned still paying off your ER bill, and miraculously, you got a letter from the hospital the next week saying your bill had been paid. You knew without a doubt that it was Jack’s doing, but you also didn’t have any definitive proof, so you didn’t press him about it.

But it lingered in your mind. Another thing you feel like you owe him for.

You mentioned work cutting hours again, leaving you with a poor excuse for part-time and rapidly dwindling savings, and Jack asked if you needed anything. You told him no, you were fine, you were just venting, but clearly it stuck with him.

Because the next time you have dinner, he says, casually, “I made you an authorized user on my credit card.”

You nearly spit out your wine, and then nearly kick him for that because this is a nice place. You’re in a dress and heels, for Christ’s sake. You can’t spit-take wine across the table.

“Why did you do that?” you hiss.

“I didn’t mean to make you snort wine--”

“No, the card!” You lean over the table. “Why am I an authorized user?”

He looks at you incredulously. “So if you need something, you can buy it.”

“You’re insane,” you laugh. “You know that, right?”

He’s smiling a little, but he’s still not following. “I just don’t want you to have to ask.”

“I’m still going to ask,” you say. “If I use the card.”

“You don’t have to,” he concedes, but you can tell he doesn’t like it. “But I want you to. Genuinely.”

You shake your head at him. “God.” Your emotions are thrashing inside your brain and heart like tidal waves. Frustration, annoyance, attraction. Because he’s practically handing you his credit card. You’re ridiculous. You’re setting feminism back by four decades.

“Okay,” he says warily, eyeing you across the table. “We can talk about it later?”

He sounds so unsure of himself, but you nod. “Oh, yeah. We’ll talk about it later.”

Dinner is fine, if a little awkward at times, both your fault and his. The drive back to your place is a little better because you practically wrap yourself around his arm while he drives with the other.

He parks at your apartment and you make no move to get out of the truck. Neither does he.

He clears his throat. “Look, I’m-- I’m sorry if that was too much, earlier. With the credit card. I just don’t want you going without when I have more than enough and I can just share it with you. I hate that your hours are getting cut, and I know rent and food and life isn’t cheap, so I just-- I want you to be taken care of. That’s all.”

You listen to each word, drinking it in, watching his jaw work as he speaks. He’s looking ahead, for once not staring at you with the intensity of a thousand suns. It’s how you know he’s being honest. And vulnerable.

“Jack,” you whisper. “Look at me.”

He finally does, and you see sincerity in them, but you also see fear. 

“I’m not mad,” you begin, cupping his face. “I just think it’s a little funny that you’re giving me your credit card before you’ve even kissed me.”

He lets out a laugh that sounds relieved almost. “Well, believe it or not, my plan was to kiss you tonight.”

“Yeah?” you tease. “Sorry I ruined it.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin it,” he says seriously. He leans a little closer. “But the card hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm,” he nods, eyes flicking down to your lips just as his tongue darts out to wet his own. “So I’m still kissing you before I give it to you.”

“Oh, you are?”

“I am,” he chuckles, one hand sliding up to gently cup the back of your head. “If you shut up and let me.”

“Well, maybe you should--”

He reads your mind. He shuts you up with the kiss, pulling your face to his just as he moves closer, like he’s desperate to close the distance. Weeks of dinners together, of phone calls on the way home from his shift while you’re on your way to yours, of kisses on your cheek and hands. Finally.

“Took you long enough,” you murmur when he pulls away. “I was wondering if you were ever going to do that.”

“I was too slow, huh?” he smiles, thumb grazing your cheek.

“I like slow,” you admit quietly. “It’s been really nice.”

“Good,” he whispers, eyes scanning every inch of your face, memorizing. “I really like you, you know?”

“I kinda figured,” you smirk, earning another kiss. When you break away this time, you say, “I really like you, too.”

+++

When Jack’s credit card -- with your name on it -- arrives in the mail the next week, he brings it to you after his shift. 

You pull him up to your apartment, calling him crazy the entire way, because he should be asleep right now, not bringing you a damn card.

“The card could’ve waited,” you mutter, taking the envelope from him and putting it on the counter. “You’re probably exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” he smiles through your fussing. “What are you doing awake anyway? Do you work today?”

You grimace. “Ha, no. About that…”

His curses under his breath. “No.”

“Yeah,” you shrug. “Last hired, first fired,” you chuckle despite how fucked it all feels. “I’ve just been trying to wake myself up earlier so I can apply to jobs and shit. But I’m so fucking stressed that it makes it hard to sleep at night, so I’m up super late, and yeah. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“Sounds like it,” he murmurs. “You look exhausted.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean,” he pauses, seeing your teasing smile and kisses it. “Do you want to take a nap?”

“I have shit I should do,” you sigh. “You can, if you want. I won’t be loud or anything.”

“No,” he shakes his head at you, rubbing your arms. “You’re napping with me. Doctor’s orders.”

“Fine,” you grumble, but you’ve really put up no protest at all, which is how he knows you’re exhausted.

He follows you over to your bedroom. It’s not the first time he’s been in your apartment, but it is the first time he’ll be in your bed. 

You’re still in your pajamas, so you crawl under the covers immediately.

Jack hovers in the doorway for a moment before saying, awkwardly, “Do you have anything I can sleep in?”

You furrow your eyebrows. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know, like, do you want me to be wearing clothes, or--”

You laugh so loud it bounces off the walls. “Sorry, oh my God,” you sit up. “Do you want some sweatpants or something?” Then, because he swears you can read his mind, you say, “You can just sleep in your boxers, you know. It’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” you nod. “As long as you’re fine with me taking my shorts off.” You hardly ever sleep with any pants on anyway, usually opting for just a t-shirt and your underwear.

“It’s your bed,” he says. “Also, um…”

You look up at him with raised eyebrows while you tug your shorts down. You drop them onto the floor and lay back down.

“I need to tell you something.”

You sit back up. “Okay.”

It sounds serious because, well, it kind of is. And Jack kind of can’t believe he hasn’t told you this yet, but he never had reason to. He’s always wearing pants around you. He never wears shorts. And it never came up in conversation. So.

“I lost my leg, when I was a combat medic.”

Your expression changes only slightly, from worry to understanding. You knew he was in the military, just not the amputation part. “Okay.”

“Not my entire leg, just below the knee. I have a prosthetic.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Just so it doesn’t…freak you out or anything.”

You smile softly. “I’m not freaked out.”

“Okay.”

“Do you need anything?”

His eyebrows furrow. “What?”

You just shrug, like this is all normal, standing up so you’re meeting his eyes. “Do you want to take the prosthetic off to sleep? That’d probably be more comfortable. And do you need any painkillers or anything?”

He deflates. “Please, actually. If you have any.”

You kiss his cheek. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”

You disappear back to the kitchen and he stands there in your bedroom, stunned. He’s still standing there when you return, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of Ibuprofen in the other.

“You okay?”

He kisses you. He doesn’t know what else to do.

You melt into it, nearly dropping the water and medicine in the process. “What was that for?”

“You’re really great,” he blurts, which isn’t what he wants to say. What he wants to say is I love you, but it’s too soon. Probably.

“Thank you,” you smile. You turn and place the water and pill bottle on your nightstand. “Do you need help or…?”

“No, no, I’m good, I just,” he pauses, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you back in. The words nearly slip out again, but he keeps them in. “Thank you.”

+++

The first time you use his credit card, it’s to buy groceries. You worry about it the entire time, and half expect it to decline when you hold it up to the reader, but it doesn’t. It goes through faster than any of your other cards ever have.

Thank you for the credit card, you text him right after. Got my groceries for a couple weeks.

Thank you for using it, he writes back. Buy yourself something fun please.

You use it to buy yourself a (probably) overpriced coffee and sweet treat a few days later. You send him a picture. 

Fun items purchased.

He replies a couple hours later when he’s woken up from his post-shift nap. Good. Do it again.

You roll your eyes at the message, but send a red heart anyway.

A few weeks later, you find a different job at another random cafe, this one inside a big chain bookstore. Still not full time hours, and not at all what you really want to be doing with your life, but it’s something. It means you can pay rent with your paycheck, but then that means you have to put everything else on Jack’s card. Because your paycheck will only cover rent, and just barely.

Jack hears about it. Sorry for using your card for a billion things this week. You had to fill your car up with gas, get the oil changed finally because it started making a weird noise and you freaked out, and some of your food molded faster than expected so you had to go back to the grocery store. All in two days.

He sends ? back. Then adds, It’s your card.

Jack.

I’m serious, he says. Don’t apologize for using it. That’s why I gave it to you.

Yeah but now I owe you. A lot.

He calls you.

“Aren’t you at work?” you say in lieu of a greeting.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says quickly. You can hear movement in the background, lots of voices and some beeping. “You understand that, right? I’m not going to ask for any of this money back. I’m not keeping a tab.”

“You’re sure?” You hate how pathetic your voice sounds.

“I’m sure,” he says softly. “Baby, how long have you-- You haven’t been thinking that this whole time, have you?”

Your reply is weak. And quiet. You’re too anxious about this to even realize it’s the first time he’s called you baby. “Maybe. Kind of.”

“No,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I should’ve-- You don’t owe me a penny, okay? No more of that. The card is yours to use, don’t worry about the limit. And don’t you dare try to pay me back.”

“Okay,” you murmur. Don’t worry about the limit. What the fuck is the limit?

“I said don’t worry about it,” Jack replies, and you can practically hear him smiling. “Get some sleep, okay? Why don’t we get breakfast tomorrow, you and me.”

“Okay,” you nod. “Okay. Want me to meet you at the hospital?”

“You can,” he says. “If you’re up for everyone wanting to meet you.”

You chuckle at that, hanging your head. Everyone’s been asking about meeting you, apparently. At least those that didn’t see you that night you first met Jack. “Sure, why not,” you say. “But tell them we won’t be staying long. You need to eat and take a nap.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You kind of love when he says that. “See you in the morning.”

“Sweet dreams, baby.”

+++

Jack doesn’t mention to any of his coworkers that you’re meeting him here after his shift ends. He thought about it, but then another trauma came in, and he didn’t have the time.

He almost forgets that you’re coming, but the second he hears your name leave Lena’s mouth, he remembers. And lights up inside.

“Your girl is in chairs,” she says, her tone veering toward sing-song. “Big plans?”

“Oh yeah,” Jack chuckles as he heads for the doors. “Breakfast.”

He opens the doors and spots you instantly, standing against a wall despite over half the chairs in the room being empty. His gaze softens when he sees you, not exactly looking well-rested, but beautiful. Always beautiful.

“Hey,” he says when he reaches you. 

You put your phone away and smile tiredly at him. “Hey,” you murmur. “How’s it going?”

“Better now,” he admits, bringing you in for a kiss. “You can come back and hang out with Lena -- our charge nurse. I’ll be just a little longer with handover.”

“Oh! Sorry I’m early, I can chill here so I won’t be in the way--”

Jack grabs your hand and laces your fingers together. “You’re not in the way. Come on.”

You concede and let him pull you back. He introduces you to Lena who is lovely and says there’s a chair with your name on it. 

“Robby just came in, should be out here in a sec,” Lena adds to Jack. “And Dana is probably not far behind.”

You’ve heard about Robby, the dayshift attending and chief of the ED. And also one of Jack’s best friends, despite (it seems) neither of them admitting it in those words.

“Thank you,” Jack says. “And sorry in advance for all the questions they’re going to ask,” he says to you.

“No problem,” you grin. “I’ll just ask for all the embarrassing stories about you.”

“Of course you will,” he sighs. “Right, I need to do some last-minute things, but I’ll be right back, and then hopefully we can get out of here on time, okay?”

“Okay,” you nod, content as can be, which is a good sign, but Jack also knows he’s going to return to you being told stories he does not want anyone to know about -- let alone you.

He drops a kiss to your cheek before he leaves. He covers everything as quickly as he can, and then rushes back, just to find you giggling with Robby and Dana like you’re all old friends. It makes something twist in his chest.

“There he is,” Dana grins like a Cheshire cat when she spots Jack returning. “Why didn’t you tell us she was coming in?”

Jack slides into place beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t know I needed to tell you about my breakfast plans.”

Dana and Robby just share a look. 

“Well, it was very nice to finally meet you,” Robby says to you. “I’m going to go put my shit down so you two can get out of here.”

“Awh,” you pout playfully. “But Dana was just telling me about how helpless you both are with romance.”

Robby cackles and shakes his head as he leaves. Dana rounds the counter to start putting her things away and getting ready for the day ahead. 

“Lena had to run, but she caught me up to speed,” Dana says. “Don’t forget to sign everyone off before you go.”

Jack nods. “Let me do that right now.”

You watch as he works, and as Dana sets up her station for the day. Robby comes back a few seconds later, drumming his hands on the hub as he gazes up at a screen above your head.

“So, what’s for breakfast?” he asks, cracking a smile when he looks back down at you. “Any place special?”

“Dunno, Jack’s buying,” you tease, nudging your boyfriend’s arm.

Jack’s just happy to hear you making a little joke about it after the anxious texts he got last night. “I made the plans, of course I’m buying.”

“You always pay.”

Robby and Dana share another one of those looks.

“Like an old married couple,” Dana mutters fondly.

“Yup,” Robby nods, still with that shit-eating grin on his face.

“Okay,” Jack straightens up. “Let’s get our shit done so I can leave.”

Handover doesn’t take long. What takes up most of the time is the gentle teasing that Robby and Dana interject here and there. Eventually, it’s all sorted and Jack heads off to the lockers to grab his things, leaving you (reluctantly) with Dana and Robby.

He comes back to find you in tears. Doubled over. Laughing your ass off.

“Did you break her?” Jack asks Robby, but he’s fighting an absurd smile because Robby is also wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Dana looks as smug as can be. “What the hell happened? I was gone for barely a minute!”

You stand up, swaying from the giggles that are still slipping out. “Oh my god. That was good, Dana. Should I tell him?”

“Tell me what?”

Dana just shrugs and gestures with her hand. Tell him if you want.

You round the hub and thread your fingers through Jack’s free hand, wrapping yourself around his arm. You lean close and kiss his cheek. “She said you’re basically my sugar daddy.”

Jack feels a blush heating up his neck almost immediately. “Alright, that’s it, we’re leaving.”

“Have fun, sugar!” Dana calls out, her and Robby’s shoulders shaking with laughter as you and Jack exit through the ambulance bay.

“I can’t take you anywhere,” Jack mutters (lovingly) once the two of you are outside. You took an Uber here (his orders) so the two of you could just take his truck to breakfast and then home.

“They loved me,” you protest, still wrapped tight around his arm, and it’s the best damn feeling he’s ever had. “Dana told me I should come the next time you guys go out.”

Oh God. Jack has avoided those nights for a long time. But maybe with you there, it’d be more bearable.

“Okay,” he says. “Next time there is one, I’ll let you know.”

“You better,” you smile. “Or Dana will have your head.”

+++

The guilt about spending Jack’s money doesn’t go away. It probably never will. But he never once makes you feel bad for it, always insists that you don’t need to worry about the limit (because he knows you won’t come close to it anyway, not with the way you spend and how he can pay off half of it each month), and he all but requires you to make fun purchases with it at least once a week.

It starts with just coffee. Or other fun drinks and food. Until he tells you those are just necessities to fuel your body. He means actual fun things.

So, you amuse him. You get a new pair of shoes because your others have had a hole in them for a while. But you make the mistake of telling him about said hole because then he just labels that as a necessity, too.

You try again with a new blanket. The heating in your apartment has been a little fucked the entire time you’ve lived there, but you think it might actually be going out this time. You, again, make the mistake of telling Jack that. The blanket becomes a necessity, and he comes over to look at your thermostat to see if he can fix it. (He can’t. You file another maintenance report.)

Third time’s the charm, or so you hope, so you start to think outside the box. Something fun. Something just for you. Something different.

It’s almost midnight when you think of something. You and Jack have been texting here and there while he’s at work, but it’s mostly devolved into him asking you why you’re not asleep yet. You tell him you’re busy trying to buy something fun. He leaves you alone.

Until he sees the charge go through on the card.

I’m going to pretend I don’t know what this is, he texts you, with a screenshot of the notification that clearly shows him that you spent nearly two-hundred dollars on lingerie.

Probably in your best interest to forget you saw that, you write back.

Saw what? 

You giggle to yourself in your room. Goodnight!

You’re torturing me, he says. And then, Sweet dreams baby.

You didn’t pay for express shipping, but the lingerie arrives at your apartment just two days later. Perfect timing for Jack’s two days off in a row.

The plan was already for him to come to yours after his shift and pick you up so the two of you can spend his little mid-week weekend at his place. You finish packing your bag, lingerie included, just in time for him to buzz your apartment.

You let him up and then pull on your shoes, so you’re ready to go as soon as he knocks. He takes your bag for you and holds your other hand as he walks you down to his truck, none the wiser to what you have packed.

The day is slow and cozy and restful. You shower with him when you get in. The two of you then take a small nap, and you wake up just a little before he does so you can start on lunch. He hears you in the kitchen and comes out with his crutches, only just recently beginning to use them around you.

The two of you lounge on his couch the entire day, tangled up together, dozing off here and there with the TV in the background. You order in for dinner.

And after eating, you head into the bathroom to change into your favorite piece of lingerie that you ordered. Jack’s favorite color -- and coincidentally the one you thought looked best -- with lace in all the right places.

You come back out to the living room to find Jack has cleaned up already. It’s not even 9pm yet, and you’re both ready to go to bed.

But not to sleep. At least, that’s not on your mind.

You find him in the kitchen, setting the coffee pot for the morning.

“Hey soldier,” you murmur, sliding your arms around his waist. “Ready to lay down?”

He sighs, body relaxing against you. “Yeah. Ready to hold you.”

You press a quick kiss to his neck and his breath hitches for only a second.

You help him turn all the lights off as he goes to check that he locked the front door. You meet him in the bathroom to brush your teeth next to one another, all of it very sweet and domestic.

By the time you lay down beside him, you’re fine with just this, with just being held by him in the quiet.

Jack settles and pulls you into him by an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck with a happy little sigh.

His hand slides under your shirt to rest on your stomach, and you bite your lip, suppressing a smile as his fingers find the lace. He freezes.

“What,” he says, voice low, “are you wearing.”

You try to hide your giggle as much as you can, but it slips out a little as you say, “Nothing, let’s go to sleep, you’re really tired.”

His hand slides higher, cupping your lace-covered breast. “I’m wide awake now, baby.” His breath tickles your ear as he kisses behind it. “Now,” he pinches your nipple. “What are you wearing?”

“Nothing,” you reply, still feigning innocence despite the grin on your lips. Thank god you’re not facing him. “Come on, you’re tired.”

Next thing you know, you’re flat on your back with Jack hovering over you. Even in the dim light you can see the hunger in his eyes.

“I’m not tired anymore,” he repeats. “And now I have a problem.” He drops his hips, pressing his half-hard erection to your core, and you gasp.

“Seems like a one-man issue,” you smirk, shrugging innocently. “Don’t know why you’d need me.”

He nearly growls as he leans down to capture your lips. When your hands move to tug on his hair, he promptly pins them above your head.

“Keep them there,” he says against your lips. You nod, still kissing him. He pulls back just a little to say, “Good girl.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as Jack kisses down your cheeks, your neck, your chest. He reaches your stomach and pushes the t-shirt-- his t-shirt up until he sees the lace. He hisses through his teeth, looking at you with fire in his eyes.

“Should’ve known you were up to something,” he says absentmindedly, his fingers moving to the waistband of his shorts that you’re wearing. “You never wear shorts to bed.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice how weird I was acting,” you laugh softly. “I’m terrible at keeping secrets.”

He drags the shorts down your body, tossing them to the floor. He presses his lips to your thighs, in awe of how you look. 

“Can I move my hands?” you smirk. “Kinda want to take the shirt off.”

He just looks up at you with a smile, crawling up the bed to tug the shirt over your head, too. He tosses it somewhere, leaning back to take you in. His gaze makes you squirm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His hands roam your body, feeling every inch. “I almost don’t want you to take it off.”

You bite your lip. “I thought you’d say that.”

His eyebrow raise with the realization. One hand travels down to find out what you mean. His eyes close as a moan breaks through his lips, and a gasp falls from yours. The pads of his fingers circle your clit gently before dipping between your folds, just barely teasing inside you.

“Jack,” you gasp, back arching just from the minimal touch.

He removes his fingers instantly, pressing his entire weight on top of you as he claims your mouth. “I’m taking my time with you,” he whispers. His hands pin yours above your head again. “Stay still, yeah?”

“No promises,” you smile, but when he gives you a look, you nod. “Yeah. Yes. I’ll try.”

“That’s my girl.”

Staying still is harder than he thinks it is. It’s near impossible to not arch into his touch, especially with his teasing. You try to sink into the bed instead of up toward him, but it takes all of your effort.

And it’s killing you that he doesn’t want to take the damn lingerie off. You kind of assumed he wouldn’t want to, but feeling his lips and tongue through the lace is torture. You don’t want the barrier, but he’s determined to keep it on.

“Wait,” you gasp when his lips ghost over your nipples. His head raises immediately. “Can you--” You pause, swallowing. “Can you take your shirt off? I want to see you.”

He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “Of course.” He tosses his shirt away, but leaves his boxers on. “Better?”

You want the boxers gone too, but you decide not to push your luck. You just nod. “Yeah. Better.”

He resumes his path from earlier, lips hovering over your nipples. He sinks his teeth ever-so-slightly into your breast, just enough to feel you tense underneath him. He soothes it with a kiss.

He does the same to your thighs and hips, so close to where you need him, but never close enough. He’s only just about to hover over your clit when your hips act on their own, thrusting toward his mouth, your clit just barely catching on his nose.

His hands immediately grip your hips to push them back down, tsk’ing with his tongue. “What did I say?”

“I know, I know, stay still,” you whine, still trying to move your hips, trying to find any friction. But your hands have stayed where he asked. “You’re torturing me.”

He soothes his thumbs over your hips, chuckling. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Exactly!” you cry, lifting your head to look at him. “Please fuck me.”

His smile turns into a grin. “So polite.”

“Jack.”

“I want to do something else first,” he says. “But you’ll get your wish, trust me.”

You toss your head back on the pillows dramatically. You feel him moving, but you’re too busy with said dramatics to care.

Until you feel him licking from your entrance to your clit.

“Oh my god,” you moan, your hips trying to thrust upward again, but he’s ready for you, and he holds you in place.

He alternates between teasing your clit and teasing your entrance, never doing much to either to make you reach your climax. It’s only when he settles on just your clit, flicking his tongue in the way he knows you like, that you start to get close at a rapid pace.

“Jack,” you try to warn him in your tone, but he knows. 

You half expect him to stop. To not let you have it. That’s why it comes as such a surprise when he goes faster, throwing you over the edge, and he doesn’t stop.

You know you look wild, hips thrashing on the bed as he fights against you and holds you down, continuing to lick and suck you through the orgasm. His tongue dips inside your entrance and you swear you feel a second wave of your climax hit, the sensation making you see stars.

You’re not sure how long it is before he lets up, you just know you’re floating by the time he crawls up your body. His erection presses against your stomach as he kisses you, coaxing you back to earth.

He pulls back just to watch you, the blissful look on your face, and how hard it is for you to open your eyes. He cups your jaw, thumb brushing the skin under your eyes until you finally look at him.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “Doing okay?”

You nod. “More than okay.” And then, because you can’t help yourself, “Are you going to fuck me now?”

He just laughs, capturing your lips again. “Yes, baby, I’ll fuck you now.”

“Thank god,” you breathe. “I’ve been waiting all day.”

He gives you another one of his stern looks, and sometimes you wonder if he knows the looks do nothing to deter your sass. Maybe that’s why he gives you them.

“I’m still taking my time,” he reminds you, lips quirking when he sees the bratty look fall from your face. 

You open your mouth for some other retort, but he pins your hands again, earning a gasp instead.

“Stay still,” he says again. “Let me do all the work.”

You want to protest about him doing it too slow, but you keep your mouth shut just this once.

He’s still wearing his damn boxers.

You should’ve known he wouldn’t fuck you immediately. He’s always had this thing. He has to use his fingers first, get you ready for him. Never mind the fact that you’re used to him now, and that you have a vibrator that you use when he’s working. You don’t need him to use his fingers first. But does he listen? No.

Instead, he takes his sweet time. He works one finger into you slowly, then moves to two. He spreads and curls them, huffing out a little laugh when you arch against him. He makes sure to give your clit the friction it needs before adding a third finger. When he does finally add the third, your hands fly from their designated space, clutching his arms on pure instinct.

“It’s okay,” he coos, using his free hand to guide both your wrists back to where they should be. “You’re okay.”

You shake your head against the pillows. “M’close.”

“Then cum,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I can feel you.”

Your eyes open, fixing him with a glare. “I want to feel you.”

“You will,” he promises with a chuckle, kissing you again. “As soon as you cum again for me.”

He curls his fingers at just the right moment, pressing hard on your g-spot before easing up, and doing it again. And again. Over and over, all while grinding his palm into your clit, and he can feel it happening, your walls fluttering, building up and up.

“Come on, doll,” he whispers against your cheek. “You’re right there. Show me how pretty you are.”

You whine against his mouth, your body still fighting it for some reason, but then he starts to kiss your neck. He feels you tense another notch.

“Come on,” he murmurs, hand still working at that same, steady pace. “Need you to cum so I can feel you, please baby. Please, for me.”

That works like a charm, your whole body shuddering with the force of your second orgasm, held together only by Jack’s weight on top of you. He’s kinder this time, riding the waves out only just before he’s slowing to a stop, not wanting to overwhelm you before he can even be inside you. He waits for one last quiver before he gently eases his fingers out of you, covering your face in more kisses.

You’re gasping for air, looking even more relaxed, and pulling him down with both your hands to capture him in a kiss.

His hips unconsciously thrust against you, his clothed erection losing its patience. “Okay, okay,” he mutters. “I need to-- Let me grab a condom--”

“Or,” you pause, lifting your hips again, pressing your clit to his cock. “We could go without.”

He looks at you for a long moment before he mutters, “Fuck,” and kisses you again, immediately coaxing your mouth open with his tongue. “You’re going to kill me,” he keeps muttering. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “I’m sure. I’m very sure.” You’re on birth control and he knows this, but you’ve both wanted to be better safe than sorry.

Right now, you just want to feel him. All of him.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Jack,” you laugh. “Get inside me. Now.”

“Yes ma’am,” he grins, all goofy and lovesick, just the way you like. He kicks his boxers off and just presses the length of him against your folds, both of you groaning at the warmth.

He doesn’t enter you right away. Instead, he does something more obscene, just running the head of his cock through your folds, using the remnants of your orgasms to coat him. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever felt, and you’re ready to pin him down when he does the same to you.

“We’re not rushing this one,” he says, ever so stern, but you can see the cracks starting to form. He keeps your wrists pinned beside your head. “Because if you rush me, I won’t last.”

You try not to smile at that. 

Slowly, so slowly, he pushes inside. His head is barely past your folds when he stops, eyes shut, taking a deep breath. Your hips try to rock and his eyes pop open, fixing you with another look.

He pushes just a bit further and you gasp at the stretch -- maybe you aren’t as used to him as you think you are -- head tossing back against the pillows again.

“Breathe, baby,” he soothes, releasing your wrist to hold onto your hips. “Let me in.”

You try to relax, wondering how the hell you’re wound this tight when you’ve already cum twice. You know it makes no sense, but he feels bigger like this somehow. Just him. No condom between you.

“Jack, please,” you whine. “I need you.”

“I’m right here, baby,” he murmurs. “Right here.” 

He pushes the rest of the way inside, hips flush with yours, and holds you there, just feeling you. It’s involuntary, the way you clench around him, and you hear his breath catch when you do.

“Be careful,” he chokes out. “You’re trying to milk me.”

“Maybe,” you reply, breathy and light. “I can’t help it. You feel so-- so big.”

“I told you--”

“Just shut up and fuck me.”

He leans over you, pressing you deeper into the mattress. He shifts inside you, rubbing right against your g-spot, and you gasp from the feeling, from the weight of him like this. “What are you forgetting?” He nips at your jaw. 

“Please,” you add quickly. “Please-- Fuck!”

He grins against your neck as he starts thrusting steadily. Not hard, but not soft either. He’s only pulling out halfway before pressing back inside, making sure to feel every inch of your walls. 

And then he starts talking.

“Can’t believe you bought this,” he whispers, lips ghosting over your ear. “You know how hot it is that you bought this for yourself? With my money?”

“Jack,” you gasp. “I didn’t--”

“I love when you spend my money,” he admits. “I want you to spend all of it-- it’s yours. I’m yours. All yours.”

Your hands move, but he doesn’t stop you. You wrap your arms around him, lifting your hips to change the angle as you wrap your legs around him, too. He groans at the change, thrusting harder.

“God, I love you.” He can’t believe he’s letting it happen now, letting this be the moment that he tells you, but it’s out there now. “I love you so much.”

“Fuck, Jack,” you pull his lips to yours. “I love you too. I’ve been trying so hard not to say it too soon.”

He kisses you gently, slowing his hips to savor the taste of you. “Me too,” he whispers. “But I love you too much to keep it to myself anymore.”

“Me too,” you smile, kissing him again.

He’s lost in the feel of you, starting the same rhythm again, steady and thorough, the way he knows is your favorite. Because he knows everything you need. He’s spent the majority of this last year just memorizing you. All of you.

He knows when your moans reach a certain pitch that you’re close, he knows what it means when your nails start to dig into his shoulders, and he knows what you need to get you over that ledge.

And once he gets you there, he follows right behind, hips stuttering, vision blurring from how good you feel, how good it feels to cum inside you, not into a condom. Your breath hitches in a way he’s never heard before when you feel him empty inside you, and then you groan, locking your heels together, pulling him even deeper.

He’s dizzy with it, his head falling into your neck as his hips lazily thrust as much as he can with how tightly you’re holding him. There’s barely any room to move, but he does, just a little, just riding it out with you.

He stays there, on top of you, hearts racing as one. Your fingers card through his hair gently, scratching his scalp just a little, just to soothe him.

And then you start laughing. He’s confused at first, wondering what the rumbling is, but then he hears your giggles, and he lifts his head, smile fighting its way to his lips.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say, but you’re still laughing. “I just can’t believe you told me you loved me for the first time while you were inside me.”

His head drops to the pillow beside you with a groan. His reply is muffled. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, don’t be!” you laugh harder, trying to pull him back up. “Jack, I’m not mad. It’s really sweet. I’d been holding back from saying it for a few weeks.”

“Me too,” he says. “But I meant to say it not during sex.”

“Oh well,” you shrug, not a care in the world. “You still can.”

“Oh, I will,” he promises. “I will say it all the time just to make up for this.”

“There’s nothing to make up for,” you assure him. “But I won’t mind hearing it all the time.”

“Good,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your lips. “And I meant what else I said, too. I really love it when you spend my money.”

“Does that seriously get you going?” you giggle. “I didn’t realize it was like that.”

“Of course it does,” he groans, feeling erection struggling to go down while he’s still inside you and talking about this. “I love it so much. And I love that you got this.”

“I look hot in it, huh?” you smirk. “It being your favorite color was just a bonus.”

“Thank you,” he says, hands roaming again, tracing the lace details again, as if he hadn’t spent the last hour doing that. “I think we might need another shower.”

“Mm, probably a good idea,” you nod. “Can I ride you?”

He groans again, head falling back into your neck. “If you even let me make it to the bathroom, then yeah. Sure, baby. You can ride me.”

“Then let’s go!” you laugh, trying to shove him off of you. “You’re going to have to help me get out of this. I’m not even sure how I got into it.”

He lifts his head, licking his lips as his eyes scan your body. “I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”

[st4rfckerz]

dr abbot “fixes you up” after a car accident

cw: mdni, inspired by crash (1996), dubcon, finger sucking, dumbification (if you squint really hard), fingering, orgasm denial, unprotected sex, abbot wears gloves the whole time, descriptions of a car crash, readers wearing a skirt if it isn’t obvious, dead dove do not eat.

They bring you in on a stretcher, fluorescent lights fluttering overhead as the wheels rattle beneath you. Everything feels distant, like it’s happening a few seconds behind where you are.

Someone’s asking questions — name, age, what happened, but the words blur together, slipping past you without landing.

You remember the impact.

The way your hands stayed steady on the wheel. The way you didn’t swerve.

Maybe you didn’t want to.

Your eyes drift closed for a moment, that strange heat settling in your chest despite the sharp, blooming pain.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, quiet and undeniable;

You knew exactly what you were doing.

They eventually settle you into a room that feels too quiet compared to the chaos outside. The lights are steadier here, softer, but it doesn’t make much difference.

Your leg is immobilized, wrapped tight, the dull ache of the fracture pulsing beneath the brace. Someone had said tibia, like it was just another word, just another case.

He steps in without announcement.

The doctor doesn’t rush. His presence is quieter than everything else, but it cuts through more cleanly. A glance, brief and assessing, and then he’s already at your side.

“Jeez kid, you got a death wish?” He moves near your leg, fingers already steady, warm through the gloves as he stitches up the wound on your thigh.

“Something like that,” you reply, eyeing the man generously.

He smiles. “I figured you’d want a little privacy after taking that nasty bump,” His eyes meet yours as his fingers move to the tray table, grabbing the saline to clean the huge gash on your thigh. “I’m Doctor Abbot,”

You flinch at the sharp sting of the suture needle piercing your tender skin, and he lets out a small, almost amused sigh. “Relax,”

He cleans the gash on your chest next, fingers brushing lightly along your skin, careful but lingering just long enough to make you aware of him.

You stay quiet, letting him sew you back up, feeling the strange swirl of calm and something else tightening in your chest — like an invisible line was drawn between you.

“Pretty thing like you should be more careful,” he teases softly, stitching a line with precise, controlled movements.

“I know what I’m doing,” You lift your gaze to him, your voice just above a whisper.

He lets your words hang for a moment, eyes narrowing just slightly as a corner of his mouth quirks. “Yeah, I bet you do,” he exhales, just a little, and his fingers return to your chest, resuming the tedious work.

He leans in close as he threads the next stitch, the faint scent of aftershave filling your awareness. “You know,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes locked on your skin as his fingers work with precision, “I used to be just like you, thought nothing could touch me. But once it happens it happens. There are no redos.”

You blink at him, a little dazed by how close he is, then tilt your head, a teasing lilt creeping into your voice. “What exactly do you think I’m doing?”

You flinch and let out a small whine as his gloved fingers press against the bruised side of your hip, the soreness sharp under his touch.

Abbot smirks down at you as if he could see right through you, his demeanor changing just enough to let you feel he’s enjoying the reaction. “I’m not stupid,”

He leans back slightly, eyes scanning the small cuts and bruises scattered across your face, tracing each one with an almost clinical precision.

Your fingers curl around his wrist, holding him in place. Abbot’s gaze flicks to you, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, his hand steadies under yours.

You slowly guide his hand down, across your thigh until his fingers hover over the fresh stitches. They move in small, measured passes along the line of sutures, and your grip on his wrist tightens just slightly, anchoring him there as you hold his gaze.

“You need to be more careful,” he rasps. Your grip on his wrist doesn’t loosen. If anything, it steadies.

“I’m a big girl,” you reply, just as quietly, your eyes not leaving his.

His other hand lifts, fingers settling along your jaw, tilting your face just slightly. His thumb brushes over your lips.

You don’t hesitate, your lips part against the touch and you take the digit into your mouth, like second nature. He squints at you, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he presses a little harder against your tongue.

Abbot's hand slides further up your thigh, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin. He takes his hand and puts it between your legs, running his knuckles along the front of your cunt.

Your lips meet in a searing kiss, your tongues licking into each other’s mouths in a rather animalistic way. His teeth nip at your bottom lip before soothing the sting with his tongue.

“Please touch me,” you whimper against his lips, too far gone to care about the desperation in your voice.

“I am touchin’ you, sweet thing,” he coos condescendingly, he cups your mound, his entire palm covering your pussy. You buck your hips into his hand, seeking more friction, more contact.

He watches your face as he slowly peels your panties to the side. His fingers brush against your bare folds, feeling the slick heat there.

“Dumb little girl,” He pushes two gloved fingers inside you, sinking deep. Your walls clench around the intrusion, drawing him in deeper. “Getting in a crash just to get fucked by an old doctor,” he scoffs at how ridiculous this all is, but he wasn’t unfamiliar with it so to speak.

“Close,” you squeak, almost embarrassed at how quick you were approaching your orgasm. Your hips buck against his hand, chasing the coil tightening at the base of your stomach.

Abbot abruptly pulls his fingers out of your dripping pussy and before you can protest, he shoves the glistening digits into your open mouth, silencing you.

He wastes no time, roughly pulling his aching cock out from the confines of his scrub pants. The thick shaft springs free, already hard and leaking at the tip. He tugs you to the side of the hospital bed and thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your cunt. A guttural groan tears from his throat at the sudden sensation.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Abbot grunts, starting to piston his hips at a brutal pace. His fingers leave your mouth and find the deep bruise on your side again, fingers sinking into the tender flesh. You cry out, your walls fluttering intensely around him.

“Tell me about the accident,” he whispers against your skin as he rests his forehead against your shoulder. “Tell me what happened,”

You swallow, breath uneven, chest still rising and falling a little too fast. “I was speeding down the highway,” you still feel everything — the sting along your thigh, the ache in your ribs, and the throb of the tibial fracture. Every pulse makes the memory sharper. “The other car…it came from the side. I saw it just before impact,”

You can feel Abbot’s cock twitch inside of you, his wet tongue slides against the closed gash on your chest.

“I swerved into the grass, I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control it,” you gasp sharply, feeling his fat tip scrape the sensitive spot inside you that made your head spin. “I could smell the gasoline, and the burning tires, it was beautiful,”

He chokes back a loud moan, the images almost too vivid, the lingering smell of the burnt petroleum in your hair and clothes sends him into a frenzy. “ Ah, m’cumming,”

You clench around him tighter, your body shivering as you tip over the edge, every nerve in you ignited. Abbot leans in, mouth warm and urgent against your neck, a soft, shaky sound spilling from him as the big wave crashes through both of you.

He rests against you, head on your shoulder, breathing heavy. You smirk to yourself, almost unnoticeably, thinking how all of this is exactly what you planned — the wreck, the hospital, the way he’s caught up in it.

Maybe later, when you’re patched up and steady on your feet, you’ll take him out to see your car all twisted and crumpled. Maybe you’ll let him see the the inside too, showing off the little speckles of your blood on the steering wheel or the way the glass pellets stay scattered all over the floor

You let the moment linger, letting him soak it in, while your mind already ticks forward to what you have planned next.

[letthelightsbleed]

vanilla coke

tags: incest, smut, older brother!dean, car sex, fingering (f rec), lowkey just a hint of watersports, but it was kinda accidental and there’s literally nothing happening, reader just has to pee while getting fingered, all characters are of age

wc: 2k

divider by @uzmacchiato // pics from pinterest

-you are responsible for your own media consumption. read the tags and don’t engage with this content unless you are 18 or older. I do not condone any of these actions in real life—this is a work of fiction-

“Put your feet on the dashboard, and you’re walking ‘til Montana,” Dean barks.

Your feet hover in the air, caught in mid-motion. Not sure why you even tried to disgrace Dean’s precious car with your trainers, you roll your eyes and make a show of slumping back into the seat with the soles of your shoes on the floor.

Your tailbone hurts, you’re bored out of your mind, and you could really go for some snacks right now, but the road just keeps passing by.

“I’m dying in here, De,” you complain as you readjust your position in the seat once more. Your older brother glances at you, his jaw set tight. Clearly, he doesn’t have the patience for one of your tantrums right now, and you get it, you really do. The last case was rough—Dean had spent almost three weeks chasing down a trickster and almost went grey with frustration.

“You can pick the next song if you want,” he offers, but you can practically see his teeth grind at the mere thought. When you don’t answer, his eyes snap to yours, although he’s driving way faster than the speed limit. “Dammit, cheer up, buttercup. Why are you giving me that face?” he asks.

“I don’t wanna pick the next song, I wanna… God, I dunno, I wanna get some fresh air,” you reply.

“Crack the window then.”

“No, like, real air.”

Dean chuckles. “That stuff outside ain’t real air?”

You groan and run your hands through your hair. One of your rings gets caught and tugs at one of the strands, which only makes you angrier. “I don’t wanna be cooped up in this stupid car anymore, and I’m… I’m fucking hungry and tired and really fucking bored.”

Dean whistles. “Jeez,” he mutters, “Anything else? You missin’ a million in your bank account, too?”

You scoff, then stare out of the window to make a point. Dean doesn’t react; he simply keeps driving and turns the music up a bit. As Metallica blasts in your ears, you audibly release the air from your lungs. While you’re frowning, Dean makes a decision. He pulls off the interstate at the next exit, still about a hundred miles from the small town in Montana you’re headed to, and searches for the next gas station.

When he parks the Impala at one of the fuel dispensers, he shuts off the car and reaches out. His fingers come to rest on your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“You go inside and pick out whatever snacks you want, ‘kay?” he says, “I’ll fill her up and join you then. Don’t talk to strangers.”

“De,” you groan, “I’m not five.”

“You want snacks or not?”

“Yes.”

“Then say it.”

For a few moments, you pout ungracefully before you nod and declare, “I won’t talk to strangers.”

“Good girl.”

You roll your eyes but can’t ignore the way your tummy flutters when he says those two words. A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, and Dean’s smirk grows to match. You undo your seatbelt, then jump out of the car with renewed spirits. The smell of gasoline fills your nose instantly, making you a little lightheaded after all that time in the stuffy car.

After taking a minute to stretch your legs while Dean watches from the pump like a guard dog, you enter the shop. Inside, the AC is running on full, the cold air chasing goosebumps up your arms. A clerk sits at the cash register, roughly your age—or maybe more Dean’s. Apparently, you’re the first thing that sparks his interest all day because he stares at you without shame. which you ignore, because you’re way too focused on the variety of sweets and candy.

By the time Dean comes in to pay for the gas, your arms are filled with four kinds of chocolate bars, two bags of gummy bears, and a Vanilla Coke. Additionally, you’re eyeing one of the pizza slices on display at the front. Your brother huffs with amusement as he sees you and steals one of the chocolate bars from you.

“I said whatever you want, not however much,” he mumbles.

“Kinda figured the amount is up to me, too, ‘because this is whatever I want,” you reply snarkily, then walk up to the cashier. Dean follows not far behind.

“Hi,” you greet the man, then drop the snacks at the register. The clerk scans everything, but you’re no longer the objects of his gaze—instead, he stares at Dean nervously, almost like a toddler caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Hey, squirt, grab me some of ‘em jerkies,” your brother says, nudging you with his shoulder. His eyes don’t meet yours as he talks to you—they’re focused on the young man behind the register. You wrinkle your nose at the nickname and glare at your older brother.

“Get ‘em yourself.”

Dean has to take a deep breath to reel in his annoyance before he leans in, lowering his voice. “I’m payin’, so you’re gonna drop the damn attitude and get the jerkies.”

The cashier watches the stare down between Dean and you with a mix of anticipation and surprise, but then you raise your hands in defeat and walk back to the snack aisle. Arguing with Dean was almost always fruitless, and you’d rather be able to walk tomorrow than have your way right now.

When you return with the dried meat, Dean pays for the food and the gas, then ushers you back into the car much faster than you’d like.

“I have to pee,” you whine, but your brother just slams the passenger door shut and rounds the car. He slips into the driver’s seat, then shakes his head.

“Hold it. We’re not stayin’ here. That creep probably has a camera installed in the bathrooms.”

“’Cause he looked at me? You’re fucking paranoid.”

“Just eat your chocolate and shut up, squirt.”

“What if I get a bladder infection?”

“Shut it.”

You spend the next five minutes in silence, a big frown plastered across your face. The deeply displeased sighs you add for dramatic effect go ignored—Dean’s eyes are glued to the road. He spares you a single, annoyed glance when you let yourself sink deeper into the car seat, your arms crossed in front of your chest.

“You seriously gonna pout ‘bout this now?” he murmurs gruffly.

“Well, I gotta pee. And I’m fucking bored. So, yeah, I’m gonna pout, asshole,” you reply.

Dean snickers quietly. “You’re goddamn impossible,” he mutters, then reaches over to you. His warm palm lands on your thigh, just below the hem of your shorts.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you groan, attempting to swat his hand away, but he keeps it right where he put it.

“Gonna lighten up your mood, sweetheart,” he answers dryly, “And you’re gonna say ‘thank you’ and drop the goddamn attitude—and stop fucking swearing.”

The words of protest get stuck in your throat when his hand wanders from your thigh to the crotch of your shorts. He brushes over your centre, cupping you through the cotton. The light pressure has your breath hitching. Still, you’re not giving up that easily.

“De, I mean it,” you say through clenched teeth, “I don’t fucking want th—”

A rough slap on your thigh makes you shut up. Your skin prickles with pain and shame alike as you yelp softly. Dean still keeps his eyes on the road, but his brows are furrowed now. You see the anger rising in him, the one he’s trying to control so hard, but you really are making it fucking impossible today.

“What did I just say?” he hisses, “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

His free hand goes back to rubbing you through the cotton of your shorts, aiming for your clothed slit. The small moan that slips from your lips as soft waves of pleasure begin to flood your body doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Mhm, yeah,” Dean muses, “I fucking thought so. Big-mouthed ‘til your big brother gets his hands on you—then you turn into a mess, hm? Think you got it all figured out, but my baby sis still needs me.”

You catch yourself chasing the pressure of his fingers, rocking your hips forward to meet him. You’re still mad as hell at him, but the pad of his pointer finger catches right on your clit and steals your breath, making it impossible for you to think clearly. Dean smiles smugly and angles his wrist so that he can move further upwards.

You still have to pee, the mental image of the gas station restroom passing by.

“De, fu—I… don’t…”

His hand disappears underneath the waistband of your shorts, then slips past the barrier of your panties. He finds you drenched, your cunt hot and slick. Dean tsks softly.

“You’re pretty worked up, squirt,” he mumbles, “Don’t tell me you’re all pissy just ‘cause you’re pent up. Have I been neglecting you, peanut?”

His middle finger massages your throbbing clit, just slow, measured circles that make you want more.

“Dean, please… I need you to…”

“Uh-uh, answer me or I’m stoppin’. Have I been neglecting you? Don’t I take good care of you?”

You’d roll your eyes at him if they weren’t rolling back for him when he inserts two fingers into your wet heat, the squelching sounds echoing sinfully through the Impala. He knows your body better than anyone else and doesn’t actually need you to say the words—he just likes to hear you beg.

“You do,” you cry out softly. The words barely make it out of your mouth as he curls his fingers along your ceiling, rubbing that special gummy spot no one else has ever touched. Dean smiles, his eyes still glued to the street. You have no idea how he manages to multitask like this—fingering you on the open road without crashing into anyone—but he does it.

The heat in your lower tummy builds, travelling along the base of your spine. Your brother listens for the gasps, the shaky inhales, and the way your moans change as you get closer. He thrusts his fingers deeper into you, curling and rubbing and pressing along the expanse of your velvety walls.

“Fuckin’ drenched for me, squirt,” he murmurs, “Time to let go, baby. You’re gonna cum, and then you’ll take a nap, ok?”

With your lip caught between your teeth, you nod, but that’s not enough for Dean.

“Hey, say it. Say you’re gonna be good and take a nap. No more attitude.”

“No- no more attitude,” you gasp, nodding for emphasis, “’m gonna be good, and—oh, f—ngh… take a nap.”

 Dean chuckles softly, then shakes his head. “Alright,” he mutters, “Good enough for me, I guess.”

He scissors his fingers apart, filling you out more and more as he moves them in and out. You’re dripping into the gusset of your panties and his hand, slick gushing as you get closer to the edge. Stars explode behind your eyes, your breath hitches—and then you’re falling apart on his fingers.

“That’s it, peanut,” Dean praises, fucking you through the aftershocks until your thighs quiver. The corners of his mouth twitch with pure satisfaction as you slump back into your seat, chest heaving and eyes half lidded. “That was a good one, hm?” he murmurs. You only manage a single nod, and Dean laughs.

“Alright, nap time starts now,” your brother declares. He pulls his hand out of your panties and licks his fingers clean, a devilish smile accompanying the lewd gesture.

You’re much closer to Montana now, but Dean doesn't tell you. If you don’t sleep now, he’ll have to repeat the entire process and potentially endure a little bit more of your bad mood, so he'll gladly drive a little longer if that means you stay settled.

if you enjoyed this but don't want to publicly interact with this post (which i get), feel free to drop a nice comment in my inbox. other than that, a reblog or a comment would be lovely.

any smutty thoughts can always, always be dropped in my inbox

[yungistiny]

mile high

[ J. Yunho ]

╚═════════

summary: in which you and yunho’s secret isn’t so quiet in the airplane restroom

warning: oral, fingering, unprotected sex, double penetration, creampie

genre: smut

pairing: idol yunho x afab reader

word count: 4.7k

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The airport was loud in that constant, humming way that never really stopped. Rolling suitcases, boarding announcements echoing through speakers, the low murmur of travelers shuffling from line to line.

Ateez stood near the gate in a loose cluster, passports in hand, joking with each other while staff organized the final boarding order. Behind them, a few steps back with the other stylists and managers, you stood quietly with your arms folded, trying very hard to look normal. Which would have been a lot easier if Yunho wasn’t standing right there.

He was only a few feet ahead of you, tall enough that you could easily see over the shoulder of one of the managers to the broad line of his back. And unfortunately…. your brain had a very clear memory of that back. Just a few hours ago. Your fingers tightened around your boarding pass.

Because just hours earlier, you had been in his bedroom, tangled in his sheets, breathless and gasping as you clung to his shoulders while you rode him, him gripping your waist as he pounded up into you….

Your face heated at the memory and you forced your eyes away from him. Unfortunately, they drifted right back. Because the man had the audacity to be wearing that black Diesel top again. The loose knit fabric stretched over his shoulders in a way that should honestly be illegal. The open weave showed just enough skin underneath to make your stomach twist. And then there were the grey sweatpants. Those cursed, sinful grey sweatpants. The same ones the members constantly joked about.

The same ones Wooyoung had once loudly announced during rehearsal that Yunho “definitely does not wear underwear with.” You pressed your lips together. Do not look. Do not…. Your eyes dropped anyway. You were only human. Unfortunately, the fit of the sweats made it very obvious that Wooyoung’s theory, along with many atiny, were absolutely correct.

You swallowed and quickly looked away again, pretending to check your phone. Up ahead, San was saying something animated, gesturing wildly with his hands while Jongho and Mingi laughed beside him. Yunho chuckled softly, the sound low and warm.

Your heart flipped. Because you knew exactly what that laugh sounded like when it was pressed right against your ear as he praised, edged…..

“Try not to stare so obviously.” The voice beside you was quiet. You stiffened and slowly turned your head and met Yeosang’s gaze. He was looking straight ahead toward the members, completely calm. Except the faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. You blinked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Yeosang hummed. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Because I’m pretty sure you had the same expression on your face this morning when I walked past Yunho’s bedroom and heard him say….”

You elbowed him. Hard and he choked back a laugh, covering it with a cough. “Relax,” he said under his breath. “Your secret is safe.” Your eyes widened slightly. “You know?”

“Unfortunately for you,” he said mildly, “I have ears.”

Your face burned. Ahead of you, the boarding line began to move. Staff motioned everyone forward. The members started filing toward the jet bridge. And right in the middle of them, Yunho shifted slightly. Just enough that you could see his profile.

His hair was still a little damp from the shower he’d taken before leaving his apartment. Your chest tightened. As if sensing your gaze, he turned his head slightly. Your eyes met. For half a second. His expression didn’t change. Not in front of everyone. But his gaze slowly dropped… and then slid right back up to your face again. A quiet reminder that he remembered this morning too.

Your stomach flipped as Yeosang leaned closer to murmur quietly as he walked past you, “You two are not surviving an eleven hour flight behaving like that.”

You exhaled slowly. Unfortunately… he was probably right. The airport noise faded into the more enclosed echo of the boarding tunnel, the air cooler, quieter except for the rolling wheels of carry ons. The members walked ahead of you, relaxed and joking like always.

Yunho was near the middle of them, tall enough that he stood out easily above the others with Mingi. You stepped onto the plane behind the group, greeting the flight attendant politely as everyone filtered into the cabin. The members started finding their seats near the center rows, tossing bags into overhead bins, still talking over each other.

“San, that’s my seat.”

“No it’s not, check the number.”

“Move, you’re blocking the aisle.”

You adjusted the strap of your bag and started down the aisle toward your row. And unfortunately… you had to pass right by Yunho. He had already dropped into his seat beside Jongho, one long leg stretched slightly into the aisle while he scrolled through his phone. As you approached, he looked up. And immediately froze.

For just a second. His eyes slid slowly over you as you walked past. The fitted black pants you were wearing. The oversized blazer you had thrown on over your tank top before the flight. And then… your hips as you moved down the aisle. You didn’t miss the way his jaw shifted. Or the way he bit down on his bottom lip.

Your stomach flipped as you kept walking, trying very hard to act like you hadn’t noticed. Behind you, you heard Jongho snort. “Bro.” Yunho didn’t answer. “Yunho.” Still silence. Then Jongho leaned slightly closer, voice low but not nearly low enough. “You gonna stop staring at the stylist’s ass or do you want everyone on the plane to notice?”

Your heart nearly stopped as you forced yourself to keep walking like you hadn’t heard a word. Behind you, Yunho let out a quiet breath. “Shut up,” he muttered and Jongho laughed softly.

You reached your row and slipped into your seat, sliding your bag under the chair in front of you. Your fingers tightened slightly around the armrest as you could hear Yunho shift in his seat. “Relax,” he said lazily. “I’m just looking.” And Jongho laughed again. “Sure you are.”

You stared forward, trying to calm your racing heart until a few seconds later… You felt it. That same familiar sensation. Like someone’s gaze was pressing against the back of your neck. Slowly, carefully, you glanced toward the window. Just enough to see behind you. And there he was. Leaning back in his seat. Eyes locked on you. Completely unapologetic.

Your breath caught as he tilted his head slightly. The same look he had given you earlier at the gate. The one that meant he was thinking about things he absolutely should not be thinking about right now. And judging by the way his tongue briefly brushed across his lip… You had a feeling he was remembering exactly what happened this morning again.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

A couple hours into the flight, the cabin had settled into that quiet, half asleep rhythm long flights always slipped into. Most of the overhead lights were dimmed. A few staff had their reading lamps on, soft circles of light glowing over open books or laptop screens. The low, constant hum of the engines filled the space like white noise.

Somewhere a few rows ahead, Wooyoung and San were whispering about a movie they were watching, trying and failing to keep their laughter quiet. Yunho sat slouched slightly in his seat, one arm resting on the armrest, long legs stretched just enough to avoid bumping Mingi’s seat in front of him. Jongho sat beside him with headphones on, half watching something on the small screen in front of him.

Yunho, however, wasn’t watching anything. His eyes kept drifting forward. Your row sat three ahead, slightly across the aisle. From where he was, he could see the top of your head just barely over the seatback when you shifted. He shouldn’t be looking. He knew that. But every time you moved even a little, his attention snapped right back.

A quiet ding sounded as the seatbelt sign flickered on again briefly. You stood from your seat a moment later, stretching slightly before making your way toward the back of the plane. Yunho noticed immediately. Of course he did. His gaze followed you down the aisle as you passed his row, though he tried to keep it subtle.

Jongho didn’t even look up this time. “You’re staring at her ass again,” he muttered, still watching his screen but Yunho ignored him. Several minutes passed before the restroom door clicked open toward the back of the cabin. And then you stepped out. You smoothed your blazer absently as you started back down the aisle.

The dim cabin lights caught the shine of your hair as you walked, your expression calm and relaxed like nothing in the world could possibly be going on in your head. Yunho’s gaze locked on you instantly again. He straightened slightly in his seat without realizing it. Across the aisle, a few rows up, Seonghwa glanced up from his phone as movement caught his attention.

And then his eyes landed on you and Yunho definitely noticed that too. His jaw tightened almost immediately as Seonghwa’s gaze followed you as you walked past him, slow and curious in the way someone looks when they suddenly notice something they hadn’t before. Not inappropriate. But definitely… appreciative.

Yunho’s fingers curled slightly against the armrest as you continued down the aisle, unaware of the two sets of eyes watching you. When you reached Yunho and Jongho’s row, you slowed slightly to slip past Hongjoong adjusting his bag in the aisle. That meant you were standing almost right beside Yunho. Close enough that he could smell the faint scent of your perfume that was always lingering on himself as well lately.

Close enough that he could see the small crease of concentration between your brows as you waited. Your eyes flicked down toward him for the briefest second. And Yunho felt his pulse kick. Your expression stayed perfectly neutral. Professional. But the corner of your mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. Then you continued forward toward your seat.

Yunho’s eyes followed you and beside him, Jongho sighed dramatically. “You’re doing it again. And not subtly at all.” Yunho didn’t look away. “Doing what?”

“Staring.”

Yunho finally leaned back again, dragging a hand slowly over his face. Across the aisle, Seonghwa’s gaze lingered toward your row for another second before he returned to his phone. Yunho noticed that too. And something low and possessive twisted quietly in his chest.

Jongho glanced sideways at him. “Why do you look pissed?” Yunho let out a slow breath. “Nothing.” But his eyes drifted forward again anyway. Toward your seat. And the more he thought about it… the more he didn’t like the idea of anyone else looking at you that way.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Several hours later, the cabin had grown even quieter. Most of the lights were dimmed even more now, leaving the plane bathed in a soft blue glow from the overhead panels and the occasional screen still playing a movie. A few slept with their heads against the windows. Others shifted under blankets, headphones on, lost in their own worlds. Mingi was snoring lowly and Hongjoong would have slipped into the isle of Seonghwa had pulled him back into his seat.

The steady hum of the engines had become almost hypnotic. But Yunho wasn’t sleeping. Not even close. He leaned back in his seat, arms folded loosely across his chest, staring up at the dark ceiling of the cabin. Jongho beside him had long since fallen asleep, his head tilted slightly to the side, breathing slow and steady. Yunho envied him. Because every time Yunho closed his eyes…

His brain dragged him right back to that morning. The memory hit him in flashes. Your moans in his bedroom. The soft morning light spilling through the curtains. The way your hair had fallen while you leaned over him, breath uneven, eyes locked with his as you moved against him, clenching him, his dick buried deep…..

His jaw tightened slightly as he scrubbed a hand over his face. It had been four months of stolen moments. Four months of quiet kisses and sex behind closed doors. Four months of pretending like you weren’t his when you did his hair and makeup. And today had been the worst yet. Because that morning had been rushed.

Neither of you had wanted to stop. But you both had to catch the flight. He could still hear the way you had laughed breathlessly when he tried to pull you back onto the bed. He exhaled slowly. Now here you were. On the same plane. Only a few rows away. Close enough that he could walk there in ten seconds. But far enough that he couldn’t touch you. And that was starting to drive him insane.

Up ahead, you shifted slightly in your seat. You weren’t sleeping either. Not even remotely. Your arms were folded loosely across your stomach as you stared blankly at the screen in front of you, though the movie had clearly been playing for a while without your attention.

Behind you, Yunho leaned forward slightly in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes drifted toward your row again. And sure enough… you shifted again. Like you were just as restless as he was.

Yunho exhaled slowly through his nose. Yeah. You definitely were. Because after four months together, he knew exactly what that meant. His gaze dropped briefly before lifting again. And then you stood up.

Yunho straightened slightly as you stepped into the aisle, smoothing your blazer absently before turning toward the back of the plane again. This time… your eyes flicked toward him. Just for a second. And Yunho felt that look straight in his chest.

Not subtle.

Not accidental.

The corner of your mouth twitched ever so slightly. Then you turned and started walking toward the rear of the cabin again. Yunho stared after you as Jongho stirred slightly beside him but didn’t wake. The restroom light at the back of the plane flicked on. And suddenly…. Yunho wasn’t even pretending he was going to sleep anymore.

He sat still for another minute after you disappeared inside the restroom. His eyes remained fixed on the aisle. The restroom light back there was still on. He exhaled slowly through his nose before he shifted forward in his seat, glancing sideways at Jongho. Still asleep. Good.

Yunho stood and stretched casually, like someone just getting up after sitting too long. Totally normal. Completely casual. Then he stepped into the aisle and started walking toward the back of the plane. He didn’t rush. Didn’t look around. Just walked. Most of the cabin was asleep anyway.

Or at least… that’s what he thought. Because as he passed a row near the middle of the plane…. two sets of eyes were very much open. San sat slouched in his seat, one earbud dangling from his ear while he scrolled lazily through his phone. Beside him, Wooyoung was watching the aisle with the kind of attention that meant he had absolutely not been sleeping.

The moment Yunho walked past them, Wooyoung’s eyebrows shot up. He leaned slightly toward San, whispering with a huge grin spreading across his face. “I told you.” San glanced up from his phone just in time to see Yunho continue down the aisle toward the back. Realization dawned slowly across his face. “….. no way…”

Wooyoung sat up a little straighter, trying very hard to contain his laughter. “Oh yeah,” he whispered. “You owe me.” San blinked at him, groaning. “Oh, come on,”

Wooyoung nodded proudly. “Pay up, baby.”

Yunho was now standing right outside the restroom. His hand rested lightly against the door for a second. Then he knocked softly and the door opened almost immediately. And before anyone else in the cabin could possibly notice, he slipped inside.

You were leaning back against the wall beside the sink, arms folded, trying to pretend you were calm. You weren’t. Not even a little. The second the door clicked shut, your eyes met his. That invisible tension that had been building for hours finally snapped.

Yunho crossed the space in one step. Your hands grabbed the front of his shirt at the exact same moment his hands found your waist. And then you were kissing him. Not slow. Not careful. The kind of kiss that came from hours of restraint finally breaking.

His back hit the door as you pulled him down toward you, and Yunho let out a quiet breath against your mouth like he’d been holding it the entire flight. “God,” he muttered softly between kisses as his hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer until there wasn’t even an inch of space left between you.

Your fingers slid up into his hair, tugging lightly at the strands and Yunho groaned quietly into the kiss, his forehead dropping against yours for a second as he tried to breathe. “I need you,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, breathless. “I noticed.” Your eyes flicked up to his. The heat in his gaze made your stomach tighten. “That look you gave me before you walked back here…” Your lips brushed his again. “Maybe I just needed a minute,” you whispered, teasing him.

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Sure you did.”

Your hands slid down his chest, fingers brushing over the soft knit fabric of his top. “You weren’t exactly behaving either,” you said.

Yunho raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“You kept staring.”

He didn’t even try to deny it. Instead, his hands tightened slightly on your waist, pulling you closer again. “Can you blame me?” Your heart skipped. “You’re the one who left my apartment like that this morning after riding me like you were trying to get first place in a Kentucky Derby.” he murmured.

His forehead leaned lightly against yours again. “You know how hard it was sitting back there knowing you were only a few rows away?” Your breath caught slightly. Because honestly… You had been thinking the exact same thing. Your fingers curled lightly in his shirt. “Yunho…”

His hands slid up your back slowly, stopping just beneath your shoulder blades as he pulled you closer again but before he could do much else, you turned him, guiding him backward until his hips bumped lightly against the small counter beneath the sink. He blinked down at you, surprised as your hands slid down his sides before he could finish the sentence.

Then one of them moved lower and Yunho inhaled sharply. Because your palm pressed firmly against the front of his grey sweatpants, right on the bulge there, him already halfway hard. “You do this on purpose,” you murmured.

Yunho’s head tipped back slightly against the wall behind him, a quiet breath escaping him as your hand remained exactly where it was. “Do what?” he asked, voice lower now as your fingers flexed slightly against the soft fabric. “These,” you said, glancing down briefly before meeting his eyes again. “You know exactly what you’re doing wearing them.”

Yunho huffed out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh as your hand pressed just slightly again, testing and his jaw tightened as your hand shifted again slightly against the fabric, slow and deliberate, rubbing him now.

Yunho closed his eyes briefly. The space was so small that every little movement between you felt amplified. Your knee nudged between his legs as you stepped closer. For a second he just stared at you. Then he leaned forward again, catching your mouth in another kiss. This one deeper and hungrier as you pulled him out of his sweats, the cool air in the restroom hitting him and making him hiss.

Your forehead rested lightly against Yunho’s chest for a second as you stroked him with your hand, thumb brushing over his tip. Then you looked up at him. His hair had fallen slightly into his eyes from the way you’d been tugging at it earlier, strands brushing his lashes as he looked down at you.

That same dangerous look was back in his gaze. The one that had been slowly building all flight. Your hand moved faster for a few seconds, watching the way he reacted. His head tilted back slightly again, hair falling away from his face as he tried to keep his breathing steady. The muscles in his jaw tightened, his hand bracing against the wall beside your shoulder. “Baby….. I need…”

You suddenly pulled your hand away and Yunho blinked, his eyes dropping back down to you in confusion. But before he could saying anything, you shrugged your blazer off your shoulders. The fabric slipped down your arms before you let it fall to the floor. His eyes followed the movement as you stepped back just enough to drop down onto the blazer, kneeling in front of him in the cramped space.

Your fingers rested lightly against the waistband of his sweats again, your eyes lifting to meet his. “You need me, huh…” Your mouth curved slightly as his hand slid into your hair, fingers threading through it as he looked down at you. “Please…”

You dragged his sweats down to his knees, your hand moving to grip him, wrapping around his length, opening your mouth and letting just his tip tap against your tongue. The reaction was instant enough that you almost laughed. He rolled his head back, tongue peaking out as his hand gripped your hair.

One of his hands braced harder against the wall behind him. “God…” he exhaled under his breath as your eyes lifted briefly to watch him. Your hand slid up his side briefly before returning to its place on his leg, grounding yourself in the cramped space before you dragged your tongue along him, tracing his length.

Yunho’s hand tightened gently in your hair before it tightened more and a moan left him as you finally let him sink into your mouth. Your eyes flicked up toward his face, watching the way his head had tilted back against the wall again, jaw tight as he tried very hard to stay quiet as you sucked, hallowing your cheeks.

The reaction clearly wasn’t helping his self control. Not even a little. “Fuck…” he looked down at you and lost it. Both his hands moved to grip your head, holding you there, his dick in your mouth stretched around him. “yeah…. just like that…”

You gagged when he started thrusting, thick and heavy on your tongue as he started fucking your mouth. You moaned, nails digging into his thighs as you held onto him….

You gasped, his dick popping from your mouth as he suddenly yanked you up, mouth on yours again, moaning at the taste of himself on your tongue. The kiss was deeper this time. Messier. Your back met the edge of the small sink behind you as he turned you around in the cramped space. The counter pressed lightly against your hips as his hands settled on either side of you, bracing against the counter as he leaned in again, his forehead dropping briefly against yours while both of you tried to catch your breath.

For a second he just looked at you. Then he leaned closer, his voice low and rough against your ear. “We have to be quick.” Your breath caught. But you nodded anyway. The cramped space forced you closer together as he moved, the counter cool against your back while his hands held your waist firmly. Your fingers tightened in the front of his shirt as the moment finally tipped over that edge you’d both been hovering near all flight.

He made haste unbuttoning your pants, sliding them down, tossing them behind you on the sink. You wrapped your legs around him, one hand gripped your thigh as his other guided himself to you, he groaned as he brushed your clit. “So fucking wet….”

You bit your bottom lip as he thrusted, hands digging into his shoulders as he bottomed out, a moan building, barely escaping you. “Hey,” he whispered quickly, forehead pressing against yours. “Quiet.” You bit your lip again. trying to stifle another sound as your arms slid around his shoulders.

The tiny restroom suddenly felt even smaller. The faint rumble of the plane vibrated through the walls around you, barely masking the uneven rhythm of both your breathing as Yunho gripped your waist and started moving, his forehead resting against yours while he tried to stay quiet himself.

The slow pace only lasted a few seconds because the second you clenched around him, he snapped. Your heels of your feet dug into his ass after you kicked your slides off. Your head tipped back slightly as he started thrusting deeper, faster, a cry escaping you.

Yunho reacted instantly. His hand came up, covering your mouth gently but firmly “Quiet.” He reminded though it was difficult with the way he was now practically pounding into you, the obscene noise of skin on skin starting to grow. Your eyes widened slightly, but you nodded against his palm.

Yunho let out a slow breath, his head dropping forward until his forehead rested briefly against yours again. Your hands slid back up his shoulders, holding onto him as you tried very hard not to make another sound. Yunho’s jaw tightened as he leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You feel so fucking good….” He snapped his hips harder, a gasp leaving you, muffled against his hand as he growled. “Mine.”

You lost it. Your moans were loud against his hand, his palm warm against your lips as he felt the way your breathing had completely lost its rhythm. “Baby…. you’re getting loud…”

You reached up and gripped his wrist, pulling his hand back. “You weren’t complaining this morning…” you smirked, a loud moan leaving you. “or this morning…”

Yunho stopped and stared at you before shaking his head, a breathless laugh leaving him. “Fuck…. I think I love you…” then one of his hands reached down, two fingers circling at your clit before he dragged them lower, kissing you to muffle the cry that left you as he thrusted his fingers in alongside his dick, stretching you more, both of you on the edge….

Your eyes squeezed shut, your forehead pressing briefly against his shoulder as you tried to muffle the sound caught behind his hand again now as he pounded into you, his fingers chasing the rhythm, messy, loud, obscene.

“Yunho…. I’m…” You were whining now, legs tight around, completely gone as your orgasm hit you. You cried out, his hand that wasn’t two fingers deep inside you, slipped from your mouth and gripped your waist as his he started twitching inside you, your walls gripping him…

“Holy fuck….” He buried his face in the crook of your neck as he came, his fingers inside you slipping out as filled you, both of you clinging to each other, breathless, hearts pounding……

Both of you jumped when someone knocked on the restroom door. Yunho’s head snapped up from your shoulder while your eyes went wide, the two of you freezing like you’d just been caught committing a crime. Then came the voice through the door. “Hey.” It was unmistakably Jongho. “You two about done in there? I have to piss.”

Your stomach dropped as Yunho stared at the door in complete disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath as slapped a hand over your mouth, trying to stop yourself from laughing. Because he was still buried inside you while one of his friends and member of Ateez clearly knew exactly what was going on.

“Seriously,” Jongho continued through the door, his voice clearly amused now. “You’ve been in there forever.”

Yunho dragged both hands down his face, clearly trying to process how badly this had just gone. “Don’t say anything,” he whispered quickly to you.

“Oh come on,” Jongho sighed. “Do you think I’m stupid?” Then he laughed. “Wooyoung and San have been arguing over money about the two of you…. we know.”

You stared at Yunho.

Yunho stared at the door. “They…. what?” he said.

From the other side of the door came San’s muffled voice now. “Just open the door already, man.”

And then Wooyoung. Very loudly whispering. “Open the door! I need visible confirmation or San won’t pay me.”

Your face immediately buried itself in Yunho’s shoulder as you started laughing.

Yujin groaned softly as another knock sounded. “Yunho,” Jongho called again. “Bathroom. Now.”

Yunho sighed and leaned his forehead briefly against yours again.

“I’m gonna kill them.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

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[makeitworse]

KISS ME

in which you’ve always been yunho’s only choice — even if he’s never been yours.

♬ xo (only if you say yes) enhypen pairing: yunho x f!reader words: 9.8k warnings: unrequited feelings (or are they), he’s embarrassingly down bad, angst, jealousy, weed, alcohol, vomit mentions, brief mingi x reader, smut with handjob, fingering, unprotected sex lovemaking, 18+ mdni

notes: this fic is double the length i was intending… i have a big GROSS crush on this man can u tell🫩

YUNHO CUSSES UNDER HIS BREATH, KNEECAP JOLTING WITH PAIN. he hadn’t even realised that for the last ten minutes his leg has been restlessly bouncing as if it was about to run away, not until his knee came into contact with the wooden table and knocked over his forgotten drink — a red plastic cup filled with some bitter motor oil, shoved into his hands by san with a shout that he needed to “lighten the fuck up.”

it’s done nothing to cease the anxiety buzzing under his skin, coiled tight in his chest — matters only made worse by that singular bong rip he did about an hour ago. his mouth still feels dry, throat still hoarse from the embarrassing coughing fit he had in front of the entire circle. 

when you pulled him over to the designated smoke corner by the wrist, flashed him that adorable smile of yours, yunho denied the offer only once before that smile fell into a pout — and all of the sudden he was filling his lungs with smoke for the sole purpose of impressing you. 

the opposite effect was had, unfortunately. 

the party had barely started for either of you — both yet to even greet the birthday boy — and here you were stuck at yunho’s side, patting his back as he wheezed through gulps of water, insisting that you’re ‘right where you want to be’ each time he apologised for ruining the mood. 

still, he watched the way you swayed along to the thumping music in your seat, longing to be on the dancefloor instead of sitting here with your weak puss of a best friend. parties have always been more of your scene than his. the only reason he ever comes these days is just to be your plus one. at least, until you find someone else.

someone who can match your energy better. in more ways than just dancing and drinking. 

yunho insisted that you leave him to go actually enjoy the party, and it was met with little resistance from you before you’re hopping out of your seat and practically skipping over to the crowd. yunho kept his eyes trained on you, watching as you bump into wooyoung and give him a side-hug before disappearing into the sea of dancing bodies. 

wooyoung’s eyes flit across the room, searching knowingly until he lands on yunho, then giving him a thumbs up and a nod — a wordless promise that he’ll keep an eye on you. 

see, everyone who knows yunho, knows you. and they also know that he’s been in love with you since the day you first named him a friend. 

what they don’t know — or rather, what they can’t wrap their heads around — is why yunho has gone this many years without so much as a word to you regarding his real feelings. he’s watched you make out with strangers at clubs, take his own friends home at parties, been your shoulder to cry on through your breakups with men who aren’t him. 

the simple fact is, yunho values your feelings over his own. a million times over, and then some more. if he’s not who you want, who you choose to feel that way towards, then how could he be so selfish as to ruin your friendship by trying to make it something it’s not?

it’ll always be you for yunho. even though, for you, it’s anyone but him. 

yunho heaves a sigh. he winces as he rubs his knee, sure to find a bruise there in the morning. grabs his half-spilled drink, downs the rest of it and immediately regrets it as a gag seizes his throat. if he lingers too long on the thought that he wants someone this bad with nothing in return, he’ll make an even bigger idiot of himself here when the tears start to run down his face. 

yunho’s phone buzzes in his pocket, a welcome interruption from his racing thoughts. 

reading the notification though — the anxious churning in his gut curdles into a sinking pit of nausea. 

Wooyoung: might wanna come get your girl, song mingi’s about to be balls deep in her ass 

Wooyoung: uh oh! think i just heard a queef 🥹

Yunho: Thanks man.

he mentally cusses his useless friend out, but he quickly reels himself back in with the reminder that he’s got no right feeling jealous over someone that owes nothing to him. besides, wooyoung only ever offers to just watch you, not interfere with any of your…endeavours. 

yunho grimaces when he stands, his legs lighting up with pins and needles from how he’s been glued to this stiff fucking chair for an hour. clenching his teeth and pushing through it, yunho shoulders his way through the crowd, peering over all the bobbing heads to find wooyoung. 

his eyes quickly hone in on a mess of red hair with roots desperately needing a touch up, tucked into the neck of a taller, much broader man. 

“san!” yunho calls out through the thick bass in the air — knowing wooyoung probably won’t hear him with his tongue leeched onto san’s pulse. 

wooyoung and san have been friends for as long as you and yunho — except, they quickly established the mutual attraction and have been happily dating since. in comparison to yunho, who…erm, has been warming the cuck chair ever since you lost your virginity to his high school lab partner. 

san peers at him through narrow slits, giving yunho the ‘what’s up’ nod men do and patting on his boyfriend’s back. wooyoung raises his head, looking offended over the interruption. 

“where is she?” yunho shouts over g-dragon’s voice booming through the speakers telling everyone to get their crayon.

wooyoung tilts his head, pointing with a jut of his chin. “riding mingi.” 

the joints in his neck audibly crack when yunho whips his head in the direction — then the world narrows down to just you. your body as it rolls and sways, pressed flush up against a man he can barely register; hypnotised by the grinds where your hips connect, the gropes where your hands fall. wondering how it’d feel on his own skin.. 

“she’s had too much.” san rudely interrupts, practically roaring over the music into yunho’s ear. “mingi’s been pouring everyone’s drinks. he was supposed to make sure no one got too fucked up but…” 

“—got a bit distracted trying to get himself fucked.” wooyoung cuts in with a snicker.  

bile burns yunho’s throat, sharp and hot. his entire body tenses. subconsciously he clenches his fists, just from the anger of a man that’s not him thinking of you that way — touching you that way, but the couple behind him notices, trading cautious glances. 

“think it’s about time you take her home..” wooyoung claps yunho on the back. “we’ll stick close by. for support.” 

san cuts his boyfriend a ‘play nice’ look. wooyoung shrugs, taking a sip of his drink and grimacing at the burn. 

with that, yunho bulldoses through the path of people until it’s him, you and mingi all standing in a cramped triangle. you’re both looking the opposite direction, but when you register the new presence at your back and glance over your shoulder, your glossy eyes instantly light up at the sight of your best friend. it breaks his heart just a little bit at how you make no move to detach yourself from mingi, only smiling at yunho while you’re wrapped up in another man’s arms. 

“having fun?” you shout at yunho, which also gets mingi’s attention. he gives your best friend a once over, lips slowly dragging down in a scowl. 

you’re enjoying yourself so much, it nearly hurts yunho to have to rip you away from the fun and end your night for you. but the burly man you’ve currently found yourself dryhumping on the dancefloor has let you mix far too much alcohol with the weed in your system, and probably won’t relent so long as he can lure you into sharing his bed. if you weren’t so fucked up, yunho wouldn’t have even interfered — wishing you the best like a good friend should, ignoring the pain in his heart as you get off to hands that aren’t his and he gets off alone. 

“it’s time to call it a night,” yunho replies to you, tone gentle even as he strains to talk over the music.

“what?!” you shout back, obviously crossfaded and so fucking gone. how does mingi feel okay with trying to fuck you in this state?? yunho gives wicked side-eye to the other man, before realising that mingi’s moving just about as sober as you are..

“you’ve had enough,” yunho tells you, changing his tone to like he’s explaining to a child. “i’m taking you home now, okay?” 

even in your half-conscious state, you pout — knowing that it’s a surefire way to bring yunho to a heel. and it’d work, any other time. it almost does this time. but yunho wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he let you go in this state.

he reaches for your arm, just tugging lightly to get you to budge. mingi scoffs loudly, pulling you closer into his stupid perfectly toned chest. 

“yah, are you her boyfriend or some shit?” mingi furrows his brows at him, like a shit stain on his white air forces. “it’s over. she wants this now, man.” he adds, gesturing down to his crotch. 

if he was standing any closer, yunho’s sure you’d be able to hear the way his confidence falls to his feet, even over the music and mingi’s baritone voice. 

he’s so caught up in overwhelming hatred for this guy, he doesn’t register the way you shove mingi a little. yunho’s staring at him, mingi staring straight back. 

yunho addresses you by name, holds out his hand. “we’re going.”

mingi groans. “bro, just fuck off.” 

you look between the two men, though your gaze is so distant that you probably don’t even understand the language they’re speaking. 

mingi gets in his face, walks the slightly taller man down until his back’s bumping into the people dancing behind him. 

yunho can’t feel anything other than ringing in his ears, the bass pounding in his chest. he’s never gotten into a fight — nothing serious outside of like, a middle school playground at least, but yunho braces for one anyways. he thinks he could hit this guy. whatever happens, you’re not leaving with him.

it’s part protectiveness, which he’ll wear proudly on his chest. part jealousy too, which he’ll admit only to himself.

he never wants to get in the way of the choices you make, act like some kind of saviour for his own selfish agenda. but he won’t lie and say he takes no joy in stopping someone else from having you in all the ways he dreams of. just this once. 

“yah! you two — stop trying to fuck in my living room!!”

hongjoong’s voice rings out over the speakers, the birthday boy’s brows drawn and face cross at how you’re both about to make a ruckus at his party. the crowd steps to the side for his little, angry frame stomping over, his hips swaying even more pronounced than normal because of the mixture of substances in his system. yunho catches wooyoung standing amongst the parted crowd, offering a guilty shrug. no doubt he warned their host about the incoming brawl before it could start. 

“what’s going on here?” hongjoong has both hands on his hips as his head whips between the two men standing too close for comfort. “mingi, where were you when i needed a drink?! yeosangie offered to pour me one instead and he dropped the fucking bottle.”

his boyfriend seonghwa appears behind the tiny ball of fury, strutting like he came straight from a runway as he always does. his face holds no emotion, save for an intimidating glare in his eye.

you link arms with yunho, evidently sobered up enough to read the situation — and his entire side lights up with heat under your touch. 

“we were just leaving.” you insist, suddenly itching to be anywhere but this dancefloor for the first time tonight. 

hongjoong keeps raving on about how you haven’t even tried the cake yet, while mingi’s pulled away in the other direction by seonghwa, whispering in his ear (doesn’t look like anything nice..)

you tried your best to appease the birthday boy enough to get his blessing for you and yunho to leave — though he’s too in his head to focus on any of it, caught up and smiling at himself over the fact that you chose him. 

—

yunho grips the steering wheel a little tighter each time he forces himself to not check you out. you’re slumped against the seat, head lolled to the side and wind whipping at your hair, skimpy top just barely hanging on by the thin straps on your shoulders. 

his knuckles are pale at this point. 

he won’t disrespect you, especially not while you’re barely..there. but you look so pretty. you always do. just, he has to focus on the road right now and you’re not helping. 

there’s also the fact he’s over the fucking moon that you ditched a hook-up for him (admittedly a really attractive one at that, too). instead of any other man getting to have you in his bed, you’re sitting pretty in yunho’s car, watching cars pass by out the window. 

he’s got it rolled down for you, and keeps making sure that you’re facing to the window in the case that you have to throw up. it’s happened before… you were sitting in the back, squeezed in between wooyoung and jongho, then no warning before you ruined his car floor and their shoes. 

yunho cleaned up your mess on a sickeningly humid summer day, while jongho watched and made fun of him for being such a simp. 

that’s just the lengths he goes to, being in love with you. 

it’s why he lets you slump all your body weight on him as he helps you out of the car and into his house. sets you down on the couch like you’re made of porcelain, fetches you a bottle of water and a bucket (just in case..), tucks you into his wool spiderman blanket that you always claim when you’re over.

yunho sits on the leg-end of the couch, watching you down the bottle in record time and let your vision go out of focus staring at the ceiling. no doubt your head must be spinning from the comedown. he knows he should probably let you rest, but he can’t bring himself to leave you just yet. he’s already been selfish tonight, so what’s one more little thing? 

he’s not sure how fast time goes by as he sits there in silence. counting the lashes on your eyes, watching each rise and fall of your chest. waiting for you to need him again. you were both just at an entire lively party, but yunho thinks this is the most happy he’s felt all night. 

eventually, he feels his own eyelids getting too heavy for each blink, and decides it’s a sign to finally let you sleep. 

“i’ll get you some more water, and then it’s bed time i think.” yunho says, going to stand. 

“wait—” your hand flies out from under the blanket, reaching for his wrist to stop him. “don’t go.”

yunho blanches at you. you’ve said little to nothing since climbing into his car, and the next words he thought he’d hear from you weren’t anything close to that. he figured you may have even been asleep already. 

he says your name softly, a question. 

you tug his wrist a little tighter. “please.” 

yunho’s sitting next to you within seconds, even scooting a bit away since he sat right against you in his haste. he knows he shouldn’t get ahead of himself — you just want him to stay, nothing more. 

all that reassuring himself is for nought when you just.. wrap yourself around his arm. you kind of push him into the couch’s back, nuzzling your head into his shoulder while his own stares at the ceiling in shock. 

you’ve hugged before, of course. cuddled on rare occasions when he was able to keep his lower half angled away. but this all feels different. he doesn’t know why he’s interpreting this as anything different. you don’t see him the way he sees you, he tells himself. over and over again like a mantra. 

“yunho..” you murmur in such a soft way that melts his whole heart. “i didn’t wanna sleep on my own tonight..” 

“oh..” he gulps down a thick wad of spit, feeling like it’s wrong before he even says it but knowing he has no ill intentions. “did you want to come into my bed?” 

you hum, smiling as your knuckles come to brush along his cheek. yunho tenses for a split second before telling his body to relax, even while his mind spins at a mile a minute. 

“what do you want?” 

yunho has to gulp again so he doesn’t say anything he’ll absolutely regret. buys himself time by fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, slyly pulling it down so it covers his lap. fuck, what’s even an acceptable answer in this situation? a light-hearted, friendly one and not just an admission of years worth of pent up feelings? 

“just want you to feel okay,” he croaks, not entirely trusting his mouth to not say any more. he sighs, feeling the warmth of your breath fanning his pulse. this is really fucking dangerous. 

you play with the hair at his nape, and he only hopes you don’t mention the beet red shade of his ears. 

“hm, i was okay when i still had someone for tonight..” you pout, not realising the things those words do to his heart. “now i’m restless and all alone.” 

“i’m here.” he replies way too quickly, instantly regretting it because he knows he just came off desperate. you’re just spouting nonsense, you’re sober and high and you’re worked up, that’s all…

“yeah?” you whisper, grin tugging at your lips. “you won’t let me feel alone?” 

the effect your voice is having on his dick right now is, wow… it should be studied. entirely conscious of how rapidly his body’s reacting, he tries to shuffle and put a bit more space between you, but you know exactly what he’s doing and won’t let him — your other hand coming to slide up his chest, curling around his torso and keeping him close. 

there comes his name from your mouth again — soft and syrupy and way too fucking sexy. “why won’t you hold me back?” you ask through a pout. 

you wait for his face to twitch, knowing damn well the effect your pout has on him. yunho’s hands twitch where they’re sat in his lap, wishing desperately to reach out and hold you but too concerned with covering the obvious lump in his pants.

“this is…” his throat bobs. “you’re not in the right frame of mind.” 

neither is he, he thinks. he could be wildly misinterpreting every thing you’re saying and doing. that’s the conclusion he comes to at least. you don’t want him like that. maybe another man, but not yunho. he knows that like a fact. 

“i’m thinking clearly enough to know what i want.” you say easily. your hand trails down his chest, fingers dancing lightly across his stomach and causing the muscles to flex. you giggle over it, and yunho knows he needs to get the fuck away from you right the fuck now or he doesn’t know what he’ll do. he can’t stick around to find out — he can’t do that to you, or to his own heart. 

it belongs to you and only you, it always will. but he can’t let it try and match the beat of yours when you can’t offer it to him. 

he’s not who you want. you might just want someone, anyone — and yunho’s here and you know he’d never deny you anything. just settling for the closest man, train of thought foggy from the alcohol. 

yunho says your name as he peels your hand from his body, a gentle warning. “i really think you should go to bed—”

the words die in his throat when you shift suddenly, his hands futilely reaching out as if he could bring himself to even grab you right now — and he has no time to prepare himself for the way your thighs bracket his and you plop down into his lap. 

yunho puts all of his brainpower into stifling the noise that almost clawed its way up his throat. you’re just sitting there, smiling sweetly at him as your hands come to cup either side of his neck. his hummingbird pulse hammers under your fingertips and he knows you feel it with the way your eyes sparkle at him. 

he can’t bring himself to put a singular thought to how his boner prods into you. oh god, he’s so fucking hard. he has to kill himself now. 

“yunho,” you start and his heart clenches. just saying his name, acknowledging that it’s him, your best friend, and he’s not just acting as a placeholder right now. “what’s going on inside that head?” 

for a solid moment, he doesn’t answer. can’t. you’ll see right through him if he lies and he refuses to tell you the truth. 

by the time he works up the courage to mutter an answer, his mouth’s gone dry. “i’m thinking that you need to have some more water…and you need to sleep.” 

you hum in disapproval. “that’s all that’s on your mind?” you shift your hips a little to make a point, his cock twitching in response before his hands fly out and still you by the waist. 

yunho says your name lowly — intending for it to be a warning, but it’s lost in how he can’t help but breathe heavily at the feeling. it’s really you on top of him. not his imagination in a wet dream, not some girl to fill the void. it’s you and it feels so fucking good and right.  

but this is wrong, it’s all so, so wrong. 

“you’re drunk,” he reminds both of you. “you’re not thinking straight, you don’t actually mean any of this — we need to get you to sleep, okay? please?”

yunho won’t let anyone take advantage of you while you’re not sober. he’s no exception, no matter how long he’s waited or how much he’s dreamt of this. he’s weak when it comes to you, the feel of your body weight on top of him like this, but he knows he needs to man the fuck up and make good choices for both of you. 

“why can’t i mean it?” you scoff, and fear grips his lungs over the thought of unintentionally upsetting you. “i told you what i want, why aren’t you listening to what i’m saying??” 

“you’re drunk.” he reaffirms. 

it’s supposed to be final, a nonnegotiable fact. he hopes maybe this time you’ll come to some semblance of your senses and snap out of this alcohol-fuelled act. he hopes he’ll think a little straighter once you’re off of him too, and he can remind himself what’s fact from what’s just your drinks talking. 

you haven’t wanted him in all the years you’ve been best friends — why would you start now, when you’re barely sober and your first choice for a hook-up isn’t around? 

you frown at him, and yunho’s heart just shatters. you look so let down and hurt. he can’t really understand how he managed to upset you this badly, outside of just cockblocking mingi and not letting you make a move on your best friend that you don’t even want. he thinks he was pretty justified in those decisions though. as much as it pains him to see you this way, he needs to stand his ground if he’s even half of the good guy you see him as. 

“fine.” you murmur, voice wavering like you’re tearing up. he ducks his head close to yours to check, even when you purposefully turn your face away so he can’t see you. 

you climb out of his lap and crawl back to your spot on the couch. yunho can’t will himself to move, partly from the shock and partly because he needs to wait for his boner to go down before he stands. 

his eyes widen to saucers when you raise your arms up over your head and just tug your top off in front of him. he blinks stupidly at you in your bra for a split second before his head whips away, internally scolding himself for being such a fucking perv. 

you have changed in front of him before, you’re comfortable in your skin and his friendship like that — but the image hits him in the gut and in the cock because he’s so turned on right now, and you are too. because that’s the furthest he’s ever gone with you and you still don’t even see him as anything more than just a friend. 

yunho murmurs something about bringing you more water and some painkillers for the morning before he practically bolts into his kitchen, putting some much needed distance between you and him (and his cock). 

he lingers in the room, talking his boner down and only returning to the living room when he’s basically soft. he finds you turned into the back of the couch, blanket pulled over your body. he leaves the things on the floor at your side and retrieves your phone. he puts it on a far-away charger in hopes that you’re too drunk to know where to find it, in case you try to call over some other man to pick you up and take care of you. 

it’s okay. he’ll explain all of this to you in the morning when you’ve got a clear head on your shoulders. you’ll probably be mortified, apologising profusely for coming onto him like that. and he’ll probably just smile, nodding that he knows you meant nothing even if it tears his chest open to admit that. 

yunho casts you one last, sad glance before flicking the lights off and plopping into the armchair by the couch. 

he still isn’t going to let you sleep on your own tonight. and if you do call some other man over, well.. he’s gotta be here and ready to kick them out. 

—

yunho jolts awake like lightning struck him in the dick upon being pulled from him slumber at the sounds of you gagging. briefly thinking it was something else for a shameful split second (the freaky ass dream he had last night is to blame..) before his vision comes into focus on you dangling off the couch and heaving into the bucket. 

his feet are moving before he even registers it — and a few blinks after waking up he’s at your side once again, holding your hair from your face and rubbing your back for comfort. 

“don’t look at me,” you mumble, voice still drowsy with sleep. adorable, he thinks briefly.

yunho already had his eyes shut and head turned in the opposite direction, knowing you hate being sick around other people. “i won’t.” 

when you’re all done, he uncaps the bottle of water and brings it to your lips. you don’t take it from him, just tilt your head back and let him pour it down your throat. you make a small noise in relief, and yunho frowns at the thoughts that begin to waft through his head, made only worse by the fact that you’re still in your bra. 

he keeps his head down as he offers you your top and you pull it back on, whole time telling his cock to behave. 

you basically lay on him as he keeps you propped upright and helps you trudge into the bathroom. he leaves you be when you shoo him away. yunho then figures he should check your phone for you, and get started on some breakfast after. 

not my fucking circus.. yunho thinks as he scowls over the very unwelcome name filling all the notifications on your lockscreen. mingi was blowing up your phone well after you left the party and settled down at yunho’s place. some of them look like he’s come to the conclusion you cheated on him, when he also proclaimed yunho as ‘the boyfriend’…. eh, we listen and we don’t judge or whatever it is that you say. yunho would also have a generational crash out if he fumbled you. 

he flinches like lightning struck the same place twice when he hears the bathroom door unlock and open. he doesn’t miss a beat in rushing over to you, helping you back to the living room. 

you flop down onto the couch like a ragdoll, and yunho can’t help but breathe out a laugh. he loves you, he truly does. 

“what did you want to have for breakfast? i’ll cook for us.” 

with your face in the cushion, your reply is muffled. it was only one word and he tries, really tries to not let himself think that you just said “you.” 

yunho coughs. “sorry, what?” 

you turn your head. “i said anything is fine.” 

er, he doesn’t think so.. 

“alright.” 

he rubs his neck, watching you just lay there as his mind kicks back into overdrive. do you even remember..? 

“ah, i put your phone on the charge by the way. i just checked it — mingi’s been texting you.” 

his breath’s halted in his throat as he waits for your reply, tries to gauge the furrow of your brows and press of your lips. 

“oh, okay.” you say, completely unaffected by such news. “thanks for charging it.” 

the conversation ends there, or at least it should, but he really doesn’t know what to do with that answer. doesn’t know what to do with himself, fidgeting with all this uncertainty. 

“you.. uh, you okay?” 

“yeah why?” 

“well, it’s just that i thought…” yunho tries to pick out the right words from his scattered thoughts, words that aren’t just curses on mingi’s whole bloodline. “last night you were pretty close with him, i figured you would—”

you cut yunho off with a laugh. he looks at you like you’ve just pulled a gun on him. 

“do you genuinely think i want mingi?”

heat rushes up his neck, settling in the tips of his ears and apple of his cheeks. “..well why wouldn’t i think so? he was all over you at the party.” and you were too, he can’t bring himself to add. hurts him too much to acknowledge it. 

you shrug. “it’s a new day. but i wouldn’t have slept with him anyways — i don’t intend to now, either.” 

yunho… doesn’t know what he thinks anymore. how could you have not? how else are you supposed to act if you want someone? 

you scoff, watching how his face shifts in confusion. “yunho, you wouldn’t catch a woman’s intentions even if a pussy slapped you in the face.” 

he chokes on his own spit over that.

he’s more than eager to reinstate some space between you as he all but rushes to the kitchen — the dream he had last night (and the events of last night itself) isn’t helping the way his body reacts to you speaking so vulgar about him. 

after fixing you both up some eggs on toast, and then putting some random ass cartoon on the tv for you to watch while he cleaned up, yunho at last fell back onto the couch with an exhale. 

you catch him off guard when you curl into his side, nuzzling into his warmth. he gets a flash of deja vu from last night. only this time, yunho trusts himself to at least place a careful hand on the small of your back. you’ve woken up with a clear head now, so he doesn’t feel that pang of guilt doing so much as just returning the gesture. 

though you’re a physically affectionate person, you’ve never really shared that with your own best friend. you see, yunho’s only just grown out of the age where he could pop a boner over you merely breathing a certain way. so, for years now, he’s had to shrug away from your touches and affection, not willing to ruin your entire friendship over a hug. 

you’ve accepted the fact that it’s just not his love language (but it really is though, he just wants to be respectful of you). so it’s odd, that you’re acting like this now. cuddling up into him like you would for one of your boyfriends. 

“i remember everything, by the way.” you speak suddenly, eyes trained on the tv while yunho cracks his neck to stare down at you. “i really wasn’t as drunk as you kept telling me i was.” 

“oh.” is all he can really say. “but then why were you..” 

he trails off, swallowing the words back down and choosing to just pretend to also watch the tv. he doesn’t know if he’s mentally ready to have this conversation right now. 

“what?” you press him. “why was i what?” 

yunho’s heart grips a bit, instantly worried over your tone and assuming he’s upset you. “i’m sorry if i said anything that—”

“—god, yunho, you only offend me each time you don’t acknowledge the obvious.” you look up at him then, and your eye contact sucks the air form his lungs. “tell me what you’re thinking. for real this time.” 

yunho chews on the fat of his cheek, accepting the fact that this is happening after years of evading it. he tips his head in an almost imperceptible nod, then closes his eyes for the confidence to speak this out loud. 

“last night, i thought that maybe you wanted me. as more than just a friend.” 

there’s nothing from you, not even a hitch of air — and he realises you’re both holding back on breathing right now. yunho cracks his eyes open, face pinched in worry. 

you lift your brows at him like you’re expecting him to continue. “….well?” 

“well, you weren’t sober so i assumed it didn’t mean anything. just..” he swallows, throat suddenly too dry. “..worked up from the party, right?” 

there’s a suspended moment of disbelief, in which neither of you fill the silence with more than just shaky breaths. yunho’s too intimidated by you, by this conversation. he can’t read your intentions anymore — not after you so easily admitted to not even wanting a man you were all over. 

are you going to be upset that he drew this conclusion? is this the moment that you assert the line between you and him — that you could never be more than this and he’s stupid to have hoped so? 

yunho thinks you’ll do anything but just.. burst out into laughter. 

you pull yourself off of him, and curl into your own body with helpless cackles. yunho can’t really do anything but just wait for it to be over. the sound of your joy is always music to his ears, but it just feels foreboding right now. because what the hell does that mean? what’s so funny?? 

you wind down a bit, wiping tears from your eyes with stuttered giggles. “oh, i love you. i love you yunho but you are so, so, so dumb.” 

“uh…fuck you?” he huffs, lip quirking into a smirk. okay, so we’re just laughing this off, cool… 

you roll your eyes, and he’s unprepared for the way both of your hands come to cup his face, thumbs brushing across his cheeks as you smile at him so sweetly. 

“what did it mean to you?” 

in that moment, all the air is sucked from the room. you could probably hear ants fucking two rooms over in this heavy silence. yunho’s too shellshocked to react — the reality around him hasn’t sunk in yet, his system won’t be able to handle it. 

oh god, is this actually happening? 

“i think you already know..” he blushes, sort of glancing down at his lap, in reference to how his body very clearly reacted to you sat on top of him. 

“no, i don’t.” you answer, and there’s a flicker of sadness across your eyes. 

yunho feels a surge of confidence in his chest, suddenly determined to prove his feelings to you after years of shoving them under the surface. only if that’s what you’re asking. 

it’s like you’ve read his mind when you mutter, “show me?” 

yunho’s breath hitches, glazed eyes trained on your mouth before he’s leaning in, only stopping when he feels his lips slot against yours. 

yunho forces an inhale through his nose, knowing that your mouth will steal all the air from his lungs as you surge forward to kiss him back. 

he rips himself away to whine, “it meant everything. you’ve got no idea how long i’ve wanted—i, fuck, i don’t even know,” he dives back in again, pressing with a little more force this time until his chest bumps yours. his heart hammers against your ribs, chasing the beat of yours to match it. 

and you just let him, let his lips part yours and his tongue to lick into your mouth. he’s not quick enough to stifle the groan that leaves him over tasting you like this. years of dreaming and imagining couldn’t have lived up to this — the real thing, incomparable to all his fantasies of you. 

you tilt your head and allow yunho to kiss you deeper, sliding your hands down to his shoulders while his own wrap around your middle. not even meaning it as he squeezes, just checking that you’re really here. 

you must figure what’s racing through his mind, and you giggle onto his lips as you pinch the side of his neck, proving that he’s not dreaming. 

“you do want this?” yunho feels the need to ask, chest already rising rapidly. 

you cock your head and give him a sort of ‘bitch really’ look. 

“only if you do.” you smile, adoring how glossy his lips are. 

yunho has to huff out in disbelief at that. 

“if i do?” he says your name sternly, shaking you in his arms a little. “everyone but you could tell! i was shit at hiding it but you didn’t even realise. that’s why your exes all hated me, why i do everything that i do for you—”

“—yunho, i’ve been throwing myself at you for years.” 

he looks at you like a deer in headlights. 

“each time i thought i couldn’t get any more shameless, i’d reach a new low. i thought i must’ve not been your type, or maybe you were gay and that’s why you only ever treated me like a friend.” 

“what do you mean? you have never been just a friend.” he raves, completely and utterly lost at how you’d even come to that conclusion. “i mean, i never wanted to assume or make a move in case that’s not how you saw me, i couldn’t risk ruining everything.” 

“do you understand that half the things i do are just to get a reaction out of you?” you deadpan. “i was begging for you to ruin it. i just wanted some sign, any sign that you felt it too.” 

yunho doesn’t know what else to do other than just kiss you. kiss you with all the confidence in himself that he’s lacked over the years of your friendship, brushing off every sign you’ve given because he was certain you could never, never see him that way. 

the only thing that’s certain now, is that he’s fucking dumb. and he’s wasted too many years over it. 

he kisses you with the force of every time he’s wanted to in the past, every moment the urge passed through his head and he had to shove it into the deepest pit of his brain. 

each time he had to duck his head so you couldn’t see his blush over the sight of you in a towel; each time he awkwardly covered his lap when you’d casually strip in front of him; each time he had to rip his eyes away from your cleavage when he knew you didn’t have a bra on; each time he’s watched your exes kiss you and touch you and pull little noises from your lips, and all he could do was watch and shamefully get off to the memory of it later, wishing it was him.

it could’ve been, earlier on. if only he’d said something. he owes it to you to make up for lost time. 

yunho kisses you hard yet slow, channeling years worth of bottled-up desire into the swipes of his tongue against yours, the gentle squeezes and caresses of your waist. it’d be so easy to trail up, up, up until he’s grabbing the part of you that’s always hypnotised him, like a dog to a fucking bone. but he doesn’t want to misread this for anything more than what you’re giving him — so he just savours the way your boobs press so firmly up against his chest, focuses on kissing you as passionately as he can. 

you test the waters by trailing your hand down to his chest, spurred on by the way he licks into your mouth as an encouragement to continue. your fingers creep further, brushing over the tent in his pants before your palm closes around it. yunho sort of flinches back from the kiss, forehead falling on yours as he casts his eyes down at your hand cupped over his length. his brows furrow, studying the feel of your hand on him for the first time and unintentionally bucking up. 

you giggle, noticing the very large spot of precum staining the fabric. yunho can’t help but grin over the noise, finding you so fucking cute right now. he kisses you again, already sickeningly addicted to how it feels — your smiles slotting against each other. 

things heat up pretty quickly with your hand on his dick. he is just a man, after all. 

yunho’s helpless to all the little groans and sighs he lets out onto your tongue, more precum seeping into the fabric and ruining this perfect pair of pants even more. he’s never gotten off from the barest contact like this, but for you he definitely could. he’ll take whatever you’ll give him. 

ever the mind-reader, your fingers dance up to his waistband and pull the elastic down. yunho breaks the kiss just to study your expression first, and when he’s met with your pleading eyes, he huffs a laugh in defeat and helps you pull his pants and boxers down his thighs. 

his cock slaps against his stomach, leaving a stamp of precum on his shirt. he’s been leaking like a damn faucet over you. he doesn’t cum as quick as when he’s jerking off to the thought of you, so the real thing will have him done in an embarrassing amount of time. 

he’ll try his best for you, though. 

you reach for him, and he winces at your fingertips just tapping him. feeling your skin on his. your hand comes to wrap around just below the tip, and your fingers don’t even meet where they hold him. 

your eyes sparkle at yunho, and he just melts. 

“big boy.” 

his cock twitches way too hard over those words, and you make a little startled noise at how it moves between your fingers. his eyes are so entranced with you right now, the focused look on your face — while your own are trained on his boner, the size of it. 

“i’ll get shy..” yunho murmurs. 

you offer him a sweet smile, and before he can return it, you spit directly onto the head of his cock. 

he throbs at the sudden sensation, then his jaw goes slack as your hand gathers the saliva and pre beaded at his tip to drag down his length. you’re not even gripping him that tight, or moving that fast.. but just the sight is fucking him up all the same. 

down to the base, back up to the tip. a few times over, just listening to his laboured breathing and weak hums of approval, until you find a rhythm and your fingers tighten. 

yunho throws his head back onto the couch backrest when you flick your wrist in the strokes, an unnecessarily loud groan ripping from his chest over that. 

he sort of anchors himself with the hands holding your waist and fucks up, mind tuned in solely to the feel of the circle of your hand around him. tries to memorise its shape, the unfamiliar ridges of your palms, for the next time he needs to get off. 

you catch him completely off guard when a second hand joins the first, enclosing just around his tip and rubbing it with the ball of your thumb — other hand still focused on twisting up and down the rest of his length. 

yunho thinks he sees glimpses of heaven’s gates behind his eyelids when he clamps them shut, moaning out over how fucking good you are to him. he’s never even used two hands on himself, and his heart just clenches thinking of how you’ve done this with guys who aren’t him. 

he doesn’t linger on that thought long before his lower abdomen coils dangerously tight far too quickly — and he has to rip your hands off of him before he can bust all over his couch and ruin this for everyone and for ever. 

“sorry,” he huffs, voice hoarse like he’s just scaled a mountain. “that was close.” 

“i got too eager..” you shrug guiltily, though your proud grin holds no remorse. 

he feels your grin on his lips when he kisses you again. your hands hover by him, untouching while they’re coated in the mess of fluids. 

while he’s not turning to complete mush at the feel of your hands on him, yunho takes the chance to drag his own around and rest on your tummy. twitching, desperate to feel you beneath your clothes. you’ve never left anything up to the imagination — and he’s only even more turned on by the fact that he now knows you were doing it on purpose. 

he tsks at the thought of you assuming he must’ve liked men to hold no reaction to your bare body all these years. but just as you were forward, yunho had a talent for hiding all the boners he’d pop. so talented that you never even fucking realised. 

“may i?” he asks so gently, eyes almost entirely black from his dilated pupils. 

you nod, but that’s not to his standards, see. 

“words.” he whispers, not attempting to hide the shit-eating grin. 

you roll your eyes, but he felt the way your stomach flexed over the little instruction. 

“yes, please.” 

and you used manners too. oh, how he fucking loves you. 

you watch his hand as it travels down your thigh, breaches past the hem of your skirt. two fingers press into the dip of your panties, and you hear the way his breath catches at the dampness under his fingertips. feeling how your body reacts to him. 

his throat bobs in a gulp. he watches you watch his arm disappear further under your skirt as he pulls your underwear to the side just enough for a finger to prod at your hole. wet and hot and his head is spinning. 

you whine, urging him to keep going. yunho thinks he gets out a nod before sliding his middle finger into your core. you hum as you feel each ridge dragging against your walls. 

“always been attracted to your hands,” you admit in a sigh. 

yunho’s lip curls, his hooded eyes brightening at your voice. “what about them?” 

“they’re long.” your face falls into a silent moan when his ring finger joins the middle. 

compared to him, you’re pretty quiet as his hand works at you. no more than just pumping in and out, watching your brows pinch when his fingertips brush by that sweet spot. 

“is it alright?” he murmurs, a bit worried over your silence. 

“feels so good.” you whisper, making a point by scooting your hips closer and leaning back a little to let him reach even deeper. 

knowing that he’s not completely disappointing you, yunho crooks his fingers up, heat flaring in his belly over the whine that leaves you. 

his fingers curl into your walls with each thrust of his hand, thumb fumbling to push your underwear further aside so he can press it on your clit. 

the pressure instantly has your body jolting, arms wrapping around yunho’s as you kind of fall into him. he kisses the crown of your head, determined to keep his fingers moving at a pace that’s got you whimpering. 

he wants you to cum before he does, it’s only right. you’ve seen his size now too — you should know he needs to put in the work if he wants it to fit without hurting you. 

on that thought, yunho adds his pointer to the fingers fucking into your pussy, then gives a swipe of his thumb on your clit. 

the way you moan his name has yunho falling in love all over again. 

he kisses your temple, your earlobe. leaves pecks all over your hair while he focuses on his fingers making you feel the best he can give. now that you’ve let him kiss you once he just can’t stop giving them to you. 

he nuzzles his face into your neck to kiss there too. opens his mouth, tastes your pulse on his tongue. resists the urge to suck his mark onto the skin before he moves further down. 

yunho leans back a bit, bending down to get at face level with your legs and then put his head between them. but you know what he’s doing before he can do it, and you stop him with a gentle tug on his hair. 

“wait, no..” you give a small smile, flustered. he has such a big crush on you, oh my god. “i’m shy.” 

he pouts, then his mouth curls into a smug grin. “i just want a taste.”

you smack his arm playfully. “you womaniser… another time, i promise.” 

that’s all he needs before his hand’s getting back to work, and he bites his lip in the concentration of circling his thumb around while the rest of his fingers curl up.

you ball his shirt in your fist, grounding yourself as you start to throb around yunho’s fingers. he grins, so in love and so desperate to have you cum for him — because of him. 

“yunho, i’m..” you gasp out, and he groans at your pussy clamping down around his fingers — still fucking them into the tight space. 

“i’ve got you.” he whispers against your hair, kissing your forehead before his free arm comes to hold your back. 

your eyes screw shut, mouth falling open as you let go — cum gushing around his fingers where he’s still relentlessly curling them up. 

you sag all your weight on to him and he chuckles fondly, brushing his hand through your hair. he slowly drags the other out of you, and you make a muffled noise on his chest over it. 

yunho doesn’t speak as you catch your breath. he doesn’t expect anything past this — you’ve already given him more than what he thought he’d get in this lifetime and the next. 

you raise your head, connecting your lips again. you both get lost in the kiss for a bit, yunho chewing on the plush of your lower lip before you pull away. 

“do you want to?” 

yunho nods, not even thinking once, and your mouth cracks into a sly grin. 

“words?” 

he smiles at just how cute he finds you, but his face falls as a thought occurs to him. 

“i don’t have any condoms..” he admits, sort of shy over the fact that he doesn’t get around nearly as much as you do in comparison. 

he’s never really kept any because they’d just expire, unused in his bedside table. his hand sees more action than any box of condoms he’s purchased. 

“it’s fine. i want you.” 

yunho blanches at what you’re suggesting. you can’t just say shit like that to him.. if you ever wanted to get rid of him, there’d be no hope. 

“are you sure?” he asks, wide eyes looking at you a little lost, lips swollen from all the heavy kisses. 

“yes. very.” you smile, sealing the promise with a tender kiss. 

before he just goes on a spiel about how madly he’s in love with you, yunho lays you down on the couch. he grabs a cushion to prop under your head, and you thank him in such an adorably small voice. 

he sits back and takes the view in, running his hands over the sides of your body. wanting to remember this moment, and also too shy to actually begin — still in shock that any of this is even happening, and now you want to have sex with him. 

with his incessant staring at your tits, you do him the favour of pulling your top off, bra shrugged off with it. you go for your skirt next, and he realises you’re probably getting impatient at him just ogling and drooling over you. 

“sorry,” he mutters, trying to help you pull your skirt off your legs. “you’re just so fucking gorgeous.” 

“yeah? you should show me.” you tease, thumbs hooking into your underwear to drag that down too. 

yunho meets you halfway, tugging it the rest of the way down while his actual concentration hones in on your pussy, glistening with arousal. all for him. 

he doesn’t want to make you wait any longer and risk you changing your mind, so yunho doesn’t even bother with his own clothes as he crawls over your body. 

his hips line himself up, both hands focused on holding you and comforting you through this. yunho nudges in slowly, face crumpling with a moan at how your warmth swallows his tip. 

he sucks a breath in through his teeth and keeps going, near shuddering above you until he bottoms out, hips meeting your ass. 

he keeps telling himself to breathe, hand fumbling for your breast to hold on for some type of support. he kneads the flesh between his fingers, wincing each time your pussy flutters around him, adjusting to the size. 

“you can move.” you tell him, amused at how entranced he seems with your boobs. 

yunho nods, pulling out just to push back in even deeper. you both shuffle up the couch a little from the force of the thrust, and yunho thinks part of him died from the force of trying not to cum the instant he slid in. 

he catches the grin on your face and he groans, burying his head in the crook of your neck. “i’ve thought of this for, fuck.. a really long time.” 

you hum, fingers threading gently through his hair. 

“i’m embarrassed…i don’t want to disappoint you.” 

“you couldn’t,” you whisper right at his ear, making him shiver above you.

at that, yunho starts to move his hips at a steady pace. pulls back to watch your expressions, encouraged by every little sigh you offer him. he angles his pelvis up to hit your g-spot this time, and you react accordingly with a gasped moan, his confidence surging. 

yunho doesn’t let his hips tilt another way even a fraction, aiming for the spot that has you seeing stars with each quick snap into you. you look so pretty beneath him, prettier than anything his brain could’ve conjured up on his own with nothing but his hand to keep him company. 

“good? does this feel okay?” yunho asks desperately, grabbing onto the couch’s backrest so that he can focus on fucking you as best as possible. 

your only response is a light moan, and yunho bites his tongue to distract his body, cock pulsing like crazy inside of you. 

“please, i need to know how you feel.” 

“just don’t stop,” you all but beg, holding him to you in a hug. and well, he’d be an idiot to not listen. 

yunho latches his mouth onto your breast, and you squeak when his tongue laps at the nipple. your mouth gets even louder for him, thighs locking him in at the hips as he hits your spot so perfectly each time he fucks forward. 

one airy moan of his name from your lips is what sends yunho toppling over the edge — groaning desperately onto your chest, nearly ripping the fabric of his couch as he fucks you through his orgasm. spilling inside you with each thrust, only stopping when it starts to burn from sensitivity. 

even then, he makes no move to pull out. doesn’t even allow himself to get air back in his lungs before he’s diving in to kiss you — pouring all of his love into his lips on yours. 

it could’ve been an hour that you both laid there, unwilling to move and not caring to clean up as you clung onto the heat of each other’s bodies, his cock long having gone soft inside you. 

“i need to pee,” you say eventually. 

“without me?” he pouts and you roll your eyes, shoving him lightly. 

he slips himself out of you and sits back, tugging his shirt off over his head and balling it up before pressing it between your legs. 

you hold it there as you sit up, raising a brow at him. “been taught well?” 

yunho rubs his neck, shy. “not from any of my own experience..” 

you just giggle, pressing a kiss to the pink-dusted apple of his cheek. 

“you know i love you?” 

yunho’s eyes go wide, your words punching him straight in the chest and knocking out his breath. 

“don’t feel like you need to say that..”

“why not?” you reply easily, “i already tell you all the time, and now you know how i really mean it.” 

well, he can’t argue with that. he’s never been able to argue with you anyways. 

yunho holds your head with both of his hands, long fingers splayed across your cheeks. 

“i love you too.” he kisses you, and it’s the sweetest taste he’s ever known. the taste that you’re his. “so fucking much.” 

@ttturnitup @jhthings @fweakygyatt @lunaryoongie @binneulton @kits-treasure-trove @kpopishgirlie @jaja-salute @joongtime

[irisinlovee]

since always— spencer reid

pairings: spencer reid x fem!reader

theme: so fluffy that it hurts

summary: finding out that boy genius has always been married

content warnings: none!

a/n: i just wanna be married to him that's all

masterlist

“You and Spencer?!”

Penelope Garcia did not scream. She attempted to scream, realized mid-vowel that she was standing directly outside Aaron Hotchner’s office, and immediately slapped a hand over her mouth with all the grace of someone who had absolutely no grace whatsoever. The sound that came out instead was somewhere between a shriek, a gasp, and the noise a teakettle makes right before it ruins your morning.

Making Hotch, who was busy taking an important call, look down from his office. Penelope, undeterred, took another sip of her latte. Or what used to be a latte, before time and shock watered it down into something that resembled warm milk with trust issues. She turned back to her, eyes sparkling with delight, betrayal, and approximately a thousand questions.

“Like you, pretty girl, and Spencer Reid, boy genius?” Penelope said, pointing like she’d just solved a murder.

“Yes, Spencer and I,” she says ever so calmly.

She was sitting on her desk, legs swinging like she hadn’t just accidentally detonated a bomb in the middle of the BAU bullpen. There was something almost smug about her posture, chin lifted, shoulders relaxed, hands folded neatly in her lap. The posture of a woman who had legally bound herself to a genius and lived to tell the tale.

Penelope squinted. “Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re correcting my grammar because you’re married to him, aren’t you?”

“I correct your grammar because it’s wrong,” she said mildly. “The marriage is just a bonus.”

Penelope made a sound that could only be described as delighted outrage. Before she could launch into whatever dramatic monologue was clearly forming in her head, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“You and Spencer what?”

Spencer Reid walked into the bullpen, coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other, hair doing that thing where it looked like it had been lovingly assaulted by a pillow. He stopped mid-step. The bullpen was… loud. Not the usual hum of keyboards and murmured conversations. No, this was a charged loud. The kind that prickled at the back of his neck and made his brain immediately begin cataloging possibilities. He walks over, standing beside his wife, trying not to plant a kiss atop her head as not to blow their cover...not knowing what was already out there.

“They know,” she said, looking up at him with an almost apologetic smile, but if she was being honest, she didn't care. It had to come out sometime. It's been 8 long years at this point.

Spencer blinked. “They know what?”

He turns to look at each of his friends, whose faces must be cramping up from smiling, like sudden movements might escalate the situation. His eyes flicked to her hand.

Oh.

Oh no.

There it was.

The ring.

The rings.

Both of them.

He swallowed.

“Okay,” he said carefully. “Before we continue, I’d like to establish what ‘they’ know, because there are multiple possible interpretations and—”

“We know you’re married!” Penelope stage-whispered, then immediately stage-yelled, and for the first time since he was born, Spencer Reid was speechless, frozen in his spot.

Rewind. That morning had started innocently enough. She’d woken up before her alarm, sunlight barely peeking through the curtains of their bedroom. Spencer was still asleep beside her, glasses abandoned on the nightstand, hair mussed in a way that made him look younger, softer. She’d watched him for a moment. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The faint crease between his brows, even in sleep. The way his hand rested by sheer habit where she should’ve been, fingers curling slightly when he realized she wasn’t there. She smiled. Anniversaries had that effect on her. Made her sentimental. Made her quiet. She loved moments like this; it was rare that she woke up before him, and when she did, she took a moment to stare at her beloved husband to remind herself of how lucky she was to have him.

They’d celebrated the night before, dinner at home, takeout from the place he liked because they never messed up his order, and cake she’d insisted on buying because it was the cake he used to bring her to every study-session they had. They hadn’t gone out. It was never really their thing to do big, extravagant things. So their dining room has a loopy red candle in the middle of the table, and their couch with a soft, cozy blanket was enough to make their evening special. Of course, Spencer, being the most thoughtful person in the world, would make sure to buy her flowers, specifically the ones she told him she loved the first time they went out on a date. He also made a big batch of SwissMiss hot chocolate, the one with marshmallows in a teapot, because he knows she loves to drink a lot, and he means a lot.

She slipped out of bed quietly, kissed his temple, and got dressed in the dark. Which was possibly where everything went wrong, because usually, always, she had a routine, and a part of that was to take her rings off. It's not like she didn't want anyone to know she was married; it was more of a precautionary measure so as not to lose them. She treasures the rings Spencer had gotten her for their engagement and their wedding.

She was early. Earlier than usual. Earlier than everyone. The BAU floor was eerily quiet when she arrived, lights dimmed, coffee machine still warming up like it resented being awake. She sat at her desk, pulling up the paperwork she’d abandoned the night before. Just thirty minutes, she told herself. She didn’t notice the weight in her hand, and to make it worse, she didn’t notice that the phone faced up beside her keyboard was her personal phone. She and Spencer had rules. Clear ones. Work phones stayed professional. Personal phones stayed personal. You did not mix those worlds. Ever. Especially not in a building full of profilers whose literal job was to notice tiny details and extrapolate your entire life story from them. Enter the beloved, and her most favorite person after Spencer, Penelope Garcia. Penelope came in with her usual flair. She spotted her immediately and beamed.

“You’re early! Good morning, my gorgeous moonpie!” Penelope chirped, swooping in for her daily hug. “Who are you and what have you done with—”

And then her phone lit up; it was a text from Spencer.

"You at work, my love? You left without me. :("

To add to that was the wallpaper: a candid photo of her and Spencer at their wedding, cake on their faces, Spencer laughing like he’d just discovered joy for the first time in his life. Cue Penelope screaming. Not a small scream. Not a polite scream. A full-bodied, spine-tingling scream that echoed off the walls and made her jerk back like she’d been electrocuted.

“WHY IS SPENCER REID ON YOUR PHONE LIKE THAT?! MY LOVE? HELLO?”

Silence. Absolute, horrifying silence. Penelope stared at the screen, at the ring, and back at her face.

“Are you guys,” Penelope whispered, voice trembling with anticipation, “married?”

For a moment, she considered lying. They've gone 8 years without being noticed, why stop now, right? But then she remembered she was surrounded by profilers.

“Yes,” she caved. Penelope screamed again, and then everything happened all at once. Back in the present, Spencer was still standing there, processing.

“You’re married,” Morgan said slowly. “To her.”

“Yes,” Spencer replied.

“And we didn’t know.”

“No.”

“And you’ve been working here for years.”

“Yes.”

Morgan stared at the ceiling, laughing. “Damn,”

“Pretty Boy was hitched this whole time? Look, pretty girl, I’m sorry for trying to set him up with random women right in front of you. No wonder he always looked like he wanted to fake his own death.”

“It’s fine,” she laughed. “Honestly, it’s kind of funny.”

Emily leaned against a desk. “But, why didn’t you guys just tell us?”

“You never asked,” both of them said, perfectly in sync.

Penelope gasped. “OH MY GOD YOU’RE LIKE A HIVE MIND.”

JJ laughed. “Oh, also, since when?”

Spencer hesitated for half a second.

“Since always.”

They stared. Once it was out, there was no putting it back; they told the story. About meeting through a mutual friend who’d described Spencer as “a great tutor for statistics and biology,” which had turned into long study sessions, which turned into hanging out without studying, which turned into something neither of them wanted to name, until they did. They got married before she graduated. A year before Spencer joined the BAU. A few months later, she finished her degree early and joined the team herself.

Penelope pressed a hand to her chest. “I feel betrayed. But also honored. How romantic is that story!”

“It’s actually wild that you guys never noticed,” she said, leaning into Spencer’s shoulder now. “He always forgets to leave his wedding ring at home.”

“And we go home together,” Spencer added, genuinely puzzled. “Every day. Did you really not notice?”

“Well,” Penelope shrugged, “we just assumed it was because you lived in the same apartment complex.”

“And Hotch?” JJ asked.

“Oh, he knows,” Spencer said. “I told him before she joined. We didn't really have a choice on that one.”

Right on cue, Rossi stepped in, coffee in hand.

“What’s with all the noise?”

“Hey, guess what, they’re married!” Penelope shouted, pointing dramatically.

Rossi blinked. “Oh. Yeah. You guys didn’t know?”

He took a sip of coffee. “Some profilers you are.”

Spencer laughed, and for the first time, they stopped hiding.

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹

masterlist

[luveline]

𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐚 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

Hotch touches your face much more than a boss should. Or, 5 times you have a nosebleed +1 time Hotch does.

8k words, a slightly bloody coworkers to lovers, fem!reader, nosebleeds, reader works in the BAU but isn't a profiler, jack is a sweetheart, hotch has game fr, fluff + hurt/comfort

༺༻

You like your desk job. You handle paperwork primarily, and act as a sort of assistant unofficially. Anything to be useful — you get paid either way. It's why you don't mind trying to be helpful in the office and take on some of the office administrator's overflow. 

Today, that's fixing the coffee machines. The office can function on one at a stretch but both being broken means an entire roster of grumpy agents and all of them are on your back. And when they have to see all the stuff they say? You figure fixing the coffee machines is the least you can do. 

You're ignoring the weight of their waiting, elbow deep in one of the machines. The instruction manual had mentioned a little spout that can get clogged with detriment. Hopefully, you can clean it out and get at least one machine working by midday. 

"Oh no," you murmur. 

The piece you're trying to unscrew is tightly wound, too tight for your fingers to work behind. You're probably going to need a small tool, like an allen key. 

"No luck?" Agent Prentiss asks, sounding defeated. 

You look up from the machine and smile quickly. "I need smaller hands," you joke, letting the machine sit back on the counter and pulling out your aching fingers. "I'll have one working by the end of the day, Agent Prentiss. Scout's honour." 

She shrugs and waves a hand at you. "It's alright. What's one day without caffeine?" 

You laugh at her good-natured sarcasm and go back to your machine. When you're certain you can't jimmy it you turn your attention to the second machine and run through the steps. You're too determined to lose. Your coworkers depend on you. 

You start by changing the filter and are unsurprised when that doesn't work. You check the button connectivity, the fuse, and then you turn again to that small piece that needs to be washed. 

"Yes," you cheer under your breath, pulling the piece from its home to assess the problem. 

It's a tiny pipe with a piece of mesh that acts as a sieve to trap dust. Maybe. Whatever it is, it's full of caramelised coffee grounds. You move to the sink basin and turn on the faucet to clean it, washing with anticipation as the burned coffee trickles down the drain. 

You're pleased enough to feel a mild adrenaline rush, and your excitement leads to butter fingers: you drop the prized piece of pipe and it rolls out of sight.

This is not a good time for business casual. 

You tug your too-tight pants from your thighs and bend down in search. When it doesn't reveal itself you get on your knees and run your hands along the seams of the kitchen cabinets, face lowered. 

"Is everything okay?" 

You wince at a very familiar, very unfortunately timed voice. 

"Yes, sir, everything is perfect," you say, looking up to meet the eye of your boss' boss, unit chief SSA Aaron Hotchner. "I've misplaced a piece but I'll have the coffee machine working again in no time. I'm sorry." 

He raises his eyebrows at you. It's a very nice expression on him, his eyes light with an emotion you don't often see on him. "Is fixing the coffee machine in your job description?" he asks. 

You think it might be a polite reprimand. You won't insult him by insisting you're always on time with your actual delegated workload because he and your supervisor have to send you emails asking for missing paperwork all the time, so you try to disarm him. 

You beam. 

You're not a supermodel but everybody is pretty when they smile. "Sir, I thought I could sacrifice my lunch break for the good of the Bureau." 

"Yes, well." He looks like he wants to smile back. You might be seeing what you want to see, though. "That won't be necessary. Take your time." 

Your smile falters as you feel a telling heat at the back of your nose. "Thank you," you say quickly, covering your nostril with the pad of your index finger. 

You're hoping your swift words will send him on his way, but he's literally the lead profiler of the BAU. He knows suspicious activity when he sees it.  

"Is something wrong?" 

Blood starts to trickle down your palm. You slide your hand up to cover your nose the best that you can. The alarm on his face when he spots the blood sliding down your bare forearm can't be understated. 

"It's just a nosebleed," you placate, sounding stuffed up. 

He's a quick thinker, tearing a wad of paper towel off of the dispenser above the microwave and offering it to you.

If you weren't so distracted by your current predicament you'd say thank you. 

He turns back to the paper towels and tears off another wad. To your horror, Hotch bends down right there in the kitchenette and waits for you to open your palm, feeding the towels into your spare hand. 

"Should you tilt your head back?" 

"I think that's a myth," you say. 

Your skin starts to scrawl with embarrassment, the itchy, awful feeling of being pinned by his eyes. 

"How long do they usually last?" 

"Not very long, sir. I'm sure you're busy." 

He tilts his head slightly to one side as if conceding your point. "Let me help you up," he commands. 

You can't make yourself reject his help. Honestly, it's nice to have somebody care even if the nosebleed is purely superficial. His fingers curl around the crook of your elbow and he helps you onto your feet just in time for Agent Prentiss to return.

"Hotch, what did you do?" she asks, bewildered. 

You try not to laugh too much, worried you'll force another burst of blood. 

—

Confidential information. You hear it, you ignore it. Harder to ignore the whiteboards in the conference room that are currently choc-a-block with prints of crime scene photos. 

You don't mean to gawk at them. It's severely unprofessional and you shouldn't really be in here to begin with. The electronic screen is off, as are the monitors, so you know the room isn't in use. 

That could change any second, and it does. 

You hide your clammy palms behind your back at the sound of footsteps and try not to rush obviously toward the mug you'd come in here to collect. 

The door creaks open as you're leaning over the table. 

"I'm sorry," you say without looking. 

"You don't have to clean up after anyone." 

"Actually," you say quietly, abashed at having been caught, "this is my mug." 

You turn to face him. 

Agent Hotchner is tall and handsome. These are two undeniable facts and yet every time you see him it feels like a surprise. It might have something to do with how composed he is, how deliberate his movements are, or it might just be 'cause you have a crush on him. 

It's anybody's guess.

"I can make Reid wash it," he says. 

You're so whipped that your chest confuses his offer for something much worse. Like, he's on your side.

"That's okay, I don't wanna punish him for my own fussiness." You cover the mugs printed sides subtly, or as subtly as you're able. 

"What's special?" 

You smile at him, lips pressed together tight and eyes squinting slightly. You know what he's getting at but you ask anyways, stalling now he's caught you. "About what?" 

"About the mug." 

You peer behind him. 

"You can't tell anyone," you murmur, rounding the table to stand by his side with your shoulders to the door. "I'm not sure anybody knows it's mine." 

The mug is a corn-husk yellow and printed with a scene from a vintage Peanuts comic, dark-haired Lucy standing behind her lemonade stand that boasts 'Psychiatric Help 5¢'. Charlie Brown sits in front of it looking morose. 

It's hard to describe why you like it so much. 

"I see," Agent Hotchner says. 

It's become something of an office joke, offering each other five cents on bad days, calling someone Charlie Brown when they look lost. You doubt very much that anyone is making fun of you, you're just hiding that it's your mug because that's part of the fun. The mystery of the Peanuts mug. 

"I can't drink out of anything else," you confide, turning your face to his. 

He's definitely smiling this time. "Why would you?" 

You nod in genuine delight. "Exactly! Vintage Peanuts, and I searched so much for this because they used to use lead in glassware paint, and-" 

The nosebleed comes on suddenly. There's a drop of blood running down your lips before you've even realised. Agent Hotchner's eyes follow it all the way down. 

"Oh, no," you say, blood dripping to the hill of your chin. 

You use the back of the hand that's holding the mug to catch what's rolling down your neck and the other to pinch your nose closed, bending forward on instinct to hide your face. You're seasoned in nosebleeds. You know how you look — scary. Ridiculous. 

"Here," Agent Hotchner says. 

His hand comes into your eyeline, offering a dark square of fabric. You cringe at the idea of marring his likely expensive handkerchief but you can't not accept, pressing it haphazard to your bloody nose. 

"What were you saying about lead?" 

You're so frazzled about the blood you don't realise he's made a joke until it's too late to laugh.

"Do you know what causes them?" he asks. 

"I'm not really sure, sir. I used to get them all the time as a kid, um…" You pull the handkerchief away from your nose to check if it's still bleeding. When it doesn't continue, you say, "They're pretty harmless. It's done already." 

"If you need time off for a check-up, I'm sure the office administrator can find a sick day for you." 

You smile at him, and then remember the blood and grimace. I must look like Carrie right now, you think morosely. 

"That won't be necessary, sir, thank you. It's apparently the dry air." You're starting to feel more and more warm under his serious gaze. There's a startling amount of concern there. "I'm gonna go clean up now. Excuse me," you say, face glowing with heat. 

"Of course."

You cover your bloody face with the back of your hand, his handkerchief held in red-stained fingers. You pass Agent Prentiss on the stairs, hurrying past her with an I'm okay smile. 

"Hotch, again?" you hear Agent Prentiss ask incredulously. "Where do you get off?"

—

You can't return Hotch's handkerchief, it's a biohazard, but the fabric had felt so soft and the monogram in the corner had cued you in on how expensive it must have been. Your guilt manifests itself into three new handkerchiefs with the embroidered A.H. They aren't half as nice as the one he'd let you ruin. You leave them on his desk — or rather, you get Dr. Reid to leave them on his desk, as walking into his office doesn't feel like something you're allowed to do — and try to forget about them. 

For a week, you do. Agent Hotchner doesn't visit his office, Agent Jareau apprehends him on his way in that morning and the profiling team gather around their round table, and you don't see any of them for four days. The Friday they return, you're already on your way home. 

That's why his actions the following Monday shock you. 

It's unusual that he walks anywhere that isn't a straight shot to his desk. You're doing paperwork for once in your life, sitting awkwardly with your foot hooked under your thigh and a pair of wired earphones in. It's not technically allowed but he really doesn't venture over to you often. You've become complicit in your unsupervised nirvana of a desk job. 

You snatch your earphone out and struggle into a normal position. "Agent Hotchner," you say, wondering if you should call him Special Supervisory, or maybe something cooler, like your Highness. Your grace. He's intimidating in his accomplishments at the FBI, and he's super handsome. 

"Can I see you in my office? Ten minutes." 

You nod brainlessly. 

Your desk buddy doesn't wait long after he's left to investigate. 

"What did you do?" they ask from across the short partition. 

"I really don't know," you say, though you have your suspicions. 

"Were you reading on your computer again? I told you, read under the desk like a normal person." 

"No, I learned my lesson with that one when Agent Morgan started reciting Pride and Prejudice from over my shoulder." 

You check your face in a compact before you report to Agent Hotchner's office. Your heart beats in your throat as you knock his open door. 

"Come in," he says without looking up. 

You take a cautious step. 

He finishes off quickly and lifts his chin. His eyes are dark in the early morning light, his hair in mild disarray from the wind and drizzle. 

"Come in," he says again. 

You wish there was a word that could describe his voice accurately. He talks in the peaceable kind of cadence that comes with hushed tones without truly being hushed. 

"Sir…" You bite the bullet. "If this is about the macadamia cookies, I promise I'll replace them. I didn't actually eat any of them. They kind of fell out of the cabinet and exploded, it was a freak accident." 

He holds up his hand. "Thank you. For the handkerchiefs. They were unnecessary." 

He says 'unnecessary' with a smile. 

"Actually, sir, I think they were entirely necessary." You just disagreed with your boss. "Sir. I couldn't return the first, I ruined it and I- I didn't think you'd want it even if I got it dry cleaned." 

He raises his eyebrows. "It was unnecessary," he repeats, the word drawn out carefully. "But, I appreciate the gesture. Thank you." 

Two thank you's. You stop while you're ahead. "You're more than welcome, Agent Hotchner, sir." 

You share an amicable glance and turn to leave. 

"L/N?" 

You stutter to a halt. "Sir?" 

"Hotch is fine." 

You try not to swallow your own tongue. "Hotch," you say, and then worry that's something people only do in movies. 

A few days later, your humming along to your earphones and wading through the chaos of the bullpen feeling pretty happy. The office has been busy but not in the scary, suffocating way, and you're happy to be here. The BAU can be hard (and that's as someone who isn't on the front line). Times like this are cherished. 

You pause a foot from your desk, eyes creasing into a suspicious squint. 

There's a small box on your desk. 

"What is that?" you ask your desk buddy. 

"What?" they ask.

"That. There's a thing on my desk." 

"Nothing to do with me." 

"Think I should call the bomb squad?" 

"I'm sure you'll be alright. Maybe read the note before you raise the alarm." 

"There's a note?" you mumble, caution swiftly overrun by a burning curiosity. 

You'd be sincerely worried about a bomb, only this is the FBI. If a bomb got this far into the building half the people in it would lose their jobs. You kick your bag under the desk and drop your ipod onto the desk, tinny music blaring from your earphones. 

"What are you?" you ask under your breath. 

The box is wrapped in crepe paper and a yellow sticky note has been attached to the top. 

Rest assured, made without lead. 

That only confuses you more. You're hesitance has your desk mate sitting up in their chair. "Wait," they say, peering over the glass partition, "should I raise the alarm?" 

You slide a trim fingernail under a neat stripe of tape. "No, I think we're good," you mumble. 

And lo and behold, a mug is homed inside. A Peanuts mug no less; the mug has been printed with a Peanuts comic panel. Charlie Brown lays on the floor in a straight plank, and standing overy him is his friend Linus, who says, "I have been asked to tell you that your cries of anguish are keeping the whole neighbourhood awake!" 

You laugh loud and instinctively, shrill enough to attract the attention of half the office. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you slouch down as low as possible in your desk chair. Heat pools in your cheeks. 

"What is it?" your desk mate asks. 

"A present." 

And hence your new favourite mug is brought into life. You write your name on the bottom with black sharpie and continue to deny all knowledge of the first, which you retire to the drawer of your desk. 

For a while your nosebleeds go away. You know exactly who left the mug on your desk, and you remember the joke he'd made. Maybe Hotch had been on to something, and you'd inadvertently poisoned yourself.

You smile practically every time you see your new mug, and you're unsurprised when others appreciate its humour. 

You're not sure how to explain it to an eight year old, though. 

You're slumped over, nose to the desk and hand working diligently across your notes. Having a crush on your boss makes doing your work easier because you're constantly trying to impress him — an impossible task, but trying all the same. Your earphones bump a soft love song, something sweet to cut through the unhappy details of the case file you're working on. 

"What are you listening to?" a small voice asks. 

You drag your gaze up slowly and find Jack Hotchner standing beside your desk. You've seen him in person a few times, and once as Hotch's phone wallpaper, but he grows so much between visits you almost don't recognise him. 

"I'm sorry," you say, pulling your earphone out, "what did you say?" 

"What song are you listening to?" he asks, hands creeping up over the lip of your desk. 

You sit up and smile at him. You can't say he looks like Hotch, though maybe you can see it in his tiny grin, that hint of cheekiness. "I'm listening to a song called At Last. It's a love song. Do you… want to listen?" you offer quietly. 

He nods. 

You push your chair away from your desk and turn down the ipod's volume so it doesn't damage his hearing. "Here," you say, offering one of your earbuds. "Don't push it in, okay? I don't want it to hurt your ears." 

Jack takes the proffered earbud but doesn't seem super interested. "Do you have The Beatles?" he asks. 

"The Beatles! Is that what you and your dad listen to?" 

He nods, pleased, and you nod yourself, flicking through your songs in search of what he wants. 

"I have Here Comes the Sun. Do you like that one?" 

He beams. "Yes! Me and dad sing that one in the car." 

That's a really nice image, Hotch and Jack belting happy lyrics together in the busy mornings. It's also odd. Hotch singing isn't an image you can say you've ever thought of before. 

"I love this one," you tell him, letting your elbows dig into your thighs so the two of you are eye level with one another. 

"Me too." 

You share the earbuds, Jack combing your desk for something interesting no doubt. You cover a case detail that involves some gory images and almost knock over your mug in your haste. 

"What does that say?" he asks, pointing. 

Jack looks between you and the mug for answers. 

You lick your lips. "Uh, do you want me to read it to you?" 

He thinks about it. "Can I try?" 

"Of course you can." 

You clear a path for the mug and place it in front of him. 

"I have been asked to tell you," he begins confidently, "that your cries of an-" He frowns. "Anguish are keeping the whole ne… I don't know that." 

"I'm sure you do, it just looks weird. Neighbourhood." 

"Neighbourhood," he repeats. "Keeping the whole neighbourhood awake." He huffs a boyish, gentle laugh that makes your heart spin. 

"Good job, buddy." 

He melts under your praise. He's a cute kid, and his hair shines golden under the office lighting. It flops to one side as he tilts his head. "What's 'anguish'?" 

"Anguish. Uhm, it's like sadness." 

"Oh." He takes this in. "Do you have Let It Be?" 

You eventually give up your chair and let Jack sit with your ipod in his lap, playing through all The Beatles songs that you have. Nobody seems to be watching you and Hotch has yet to come out of his office and tell you off for supplying his son with technology, so you work around him, leaning over the back of the chair to fill in what's missing from your reports. 

Jack leans back in his chair, his adorable singing coming to a stop. "Do you have movies on the computer?" 

Yes, but should my boss' son know that? "It's for work," you say regretfully. 

"Not even FernGully?"

"I'm sorry." 

He shakes his head. "It's okay, it's not your fault."

"Do you like to draw? I don't have many colours, but we can play a game." 

He smiles for a moment, then hesitation crawls over his features. "Dad says not to disturb anyone." 

"I'm on my lunch break," you assure him. You hadn't been, but you don't mind taking it now. "Are you hungry? I have oranges." 

You and Jack end up sitting under your desk. You really don't mean to end up like that; you sit on your knees because your back has started to ache and Jack wants to sit with you. You can't say no to him. (You could, you just don't want to.)

"What did she say after that?" you ask, fingers digging into two orange segments to pull them apart. You shave off all of the strands of white pith before you pass it to Jack, who says thank you every time. 

"She said to ask Stacy who said to ask Morgan P who said to ask Joan. And Joan said she didn't wanna know, but then she changed her mind after I told her abd she said to ask Cooper." 

"What did Cooper say?" 

"Cooper says he doesn't think he knows where it is." 

You nod, chewing your own orange slice slovenly. "Well, what did your dad say?" 

"I haven't told dad." 

You lift your head from the paper where Jack has drawn an impressive house with five windows. "You haven't told your dad?" 

"He worries about everything." 

"That's his job, Jack. He has to worry about you." 

"He worries about everybody." 

"Some people do." You clean another orange slice for him, and he says thank you again. "You're welcome… Jack, I really think you should tell you dad. It sounds like somebody might have taken your pencil case on purpose. And even if he can't find out who did, he can get you some new pencils for school." 

"I told mom but she hasn't done anything yet." 

Your stomach hurts. 

"Well," you murmur, picking up the green pen, "I'm sure she's trying her best, baby. Can I help colour in these trees?" 

You and Jack fall into a companionable silence, his head bobbing to You Make My Dreams (Come True) the cutest thing you've ever seen. You're not sure how long you sit there, but all good things must come to an end, and your half hour for lunch draws to a close. 

"Hey, Jack?" you say, straightening where you kneel and preparing to stand. "I have some stuff I have to do but you're welcome to stay there." 

Unfortunately, you don't manage to grab his attention. Double unfortunately, somebody else does. 

"Morgan, where's Jack?" 

You peek past your desk chair. A little ways away, Hotch stands looking sick to his stomach, and Agent Morgan looks lost. 

"I didn't have him?" 

"I asked him to sit with you," Hotch says miserably, throwing his gaze over the office. "Jack?" 

Jack hears that loud and clear. Something in his dad's tone must spark some urgency, as he stands in a rush and trips on his own shoelace, smacking the top of his head into your nose. 

You gasp. 

"Ouch," Jack moans. 

Blinking, you shake off your disorientation. "Oh no, are you okay? Here, sweetheart, stand up," you encourage gently, "I'm so sorry, have I hurt your head?" 

Jack's gaze to the floor, he rubs the top of his head with a clumsy hand. "It's okay, Miss Agent, it wasn't you and-" He stares at you. 

"What?" you ask. 

"Dad!" he shouts, backing away from you. "Daddy!" 

Jack runs out of your little alcove and straight into his father's legs, almost bowling him over. Hotch drops two relieved hands down to his small shoulders. "What?" he asks, startled, "What happened?" 

Your nose stings, admittedly, but you've felt worse. It's a light throbbing that distracts you entirely from the blood racing down your lips until you taste it. 

Shit, you think, crawling out from under the desk with one hand, the other clamped over your bleeding nose. Your movement draws Hotch's attention, which in turn gathers at least a quarter of the office's. 

"I didn't mean to," Jack says shrilly. 

"It's okay. It wasn't your fault," you say stuffily, clambering onto shaky legs. 

You turn your head away from the collective gaze of the office and start toward the kitchen and hear at least three different people say, "Wait!" 

You ignore them, using your elbow to help tear off a paper towel from the roll and pushing it without finesse against your face. You squirm under the weight of tens of eyes, more embarrassed than anything else, worse when a warm hand turns you by the shoulder. 

"He really didn't mean to," you say, looking up into Hotch's concerned face. 

"I know." 

"Is he okay?”

"He's not the one with a nosebleed," Hotch says, neither kind nor unkind. 

"I honestly didn't even feel it." 

His fingers curl around your wrist, a slow tightening. "That doesn't surprise me, Y/N." 

You bite your tongue to stop from laughing. “He bumped his head into me." 

"Mm. Just a red mark. It won't even bruise." 

You deflate in relief. "Oh, good." 

Hotch's hands have found their way onto yours. He pulls one from your nose, gaze hardening at the strong river of blood that makes its way into the dip of your cupid's bow. 

"I'm sorry, sir." 

He shakes his head and gathers another wad of tissue paper, a light blue that quickly turns to a wine dark when he presses it to your face. Your heart hammers at his proximity, a thousand and one nerves aflame. 

He's close but not too close, nothing anyone could mistake for something else, and still it feels like a strangely intimate moment. His careful touches. He directs your hand to hold a fresh paper towel to the stream of blood and discards the bloody tissue. You watch him push up his sleeves carefully and give his hands a quick rinse in the sink before he dampens another paper towel. 

It's cool against your neck. 

"I think your shirt is ruined," he says, dabbing at a line of dried blood. 

You shiver at the feeling of cold water dripping under your starched collar.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, moving up to your jaw. 

You don't know how to admit it to him. No, it doesn't hurt. Your hands are really warm, and you're touching me so gently I can barely feel it. 

"A little." 

"Well, Jack is very sorry." 

"He doesn't have to be. He tripped, he…" You fade off as Hotch lays his hand across your cheek, thumb lifting your head slightly so he can clean your chin. 

"How are you faring?" he asks. 

You pull your tissue away and wait for the tell-tale heat of continued blood flow. You're ashamed to admit it but you're almost glad it hasn't stopped, Hotch's hand warm and large and impossibly comforting. Nosebleeds don't stress you out, exactly, but it's not fun to be covered in your own blood at work where everyone can see you. It's nice to have somebody wiping it away. 

"I think I'll live," you say. 

—

Jack sends you an apology card. 

It's hand delivered. Hotch is coming up to the BAU main floor as you're heading out. Like a rock dividing a river, his teammates stream from the elevator around you and Hotch remains inside. 

"I'll catch up," he promises. 

Agent JJ raises her eyebrows. Agent Morgan chuckles. 

You draw in on yourself self-consciously. You don't dress as nicely when he isn't here, and today you're rivalling Dr. Reid for most lovable dork in a pair of brown pants and a big sweater. Teetering the line between professional and unprofessional. 

"Sir," you greet, stepping into the elevator.

He presses the ground floor button. "I have something for you." 

Your eyebrows jump up high. Hotch unzips the main zipper of his duffle back and threads between clothes and papers for a smaller envelope. 

"It's for you." 

You accept, careful not to tear the thin sheet of folded paper as you pull it free. You're thrilled to see a drawing of Charlie Brown on the front, crudely drawn but clearly him with his head-wrapped in bandages. His puppy Snoopy sits beside him with something in his hands. You're not sure what. 

The inside is even sweeter. 

To Y/N

I am sorry if I made your nose angwished. Please feel better soon 

Love, Jack Hotchner. 

"Oh, I love it," you say, rubbing your thumb over a heart drawn in red crayon. "He's really something else, Hotch. He's brilliant, and so smart. I mean, anguished." 

He laughs and it twists your chest in five different directions. "He is." 

"It wasn't his fault though. If my nose weren't so sensitive it really wouldn't have bled at all, I didn't bruise. How is he? Did his head feel better?" 

The doors open. You hesitate, waiting for his reply. 

"Children are made of harder stuff than we are," he says. 

You step backwards out of the elevator. "I felt so bad. I don't suppose he'll want to come and sit with me again." 

"Actually," Hotch says, stepping out of the elevator just as the doors close again, "he thinks you're, uh, in his own words, the 'coolest friend' I've ever had." 

"Friend," you repeat with a smile. 

You've focused on the wrong word, and you worry an awkward silence will ensue, but Hotch steps up to the plate and says, "Yeah. He wouldn't stop telling me about all the cool songs you have on your ipod." 

"Purely for non-working hours." 

"Right." His smile says that he's seen straight through you. 

You're thinking maybe he likes what he sees. 

"This is really amazing," you reaffirm, pressing Jack's card to your chest. 

"He felt guilty." 

"He doesn't have to. Please, tell him I said thank you. And that he's amazing. And that my nose was being dramatic." You smile softly. "He can sit with me whenever he likes." 

"Maybe at the desk, next time, rather than under it."

"Yes, sir." 

You nod at him and he nods back, and you take it as a dismissal, turning on your heel. You've barely walked a metre when he's speaking up.

"Y/N?" 

You look at him from over your shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Are you hungry?" 

You bite your cheek in a hurry to answer, “Yeah. I’m starving.”

Your heart is basically a ticking time bomb in your chest as you and Hotch make your way into the heart of the city. He's a fast walker with long legs and you rush to keep up. That’s totally why you’re breathless. Not because he makes you nervous. 

Hotch is a really surprising guy, though maybe he isn’t surprising at all, you’re simply unversed in how he is outside of work. He talks more and his voice grows louder the further into the city you go, more expressive. 

You’re no profiler, but you’d bet money on Aaron Hotchner being nervous.

Good thing you’re nervous, too. 

“It’s not far now. You like Thai?” he asks. 

“Yeah, of course. Have you ever had Tom Yum?”

“With shrimp?” 

“Exactly.”

“I think I’ve tried it. I lived off of pad Thai when I was a prosecutor,” he says, head tilting back very slightly. His Adam’s apple works under the skin. 

He looks back down, a sheepishness to his voice as he continues, “A lot of late nights.”

“More than now?” you ask skeptically.

His laugh is low and warm. “No. The firm was much closer to the city than the bureau. It’s a long walk.”

“It is,” you say, taking a small step closer to his side to share a secret smile, “but it hasn’t felt that way tonight.”

You try to keep it light. You don’t want to scare him off. 

“No,” he agrees. “It hasn’t.”

You duck into a fragrant Thai restaurant and order fast, the two of you knee to knee in the very corner. A potted plant threatens to blind him every time he moves, and so he endeavours to stay very still. 

The food's a little on the spicy side, and while you're laughing you can't find it in you to feel embarrassed about your runny nose. 

"You didn't like Seinfeld?" you ask, and how you got here's a mystery, but Hotch is extremely passionate about it in the best way. 

"No, of course not. How could you? George was always worrying about something, he was the definition of a self-fulfilling prophecy and he never learned!" he debates, all in a rush, chopsticks moving in emphasis. 

You snort and wipe your nose again. "It was like a relief, though, that it was happening to him and not to you, you know? You might be having a bad day but George Costanza's having a worse one." 

"Oh, honey," he says. 

It takes you a second to realise that he's talking to you. 

"What?" you ask, perplexed. 

Hotch stands up though there's no space for it, chopsticks ditched and hand pushed into the recesses of his pocket swiftly. He pulls out a small packet of tissues, and he lifts his chin, a jut. You lift your own, and he's quick to press the tissue to your nose. 

"It's bleeding?" you ask, startled. 

"Just a little." 

"Sorry." 

"No, no," he says, bent down, a comforting hand around your shoulder, "don't be. It gives me an excuse." 

"To do what?" 

"To be this close." 

Your smile is a slow, molasses thick thing. You can't get a handle on it, and Hotch's answering one is worse. He looks so happy to be here with you, to be wiping your bloody nose. 

It's only a small nose bleed. Hotch pulls the tissue away once or twice to check, wiping at it tenderly and giving you a comforting squeeze each time. The silence feels natural as breathing. 

"There," he says eventually, pulling the bloodied tissue away with a smile. "All done." 

"Thank you, Hotch." 

"I'd think you'd better start calling me Aaron, considering."

"Considering what?"

His hand climbs from your shoulder to the column of your throat. He doesn't make you wait any longer, leaning down with a sure, brave deliberateness. He presses his lips to yours. 

A sweet kiss but too short — barely two seconds and he's taking a half-step away, your lips tingling in want. 

You go to stand and he pushes you down into your seat, not unkindly. "I'm gonna go see if I can get some hot water for you," he says, placating your gutted look with a kiss to your cheek. 

He wipes it thoughtlessly with the pad of his thumb before he goes. 

You're genuinely surprised your nose doesn't start bleeding again at the look he gives you as he turns the corner toward the restaurant's kitchen. Protective, knowing. Your heart races in your chest. 

You probe at your face, elated. Your sensitive nose is good for something after all. 

—

The first time you sleepover with Aaron is an accident. You don't "mess around," as you'd crooned over the phone, joking but with enough salaciousness to make him smile. The gas and hot water had stopped working in your apartment, and though the landlord had promised they'd fix it the very next morning, Aaron couldn't stand to think about you cold and alone when you could easily be warm and with him. 

So here you are. 

"Are you sure this is okay?" you whisper, peering over his shoulder at Jack. 

His son stands in the living room in his pyjamas.  

"It's okay," he says, "I asked him, and you know he's obsessed with you. His one condition is that you watch FernGully." 

"FernGully," you say, enthused. 

"You'll like it." 

You actually really do. Showered and dressed in your own pyjamas, a little shy but not too much to stop from laying against his side on the sofa. He's got one arm around you and one around Jack but he might as well be invisible, the two of you talking in murmurs across his chest. 

"And that's-" 

"Pips," Jack supplies helpfully. 

"Pips," you say, hand spread over Aaron's chest. 

If he didn't know better he'd think this was a slice of heaven. 

"So many people," you whisper in Aaron's ear. 

"More in the second one." 

"There's two?" 

After the movies finished — "It was better than you said, Jack," — and dinner’s been eaten and cleared away, Aaron takes Jack to bed. 

"Do you want a story?" Aaron asks, flitting around the room in a half-hearted attempt to square away the mess. 

"No." 

"You sure?" 

Jack's eyes are heavy, and they have been since dinner. "Yes," he mumbles, face turned into his pillow, hands lax on top of his blanket. 

Aaron smiles and makes his way to Jack's side. He kisses his son's cheek, and strokes the soft hair from his face. He smells like strawberry toothpaste and kids shampoo. 

You're sitting on the end of the bed when he gets to you, face damp with skincare and shining in the light. Aaron kisses you without touching it, worried he'll mess it up. 

“He’s wiped. All the excitement,” he says. 

“Excitement- From me?” you ask. 

“From you.” He puts his hands carefully either side of your neck.

You haven’t been dating very long, and still he knows how easy it is to fluster you. And while he loves to see it, see you giddy and shy, blinking at nothing like there’s a light shining in your eyes. He’d once pressed his thumb with the very faintest of pressure into your windpipe while kissing you, and you hadn’t been able to look him in the eye for three days. 

He loves that, but he’d prefer if you slept facing him. He wants to see what you look like asleep, as odd as it sounds, he assumes you’ll be beautiful. He wouldn’t be surprised if you were more. 

“Aaron,” you whisper. 

“What?”

“Want me to massage your bad shoulder?”

He wonders, as he thinks is more than allowed, if that’s a seduction trick, but you genuinely just give him a massage, as you have a couple of times in his office after noticing how sore it gets now the weather’s cold. 

You rub into the problem spot carefully, sighing with sympathy. “Oh, baby,” you say, more to yourself than him. 

He fucking loves the way you say it. Aaron’s never been called baby like that — like it’s his name, and it’s sweet to say. Your tired yawns warm the back of his neck as you go. He doesn’t think he’s getting lucky tonight, and he doesn’t care one bit. He feels pretty lucky just having you near. 

He gets you under the covers before you can fall asleep against his back and makes sure you know how grateful he is for the massage with two kisses. The first is a genuine thank you and the second is to make you laugh, nipping and playful under your jaw. 

Aaron falls asleep thinking about it. 

He wakes to something much less idyllic. 

It’s that strange feeling. Being a dad has honed it, but he’s always had it. It’s one of the things that makes him so good at his job, a prickling at the back of his neck. At first he can’t pin it down. 

Your waist rises under his hand with your breathing. He remembers that you’re there and smiles contentedly, hand sliding behind your back to pull you in. You’d fallen asleep on your back, and you’ve turned toward him in your sleep. 

The metallic stick of blood is sudden and sharp in his nose. He knows what it is before he opens his eyes. The room is dark, lit only by the red light of his alarm clock on the nightstand. His eyes ache with fatigue, and he knows in his gut that it’s too early to get up. 

Blood pools under your nose. Not a lot, nothing to panic over, but blood all the same. He sits up, quickly turns on his bedside lamp, and rouses you as gently as he can, a hand slid under your shoulders to drag you up. 

You blink blearily. “What?” you ask, voice scratchy. 

“Nosebleed,” he informs, pinching your nose before blood can slink down your neck and ruin your pyjama shirt. 

You wince and he hates the way you flinch away from his touch, your clouded confusion. It’s only a second but it doesn’t sit right with him. 

“Sorry, honey.”

You catch hold of his bicep and blink some more. 

“You okay to pinch it yourself? I’ll go grab some tissue paper.”

You nod robotically and replace his light pinching with your own, much less kind. He rushes to grab a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom, and when he returns you've pulled yourself into an alert sitting position, awaiting his return. 

He tears you off a wad of paper. “Here, honey.”

“I think it’s stopped.”

“Yeah? Let me grab you a towel.”

Back to the bathroom. When he returns for the second time you’re holding his given toilet paper against your face. He’s alarmed to find your eyes glassy with tears, shimmering in the bedroom light. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, sitting across from you. 

He’d been right about sleepy you. You look lovely, a little funny with your rumpled pyjamas, and now quite sad because of your tears. “Honey,” he says again, pulling your hand from your face so he can assess the damage, “you’re okay. Is it hurting?”

You’ve told him before the nosebleeds are painless, but maybe they’re a symptom of something, maybe you’re sick—

“I ruined your pillow,” you mutter. 

Ah. That’s much better than your being sick. He can work with that easily. 

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

He takes your chin between his thumb and his forefinger to lift your head. The blood has stopped already; your nosebleeds are often a whirlwind, over by the time you’ve started panicking. 

“I’m sorry.”

He drops your bloodied tissue into his lap and brings the dampened towel to your face. He’s cautious. Your nose gets irritated and any roughness could disrupt the blood clot or agitate the anterior blood vessels inside. 

“You think I’m mad over a pillow?”

“No, of course not.” 

You sound stuffy. It’s adorable. Adorable and sad. He rubs the hill of your chin in a show of affection. 

“Then why?”

“Sorry, I think I’m just tired. I- I was trying to make tonight perfect because,” — a small tear bumps down your cheek — “it’s our first night together even if it was accidental.”

He dabs at your upper lip and the wet blood there with a smile growing. “It was perfect. It is perfect. You getting a nosebleed on a seven dollar pillow doesn’t change that.” His hand moves to your cheek, squashing your baby tear. “You know I love any opportunity to touch you… Now, do you want a glass of water?”

You close your eyes and lean your face heavily into his palm. “Can I have one of those kisses from earlier?”

“Can you keep your blood inside your body?” he asks with a smile, rubbing your cheek with his thumb.

“Depends how hard you bite me.”

He’s very, very gentle.

—

+1

Aaron breaks his nose. You are not supposed to know that he breaks his nose, only he breaks it so bad that he has to go to the hospital to get it set, and he decides he’d like you there. 

Technically, somebody else broke his nose. The details aren’t important. What matters is that Aaron makes a rookie mistake and he has to deal with the consequences, which is a biting, aching pain behind his eyes and a trip to the ER. He does not let them take him in an ambulance, and it really isn’t urgent. He sits in a waiting room chair with a stiff back and it doesn’t take long before you’re striding inside looking terrified. 

“Hey, baby,” he says, testing it out. He doesn’t really like it. 

“What did they give you?” you ask, bending at the waist to take his face into your kind hands. 

“Vicodin when I got here.”

“Lucky you.” You turn his face in your hands. 

“You look beautiful,” he says. 

“I wish I could say the same, but somebody messed you up bad.”

He laughs and takes your face into his hands, the two of you smiling way too much for the situation that you’re in. “I was so worried,” you say with a little laugh. 

He kisses you soundly. It hurts, but it’s worth it. 

They call his name not long after and a nurse takes you both into a grey examination room. The doctor is a short, stern woman who has to use a stool to reach Aaron’s face, and she sets his nose with a swiftness that even he manages to recognise for the brutality that it is in his drug haze. 

You hold his hand. He has to try very hard not to crush your fingers. 

It starts bleeding immediately. 

Aaron meets your gaze over the doctor's head, eyes wide and in similar fashion as your own, and he knows it’s an adverse reaction to shocking pain but he starts giggling. Aaron Hotchner doesn’t giggle, really. He laughs, and sometimes when he’s with Jack that laugh can get super loose and high, but this is a bona fide giggle. 

You try to gasp in shock but you’re laughing too. “Aaron,” you reproach.

He holds his breath as the doctor presses gauze to his face. 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says.

You snicker behind your hand. The doctor presses gauze to his face and rolls her eyes. She likely does not get paid enough. 

“You’re still handsome,” you say giddily. 

“Oh, well that's good.”

There’s a small silence rife with tension, and when it breaks it bursts like a dam. You laugh so hard you end up clinging to his arm, chest pressed to his bicep. He strokes the back of your head with a wobbly hand, wondering how miserable he’d be if you weren’t here with him right now. 

“What happened to keeping all your blood inside your body, Hotchner?” you ask, delighted. 

He beams at you dopily. “I’ve never been any good at that.”

You kiss his forehead. The doctor is furious. 

༺༻

[canuck-eh]

Loose Morals

MINORS DNI

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Younger!Fem!Reader (college student)

Summary: You and Jack have been friends for two years when you start having hot dreams featuring his father. Unfortunately, Mr. Hotchner happens to be just your type...

Tags: age gap, daddy issues, migraines, alcohol consumption, dirty talk, implied daddy kink, daddy kink if you squint, praise kink, Jack isn't necessarily a good friend, trauma bonding in a way, masturbation, smut, fluff, etc.

Word count: 11.2k

A/N: I wanted to take a break from editing Vanilla Twilight by writing a short one-shot. The thing is, I don't know when to shut up... Anyway, this ask and this pic inspired me, and I opted to write an entire fic around them. I just really needed to write smut after all the fluff and angst these past few times. I hope you like this one!

Being Jack Hotchner's best friend had its perks.

For one, he was honest and kind, and he was simply different than the rest of the guys your age. 

Honesty had always been at the core of your friendship, through your first two years of college, you’d not only found a friend in him, but a brother. 

You weren’t sure he saw you as his sister, but you didn’t care. He was still your family. 

You were the first person he came out to, and he was the first person to whom you had admitted you had major daddy issues (which you still believed had been caused by not having a father around growing up). 

Considering your mother had punched out when you turned 18, Jack was without a doubt the most important person in your life even if you weren’t the most important person in his life. 

But being Jack’s best friend was sometimes a curse.

A sharply dressed, tall, and broad man disguised as a curse, that is. 

Jack had an incredibly handsome dad, and to make matters worse, Mr. Hotchner was exactly the type you went for when you needed company.  

Jack knew you had slept around with older men, he knew what your type looked like, yet he had never once mentioned his dad fit that pattern to a T. 

Of course, you knew Mr. Hotchner was off-limits. You’d never try anything, you’d never do anything to jeopardize your friendship with Jack. But you couldn’t help how your eyes lingered on Mr. Hotchner sometimes, and it didn’t hurt anyone to just look. 

You could control yourself, but forbidden things always had an extra appeal to them, didn’t they? 

It was why, very early on in your friendship, you had reached an unspoken agreement with yourself: You would never spend the night at Jack’s house and you would avoid being alone with Mr. Hotchner at all costs. Thus, when party season was in full effect, you never drank to make sure you could drive yourself home after dropping Jack off. 

Ironically enough, Jack loved having you around even more during that time because since you didn’t drink when you went partying, you could always be the designated driver. 

Tonight had been no different in that regard, but a recent breakup had made Jack miserable and he had ended up drinking way more than usual.

Bringing him home was something you were happy to do, and each time you did, Mr. Hotchner thanked you profusely for bringing Jack home safe.

Each time, you tried not to make a fool of yourself, and you smiled and left without adding anything. 

Truth was, even tired beyond words, Mr. Hotchner was extremely handsome. He was so effortlessly beautiful that you didn't trust yourself not to say something incredibly stupid to his face, and thus you actively chose not to talk to him alone when you could avoid it. 

Sure, you could engage in small talk when Jack was awake and responsive, but when he was nearly passed out drunk, you did your best to avoid Mr. Hotchner.

There was something about the way his eyes bore into you that you couldn’t deny you liked, but you often explained it away by reminding yourself that Mr. Hotchner looked at everyone like that, with intense fixed gazes that could remind you of every wrongdoing you had ever committed.

Nothing you had tried had ever stopped you from blushing when you felt his eyes on you, and your high-pitched nervous laugh was only deafened by you chewing your cheeks furiously each time Mr. Hotchner said something nice to you.

You were positive Mr. Hotchner already thought you were a nutcase, or at the very least, that you were too shy and awkward to function properly when you were around him. 

So, whenever you could, you avoided him out of self-preservation. 

You had had to start evading him more in the past weeks when recurring sex dreams featuring him had started invading your nights. 

It didn’t help that you were convinced that he was a sex god walking on two delightfully long legs. It didn’t help that you were sure that he had two muscly thighs that surely showed how he ran every other morning. 

You had seen Mr. Hotchner sweaty and breathless only once, with his chest heaving big breaths that drew your attention to how deliciously large he was, and you had risked a glance at his whole body, licking your lips at the sight of his hairy legs, instantly concluding that coming over to study before noon wasn’t going to happen again for the sake of your sanity. 

From that day, you had started having torrid dreams about grinding down on his damp thighs, dreams which had startled you awake and kept you on the verge of climaxing. Each time, you had woken up too worked up to care, and you had brought yourself to orgasm with only a few flicks on your clit before you screamed his name into your pillow. 

It wasn’t right, but it was the only thing that did it. You had tried thinking of other things, you had even tried watching porn, but nothing worked except thoughts of Jack’s dad. 

While it was great to be living alone because it meant that whenever the urge was too strong, you could get yourself off, it also meant that you had absolutely no control or restraint since nothing satisfied your incessant hunger for him, since nothing could scratch that particular itch… 

You had managed to break two magic wands in the past three months, so you never stayed home too long when you had nothing to do, too afraid you’d turn into a sex addict.  

But then there were the other dreams you were having, dreams way scarier than having Mr. Hotchner get you off. 

Those dreams, dreams in which you shared a whole life with Mr. Hotchner, were your favorite. Yet, they were also heartbreaking because once realization hit you, once your mind was clear enough, you knew it would never happen, that it could never happen, and that hurt you a little more every time.

You had had so many dreams in which domesticity was the norm, in which you danced around the kitchen to great tunes while cooking together, in which his arms wrapped around your waist as his chin rested on your shoulder, as he hummed and squeezed you into a tight embrace, as he turned you around to kiss your forehead before he told you how much he loved you.

Your longing for him had only intensified in the past weeks as vivid fantasies muddled your mind, and you had had to escape any situation where you would find yourself talking to Mr. Hotchner even when Jack was around just to make sure Mr. Hotchner wouldn’t suddenly realize that every waking thought you had included him. 

Mr. Hotchner probably knew most of the signs of attraction. Having been a profiler for the greater part of his life before he got a steady desk job meant that he was talented at observing, and you knew for a fact that he was brilliant and astute. You often chose not to dwell on those facts, instead, you averted your gaze so he wouldn’t read behind your eyes, so he wouldn’t magically deduce how detailed your imagination could be, as if he could know from a quick glance how you had envisioned him around you in every possible position and scenario. 

You focused on Jack in the backseat, his blond hair ruffled by the wind coming in through the cracked window. The car smelled like alcohol and bad decisions, and your heart dropped in your chest when you noticed Jack shaking, hearing choked sobs every few seconds. 

Fortunately, while you attempted to find the right words, he slumped and grew quiet. 

The way it usually went when you brought him home was, you got Jack inside with your spare key, you dropped him on his bed upstairs before you left without making a sound.

But Jack was way drunker than usual, and you weren’t sure you’d be able to make him walk up the stairs by yourself. He was in no state to get himself up the stairs either. 

You tried to talk to him to gauge if you could shake him awake just enough to get him up the stairs once you reached his house, but he just muttered strings of syllables.  

The closer you got to his house, the more you realized you’d need help bringing Jack upstairs. 

He was still mumbling things that made no sense, and you admired how the car ride didn’t make him throw up because he made no effort to hold up his head as he slouched in the back seat. 

You chastised yourself for not asking someone to tag along to help you with Jack because now you would have only one option, and you weren’t sure you wanted to wake him. 

It didn’t matter what you wanted, though. Jack was your family. You’d do anything for him.

Reluctantly, you asked Siri to call Mr. Hotchner.

He picked up on the first ring and you were relieved that perhaps you hadn’t woken him up by calling at this hour. 

“Hi, sweetheart. Is Jack okay?” he muttered sleepily. 

Shit. Maybe you had woken him. 

Mr. Hotchner often called you ‘sweetheart’ but at this time of night with a husky voice? If this wasn’t the hottest thing you’d ever heard… 

You berated yourself for being distracted, intently focusing on the road and what needed to be done.

“Hello, Mr. Hotchner. Yes, he is. He’s just too drunk for me to bring him upstairs. Can you come down and help?” you asked, keeping your voice as even as you could.

“Of course. ETA?”

You looked around as you put on the turn signal. “I’m turning on your street.”

“Good. Thank you.”

You hung up just in time to park, getting out of the car swiftly to try to bring a clingy Jack out of the backseat.

Mr. Hotchner joined you before you even noticed he was outside, and a hand on your shoulder made you move back from trying to pick up Jack. 

“I got him. Just help me when we get to the stairs, okay?”

You nodded. 

It was all you could do because the sight of Mr. Hotchner in pajama pants and a tee shirt was apparently enough to bring your cerebral functions to a halt. 

You were unable to comprehend how his hand had even ended up on you and how you could still feel the imprint of his palm on your skin.

Mr. Hotchner grunted from the effort it took to pick up his son, and you did your best not to memorize the sound for later use. 

You shut the car door and followed him inside, taking some of Jack’s weight off Mr. Hotchner’s shoulders as you both brought him up the stairs and into his room. 

You removed Jack’s shoes as Mr. Hotchner brought the covers over his son’s frame, and you tried not to think about the fact that you made a great team to get Jack into bed so efficiently. 

Mr. Hotchner placed a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder, smiling a little at how unresponsive he was. 

Clearly, he found the situation relatable and you wondered if Mr. Hotchner had ever been this drunk when he was Jack’s age.

You found it endearing to see how a good father could be so loving to his grown-up son, and even if it hurt that you had never gotten that, you still loved seeing it when it happened. 

“Goodnight, bud.”

You didn’t want to intrude so you made your way out of the room just in time for Jack to mutter under his breath something that made you flinch and stop in your tracks. “I fucking hate you, Dad. It’s your fault Mom isn’t here.”

The room was dark, but the silver sheen of the moon glimmered enough that you could make out most of his frozen features. You saw Mr. Hotchner recoil and you heard his breath hitch. 

It was fair to assume his face had probably contorted into a deep frown as you witnessed his arm going up, his palm meeting his forehead. 

You knew the story. But you also knew Jack didn’t blame him. He never had. He had always said his father was his hero. You had heard him ramble on and on about how proud he was, and he had almost given you a formal presentation to celebrate him and every achievement of his. Every time he spoke about his dad, his eyes sparkled with joy, and getting to know more about how extraordinary Mr. Hotchner was had never helped lessen your deep-seated infatuation with him. If anything, it only magnified it.

So why was Jack saying this now when his dad had always been his role model?

Had he been lying to you this whole time?

You debated saying something, but in the end, you and Jack constantly called each other out on your bullshit or whenever you were out of line, and this time, he was clearly out of line. 

For all Mr. Hotchner’s faults, you knew he was loving and present, and Jack shouldn’t take that for granted. You certainly wouldn’t.

“Jack, what the fuck?” you snapped. You clenched your jaw to abstain from scolding him, it wasn’t your place, but you wanted to bark at him to apologize. 

The cold glow shone and lit the room just enough, making it easy to see how Mr. Hotchner’s shoulders dropped, and the silent shock that plagued the room made his bleak expression all the more distressing. Luckily, before you could question your next move, he turned his back so you couldn’t scrutinize how pain stained his gaze. 

Jack turned towards you, baring his teeth. His glassy eyes and his jutting chin betrayed a rooted but still gaping wound, sadly mixed with an obscure and previously undisclosed fury. “This is a family matter. Leave,” he snarled.

Jack had never once said anything of the sort to you, and to have him belittle your importance so freely hurt you profoundly. 

He was your family, but perhaps he was right, you weren’t his. 

You left the room before your vision got too blurry to walk out, and you heard harsh whispered tones before you went down the stairs. 

You wiped your eyes and were halfway out the door when a firm hand grasped your arm and brought you back inside swiftly. 

Your face met a firm chest and you knew who it was before you could try to hide your tears, and you didn’t care about anything other than comfort right now.

It occurred to you that Mr. Hotchner was probably seeking some comfort too, after all, it couldn’t have been easy hearing his son tell him that. 

Your arms encircled his softer middle section naturally, and you banished the thoughts that started to emerge. His tummy was a part of him you longed to cherish in your most lucid dreams, but it was unfair to bask in the sensation of his tall build covering yours because this was simply two sympathetic bruised souls engaging in friendliness. 

You shut your eyes for a second, trying to breathe in and out, hoping the pain would subside. 

“He didn’t mean any of it. He just gets like this sometimes,” he said softly.

You slightly moved away from the hug, still holding on but barely, aware it wasn’t appropriate for you to indulge too much. 

You looked up into Mr. Hotchner’s eyes, and his distant stare and set jaw made your heart ache. 

He was hurt. He was holding it together, but he was evidently tormented by trauma, and his tense stance wordlessly confirmed that some invisible wounds lurked and continued to run deep.

His gaze softened all at once as it met yours.

“He loves you. He always says you’re his hero. He even told me he never once blamed you for–” 

A tentative hand came up to cradle your cheek, and a flick of his thumb picked up a few stray tears. “Sweetheart, even if he hates me, I’m his dad. I’m always going to love him.”

You forced a smile as tears welled up in your eyes. 

You truly admired the father before you, and as much as you felt crushed that Jack didn’t consider you important, you could almost forgive him because it had led to this soothing closeness.

“Are you okay?” he fretted with genuine concern in his voice. 

You suddenly realized how close he was, how he hadn’t loosened his hold on you when you had. 

You could feel how strong he was every time he breathed, you could smell his aftershave and detergent, and a blaring thought reared its ugly head; his scent and his presence made you feel more at home than anything else ever had. 

You couldn’t entertain that thought. 

Not now, perhaps not ever. 

You moved back, hugging yourself as a chill ran over you. “I’m fine.”

Mr. Hotchner frowned, but he didn’t push it. 

Truth was, you weren’t emotionally equipped to deal with any of this. 

Jack and Mr. Hotchner would have to be on the back burner for a few days, and you would have to go home to lick your wounds before you would even consider talking to Jack again.

You turned away, opting to leave before you did or said something stupid, but again, a firm hand grasped your arm before you could escape.

“You’re not driving anywhere at this hour and in this state,” he protested. 

Fuck.

"I'm just going to sleep in the car," you explained, knowing it wouldn’t work but nonetheless hoping it would.

As if he sensed your discomfort, he released your arm and held his hands up in front of him. 

"Just take my bed. I'll take the couch."

Sleeping in his bed? Sleeping where he slept? Sleeping where his scent would overwhelm you? 

Considering how often you had dreams about him…

You knew danger zones. And this was one. 

Hell, no.

"Oh, no. It's fine, Mr. Hotchner. The car seat reclines–"

He chuckled, startling you with the unexpected sound. "When are you going to stop calling me that? We’ve already talked about this. You make me feel old."

"You're not–"

A small lopsided grin graced his face, and the sight reassured you on the spot. “You can either stay the night or you can finally tell me why you’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’m not–”

He quirked an eyebrow, and you should have known the profiler would notice you avoiding him at all costs when you used to talk to him a lot more, even if most of the time Jack was present, you still used to interact with him more frequently than you did now.

“It’s nothing you did,” you stressed.

He gave you a tight-lipped smile at that. "Come on. Get some rest. I'll wake you early in the morning if you really want to leave before Jack gets up."

You knew there was no saying no to him, so you nodded and made your way towards the stairs.

You knew where his room was because there weren't many rooms upstairs, and Jack had made you visit the entire house early on in your friendship.

"Goodnight," he breathed as you trodded up the stairs. 

"Goodnight, Mr. Hotchner."

You walked into his room and looked down at yourself. Sure, a summer dress would be fine to sleep in, but if you closed the door and slept in your underwear, no one would know.

You discarded your dress before you lay down in the middle of the most comfortable bed you had ever been in. 

You shut your eyes, smelling Mr. Hotchner all around you as you had a bit earlier. 

It didn't take long for you to find restful sleep, and it took even less time for your mind to drift off to thoughts of Mr. Hotchner.

You were in the throes of the hottest sex dream you had ever had, so close to reaching your peak untouched as you woke up with a glaring pain behind your eyes and at the base of your skull.

Oh, shit.

You were no strangers to migraines. You had had them for years, but getting one when you were far away from your meds, and in someone else's home, someone else's bed... 

Someone's bed. 

Right. 

You had just been dreaming about that particular someone going down on you.

Great.

You needed something for the pain and you knew where the ibuprofen was, so you tip-toed down the stairs, making your way to the main bathroom.

You were trying to look through stuff in the dark when the light was turned on, instantly stilling your movements.

"I'm just– I have a migraine," you stuttered before he could ask what you were doing in his medicine cabinet.

Mr. Hotchner wasn't frowning, and he didn't look unhappy you had woken him up in the middle of the night again, but as soon as you shared the reason why you were awake, he furrowed his brow with concern.

Then he looked up and down at you.

Shit. I'm in my underwear.

Mr. Hotchner raised an eyebrow as he smirked, removing his tee shirt and offering it to you so you could feel less naked.

His gaze made you feel more naked than anything you could wear or not wear.

He was such a gentleman that he gave you his shirt even if he was the one who ended up half-naked next to you.

Well, better him than me.

You put it on and Mr. Hotchner just waited until you cleared your throat to let his gaze fall back onto you.

You tried not to look at his bare chest or at the scars you knew were there.

You failed within seconds, but you had enough decency to make an effort to keep your eyes locked on his face.

"I'm sorry about your migraine, honey. What do you need?" he uttered in a soft hushed tone. 

You shrugged, taking two pills from the bottle before looking away and down at your feet. "Cold compress? I don't know."

Mr. Hotchner offered you a glass of water before he moved around you to wet a cloth with cold water, and instead of giving it to you, he just took your hand and made his way to the couch. 

He sat with you, facing you with his legs crossed. Somehow, he looked younger sitting like this, waiting for you to join him. 

"Put your head here," he said, gesturing to his lap.

You had no idea what to do, but you were in pain and emotionally unstable, apart from being sleep-deprived, and you would never turn down an opportunity to be close to him under those conditions because your judgement was certainly impaired. 

You lay down your head in his lap, looking up at him looking down at you. 

He placed the cold compress on your forehead, making you sigh in relief as your eyes fluttered close. Gentle hands started massaging the back of your neck, your temples, and your scalp, making you shudder as he pressed on spots where the pain stabbed and blinded you. 

For his apparent rough exterior, Mr. Hotchner had a very tender touch, and you wondered in what world it was okay for you to know that.

"How's that?" he pondered.

Your tense shoulders went limp as you relaxed even more, his fingertips rubbing your nape expertly. "Really good," you purred.

You were at his mercy, lax and drowsing in his lap unashamedly. 

“I used to get migraines and tension headaches at your age. You know, law school was–  I used to be permanently stressed out, living my life on high alert.”

“You?”

“Yes. Why is that so surprising?” he asked.

You opened your eyes to meet his, watching him wait for an answer. 

“Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Hotchner, but you just look like the kind of person who has it under control all the time,” you stated.

He looked pensive for a split second, but he resumed massaging your temples, removing the cloth and folding it the other way around before putting it back on your skin. He was apparently making sure it remained somewhat cold enough to provide relief. It was a small thing really, but it spoke volumes that he cared enough to do that.   

“Not all the time–” he said calmly. “Anyway, I wished I had someone take care of me when I was– and I didn’t so…”

What about your wife?

You let that go as soon as it echoed around in your head. It wasn’t any of your business why Mrs. Hotchner didn’t take care of him when he wasn’t feeling well. 

To be fair, you’d always thought marriage was about finding someone you wanted to take care of. Someone for whom you’d cook soup, someone whose tummy you wanted to rub, someone to hold, someone to pet your forehead when you’re feverish. But that was perhaps the daddy issues talking.

He picked up the TV remote, and he offered it to you. 

“Do you want to put something on while we wait for the pills to make you feel better, honey?”

You nodded. “Let’s just keep it low.”

That was mostly for your sake rather than Jack’s since he would have deserved to be woken up by a movie blasting in the living room, considering.

He seemed intent on letting you choose so you settled for something corny that wouldn’t require you to focus. You selected The Fault in Our Stars since you had already seen it and you were certain you would be able to follow the story without having to think.

You decided to move before you dozed off in his lap, but Mr. Hotchner just held you down as he stretched his legs on the sofa, leaving you with some leeway to find a comfortable way to lie down while still keeping you close. You shifted on your side, hugging his leg as your face rested sideways on his firm thigh. It allowed you to see the TV while still feeling his warm hand palming your scalp. 

You removed the cloth from your forehead after a while, and Mr. Hotchner took it from you before he set it down on the coffee table.  

You pretended not to feel him tremble when the movie took a sad turn, and as his hand came up to wipe his eyes, you had to shut yours to avoid getting tempted to offer to lick his tears away. 

You also had to compose yourself because knowing Mr. Hotchner was the kind of softie who cried at sad films only made your longing more acute. 

Having your head on his leg was enough of a treat as it was. You just had to reel it in and keep a tight lid on whatever it was you felt. 

Your plan to compose yourself with your eyes closed completely backfired when you realized you had fallen asleep. 

You woke to soft whimpers and a bulge protruding near the side of your head, right before you realized your name was being moaned. 

Repeatedly. 

You opened your eyes to find Mr. Hotchner asleep in a way that would surely hurt his neck, and he was rock hard next to your head, moaning your name as if chanting it like a prayer.

It's just a dream. It doesn't mean anything.

You turned on your front to fully see what was poking at your head. The tent in his pajama pants was huge, and the flimsy material of his pajama pants did nothing to hide the fact that he was big.

You salivated at the sight, incredibly aware that everything you wanted was within reach.

A particularly throaty moan escaped his lips and this time, when you looked up, he was frowning at you.

You got down on your knees in front of him, making him turn to follow you, letting him plant his feet on the ground, and you weren't sure how to proceed from there but the man had just moaned your name and followed your move on instinct. 

He was sporting an impressive erection, and you wanted. 

How you wanted.

It didn’t take much but you were done questioning it.

You smiled softly, deciding to bend down and mouth at his clothed cock. 

If he really didn't want this, he would have tried to hide, he would have moved, he would have been embarrassed, he would not have been moaning your name, and simply put, he would stop you.

Instead, the second your lips were around his clothed hardness, his hips jerked up into your face and he groaned loudly.

You were thankful Jack was passed out drunk because surely, this would have woken him up.

"Are you sure you want this?" he hissed. 

You just mouthed at his dick with more conviction, making his eyes roll back in his head.

His hands ended up at the back of your head, pushing your face infinitely closer.

“I knew from the second I saw you that you had raging daddy issues. Are you about to prove me right, sweet girl?”

You were putting a wet spot on his pajama pants, trying to taste him through layers of clothing. You placed both your hands on his thighs, sinking your fingernails into his hard flesh. Your fingers dug through the material as your mouth moved on him, but you wanted so much more than this. 

“Mr. Hotchner–”

“You’re always so formal–” he tutted. He put a tender hand on your cheek, rubbing his thumb on your soft skin. “Maybe one day, I’ll have you calling me by the right name.”

You let your hands roam on his bare chest as you continued to wet his pants with your saliva, trying so desperately to get some friction as you started rutting on his foot. 

Mr. Hotchner stopped you, palming himself through his pajama pants.

“Please, Mr. Hotchner,” you pleaded, looking up at him through your eyelashes. 

“If you really want this, come up here,” he said, gesturing to his lap. 

You got up so fast your head spun, but you straddled his lap without hesitation, patting his solid chest with determined hands. You felt him grip your waist, and you opted to trace his sideburns with the tip of your fingers before you let your fingers run through his hair. 

He groaned instantly, rocking his hips up into you. 

Mr. Hotchner leaned down to put his lips on your clothed breasts, savoring each one with warm breaths and enthusiasm, making you moan gently before he looked up at you on top of him.

He cocked his head while you panted above him, desperate to grind down on his erection to get some sort of relief. 

His hands were on your rib cage, his fingertips so close to your breasts that even clothed, it felt like he was voluntarily teasing. 

“How often I’ve dreamed of having you like this,” he noted, pushing your hair out of your face and behind your ear. 

You started grinding down on his lap, making him gasp as you rocked your core against his. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, exhaling hot air onto your face, reminding you how close you were like this. It didn’t take long for your rhythm to falter and for the shirt to ride up your waist. 

You were so lost in everything you felt that you had shifted away from his erection and you were left breathing hard as your panties slid back and forth on his hard thigh. 

You saw Mr. Hotchner look down, his smirk wide as you both realized how wet you were. You were leaving an impressive spot on his pajama pants through your panties.

“You’re soaking me,” he croaked, his voice betraying he was as affected by this as you were. 

You steadied yourself on his chest, feeling his hands grip your waist more forcefully, and without the tee shirt, he’d surely be leaving a mark. 

He helped you rub yourself against his thigh, undoubtedly sensing you were consumed by the kind of craving that made you tingle from head to toe. 

“Good girl. You’re doing so well,” he praised. 

Of all the things he could have said, he happened to say the one thing that made you clutch his chest with biting nails.

“Mmffhm—”

“Oh, you like being called a good girl, sweetheart?”

You started shaking with need, feeling the coil in your stomach heating up and tightening. 

His hand came to wrap itself around your throat, his eyes dark and filled with lust. “Answer me.”

“Yes, Mr. Hotchner.”

“Good girl,” he cooed with a smile, releasing your throat. 

The flutters in your stomach melted with the burning desire raging inside you. 

“Will you touch me?” you stammered, drunk on the feeling of his stiff thigh. 

You could probably come like this if you continued. 

Mr. Hotchner smiled cheekily, barely ghosting his finger over your drenched panties. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he grunted. 

“Please–” you begged. 

“I think you can come just like this, sweetheart. For me…”

You knew you probably could. You were close already. 

He put his hands back on your waist, guiding your movements on his thigh, watching your hips rock back and forth intently. 

“Are you going to make a mess, dirty girl? Am I going to need to wash you?” he asked huskily. “Maybe I should punish you for avoiding me. For not letting me talk to you or look at you.”

You were too far gone to wonder whether it had been as difficult for him to stay away from you as it had been for you to stay away from him. 

You moaned as your hips moved without restraint on top of him, rolling them back and forth just right so the friction of your panties rubbed your clit perfectly.

“Oh, god.”

You were so close to reaching your peak, and you felt unbearably hot on top of him. You knew you were soaking his pants, making a mess on his thigh, and the thought of him wanting to wash you, of him being angry and punishing you because you had avoided him… It only spurred you on. The thought of him missing you in the slightest set you alight. 

“Look at you, so beautiful wearing my shirt.”

“I’m too hot,” you whined. 

“Do you want me to help you with that?” 

You nodded eagerly.

His fingers pulled at the hem of his shirt, pulling it over your head, his eyes stuck on your face as you continued to grind down on his thigh. “You’re breathtaking.” 

You smiled at the compliment, doing your best to ignore how delightful it felt that he thought you were breathtaking because you were sizzling from the inside with thirst, and you couldn’t deal with the weight of his admission while you chased your orgasm. 

“Mr. Hotchner, you are so perfect–”

Lost in all the sensations and the sea of feelings that you were drowning in, he leaned down, his breath fanning over your breasts. He kissed a spot between them so softly, you thought you had imagined it for a second. 

“You’re the most perfect thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he whispered. 

The throbbing started to hurt, and you needed a bit more than just his thigh. You unhooked your bra, freeing your breasts, making your boobs bob up and down as you rubbed yourself on his erection a few times. 

“Please, Mr. Hotchner.” You didn’t even know what you were asking for, but you needed him to do something.

He grinned at you before he wrapped his lips around a nipple, licking it before sucking on it, making you whimper on top of him. 

He brought his other hand up around your throat before he decided to tap on your lips with his digits. 

“Suck on them for me, sweetheart.”

You opened your mouth, and his index and middle finger sank between your lips. You sucked on them instantly, making him hiss your name as you felt him twitch in his pants. 

Mr. Hotchner started licking your other nipple, sucking on it before he nipped at it gently, blowing hot air onto your skin as he alternated between them. 

He removed his wet fingers from your mouth, making you whine at the loss before he mouthed at one nipple, pinching the other with his fingertips.

“So good, Mr. Hotchner–”

You shifted again as your rhythm faltered, rutting on his thigh again. 

“Do it. Come on my thigh, sweet girl.”

You moaned loudly into the room, unable to keep the sounds from leaving your throat.

“Quiet,” he warned. 

“I can’t,” you pouted with a whimper. 

“Do you want me to keep you quiet?”

You nodded. 

He put his middle and ring fingers into your mouth while his other hand came up around your throat, barely squeezing it, but it was enough. Sucking on his fingers with a hand wrapped around your throat, having him put pressure on your windpipe whenever you were about to be too loud, well, it did wonders.  

You spared a thought for your sleeping friend upstairs, but as petty as it was, you couldn’t care less if you woke him right now. 

Mr. Hotchner looked at you adoringly, showcasing his dimples as his lips curled into a dazzling smile, and the sight was enough for you to let go, the coil in your stomach ripped to shreds. 

Your high came in violent waves as your body was overtaken by sharp shudders. 

Yet, you felt as centered as ever when a soft palm tenderly stroked your back. 

You opened your eyes, unaware you had closed them, and you found his gaze instantly, watching his hooded eyes, heavy with desire, survey you. He wasn’t scanning you for signs of uncertainty, his eyes simply darted over every inch of your face as if to take in your bliss. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

You let yourself fall forward, reveling in the feeling of him under you, surrounding you with his warmth, his cologne, his soft hands running up and down your back, his fingertips as they grazed your spine and made you shiver in delight. 

“Thank you,” you muttered in the crook of his neck. 

You’d probably regret this come morning, you’d probably question it, go over it a thousand times, but right now, he felt too solid underneath you to do anything but appreciate his enveloping comfort. 

“Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

You weren’t sure if your coming undone on his thigh would be the end of it, but you were thrilled that it apparently wasn’t. 

You quietly entered his room with him, watching him lock the door before you let him remove your panties, watching him discard his pants and boxers eagerly. 

He was indeed huge, leaking pre-cum and throbbing in need. The head was almost red, and you knew without a doubt that you wanted to take care of him as well as he had just taken care of you. 

But Mr. Hotchner took the lead, and you willingly followed. You would always willingly follow him, and as terrifying as it was, the thought helped you draw in a full breath. 

It took a matter of seconds for him to hover above you completely naked, and you couldn’t help but cup his cheek, feeling the shadow of a stubble scraping your palm.

He closed his eyes as if to savor it, and you cupped his other cheek, startling him enough to have him look into your eyes. 

“You are so handsome.”

He looked giddy and shy for a second, two things you never would have thought to associate with him. 

“This is way better than my imagination,” he admitted. 

Wait. Had he thought about this too?

“You–” you started, your mind spiraling with a thousand questions. 

“Yes, sweetheart. I’ve had to touch myself a lot because of you.”

“Show me?” you prompted. 

He searched your features but he surely found you were dead serious about this. 

Seeing his huge paw stroke his cock would fuel every last fantasy you would ever use to get off during your alone time. 

“You really want to see, sweet girl?” he queried, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Yes.”

“I’ll– Okay. But on one condition: Would you say my name?”

From your very first interaction with him, he had insisted on having you call him something other than ‘Mr. Hotchner’, and you had always been afraid that overstepping that boundary would be crossing a line, that you wouldn’t be able to come back from it if you engaged in something less than formal. 

You smiled at him, assured that you wished to trespass.

“Aaron.”

“Hmm…” he hummed contentedly. He positioned himself with his back to the headboard, looking at you sitting down between his legs, facing him. He watched your hands caress his thighs before he looked at you again. “Say it again.”

“Aaron.”

He beamed at you, offering his left palm to you. “Spit.”

You obliged him, spitting into his hand a few times before he wrapped it around his erection, immediately mewling your name as he relieved some pent-up pressure. 

Watching his hand move up and down on his dick made you swoon, and the level of intimacy of this whole display wasn’t lost on you. 

He trusted you. 

And you trusted him. 

You leaned down to kiss his thighs, watching his hand speed up on his cock as you gently started biting his flesh, making him growl your name above you. 

“You’re doing so well, Aaron,” you applauded. 

His hips jerked up at the praise, making him thrust into his fist. He not only loved hearing his name, he decidedly loved this, too. 

Aaron looked absolutely delicious, and you would have to appeal to every last ounce of self-control you had not to touch him or taste him. 

“Ever since you came into our lives, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind,” he declared, and his voice completely mesmerized you as you observed his movements on his cock like a hawk. “Haven’t been on a date. Haven’t had sex. I can’t even watch porn without thinking of you, sweet thing. Fuck–” he added, gritting his teeth. “I don’t even like porn.”

You looked up at him through your eyelashes, your face so close to his cock you could almost taste the tangy salty pre-cum leaking from the tip.

“I touched myself to thoughts of you, too. I touch myself thinking of you. A lot,” you disclosed candidly. 

His hand lost its pace when his thighs started trembling, and he grabbed your chin, smiling at you. 

“My sweet forbidden fruit.” 

You hummed his name again, kissing his thighs in quick succession, biting him gently to elicit deep guttural moans to come flying out of his mouth. 

You were positive the soundproofing in this house was decent by now. 

“I’m close– Do you want me to come like this, sweetheart?” he asked.

You knew this was Aaron’s way of inquiring where this could go, where the limit was, and whether you wanted this to stop, but you wanted all of it. If this happened only once, you needed to experience all of him. 

You shook your head, raising yourself up. “As beautiful as this is, I want more.” You leaned down, kissing his chest gently before you sucked on a nipple, biting it a little as he had done to you earlier. It made him gasp in surprise. “Sorry.”

“No– I– I liked it.” He paused, caressing your face. “Way too much.”

“I want to cherish you. All of you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he uttered smoothly, cupping your face. “We’ll do that some other time. I feel almost ready to explode.”

Another time?

You really wanted another time, more than you cared to admit, and you were beyond happy he wasn’t rejecting the idea of having this happen again.

“I need you,” you blurted out.

He chuckled breathlessly, in no way mocking you but visibly, he was amused by your impatience.

“What do you want? What do you think of when you touch yourself?”

“Just you. Your mouth. Your fingers,” you clarified.

“We can make that happen.”

He flipped you, pulling you down on your back before he started kissing your neck, sucking on your pulse point and making you rock upwards, seeking friction. 

Aaron started kissing his way down your body, lending great attention to your breasts again. He licked and sucked before he nipped gently, making you bury your hands into his hair. He groaned against your skin, thrusting his hips into nothing. 

“What you do to me…”

He made his way down, kissing your stomach with so much affection that you felt cherished from head to toe.

You’d do the same to him some other him. You promised yourself that right there and then. 

You were about ready to lose your mind once he settled between your legs, blowing hot air on your aching cunt. 

“Please.”

“Say my name,” he demanded.

“Aaron.”

He grinned before he kissed your inner thighs, spreading you wide and pulling your legs over his shoulders. 

“You smell delicious, sweet girl.”

He licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit, not losing any precious seconds before he sucked on it, making you rock your pussy onto his face. 

He pressed down on your stomach with one hand, keeping you in place. He flicked his tongue over your clit repeatedly, making you arch your back, thrashing against his face regardless of the hand that he kept on you. 

You pulled on his hair as he started sucking more vigorously, shaking his head with the movements of his tongue, making you whimper as you bit harshly into your hand to silence your cries.

He whined the more you pulled, and you released your hold on him. Aaron instantly gathered your hand into his and put it back in his hair. 

You resumed the motions, this time gently tugging, and he growled against your cunt, making you thrash more violently under him. 

The coil started tightening in record time, threatening to tear incessantly, and you were helpless to his oral assault. He seemed to understand his hand was pointless on your stomach the more you moved, and he removed his mouth, licking his fingers before he breached you with one, putting his mouth back where it belonged before you could protest. 

He devoured you while he finger-fucked you, and you were left trying to find the right words to express how absolutely wrecked you were. He was ruining you for every other man, and he looked as if he knew it. He looked way too smug to be able to get you off this easily.

He added another finger, arching them into you just so. 

You saw stars before you could even warn him, and you came with a loud shudder as you heard him growl your name from between your legs. 

He didn’t relent, and when you started whining because of how sensitive you were, it seemed to fuel him. He was trying to milk this orgasm out of you bit by bit, and he was succeeding. Your legs quivered and unexpectedly, you felt a spurt of wetness drip down your pussy and onto his face. 

You could barely comprehend what had happened when you got lost in subspace, but the sound of his voice kept you firmly tethered in the here and now.  

Aaron made his way up to your face, kissing your cheek so delicately after basically eating you out like a five-star meal. 

His face glistened with your juices, and you realized how soaked his face was, how sticky and warm it was, but he didn’t seem to care and you certainly didn’t. 

You cupped his face with one hand, letting the other gently pat his hair to make up for the fact that you had pulled on his roots. 

He definitely liked having your fingers massage his scalp, he shuddered as you traced his scalp with your fingernails. 

He looked at you with a simple question in his eyes, but the only thing you could think to say was, “Please fuck me.”

He met your gaze with a serious look, his frown deepening. “If I take you, there’s no going back, sweet girl. I don’t share.”

He was making a statement but offering you an out. He was opening the door, but he wasn’t letting it close behind you. He was serious about this whole thing, and it occurred to you all at once that he liked you enough to not want to share you.

And while you were ready to agree to anything to feel him inside you, while you needed it like you needed air, you liked him enough to know what you were agreeing to.

What you felt for him was sometimes inexplicable, but there was no denying that you would not want any other man to touch you after this. 

You caressed his raven hair once more, smiling at him without a single doubt clouding your mind. Two orgasms would tend to make anyone carefree, but above all else, as bare as you were, you felt safe. Protected. Cared for. At home. 

He smiled back when he didn’t find you uncertain, and he kissed your forehead before he moved to find something in the drawer of his nightstand.

If ever this was the one and only time you got to be with him, you needed to feel him. If ever your morals got to you in the morning, if your head went against your heart, you needed to be as close to him as you could.

“Aaron, I’m on the pill. Please… I need to feel you.”

He nodded and positioned himself between your legs again, but something overcame him as you tried to bring his face closer to yours to finally find out how his lips felt against yours. 

He flipped you on your stomach as if you weighed nothing at all, a hand found its way to your stomach, bringing your ass up in the air. 

On all fours, you felt incredibly naked before him. But he stroked your skin lovingly, and somehow, it felt right. It felt magnificent. 

You didn’t feel all that naked anymore. 

He tapped his cock on your ass a few times before he breached you with the head of his cock, making you clench around the width unwillingly. 

You groaned and whimpered the more he sank into you, stretching you out and splitting you in half painfully slowly. 

“So fucking tight–” he grumbled.

A hand settled on your waist, gripping it tightly as you felt him twitch inside you. He would probably leave a mark if he continued to grip your waist this way, but you would admire it for days to come if he did. 

Fortunately, you were still dripping wet so it didn’t take long for the pain to subside and blend with pleasure, a dull throb echoing around your inner walls and making you clench around his dick. 

He was fully sheathed, but he made sure you remained bent over, your face breathing in his scent on the pillows.

It was intoxicating to be surrounded by all of him, but it was also troubling because you would never get enough. 

He slowly pulled out before he drove his cock back in in one go, and it was obvious as you tried to think that you had been rendered dumb and mute by his dick. 

“Mmffhm—”

“You feel so good, sweetheart.”

His hips started snapping abruptly, his rhythm unforgiving as he thrusted in and out of you sharply.

Aaron was surely driven by forces of nature or by sheer animal instinct as he gripped your ass cheeks with his hands, chewing your flesh with his fingers. 

It felt absolutely amazing to be taken. 

It felt empowering to know he was making you his. 

“Go on, tell me this pussy’s mine,” he drawled as his thrusts became sloppy. 

“Yours. All yours,” you affirmed, chanting his name into the pillows as each thrust of his hips made your cheek rub against the sheets. 

His thumb gently tapped on your asshole, letting you know you were at his mercy. 

“All those pretty little holes are mine,” he groaned. “You are mine. Say it.”

“Yes,” you whimpered. “I’m yours.”

He let a hand wander down to your stomach before he reached your clit, palming you enough to make you shiver and thrash relentlessly on the bed.

The only sounds in the room were skin tapping against skin, muffled moans, and low groans.

He worked his fingers on your clit with harsher flicks, rubbing and pinching in succession. 

“You’re clenching so hard around me, sweet thing. You have a vice grip on my dick.”

You could only partially moan incoherent syllables. “Mmffhm—”

“That’s right. I’m fucking you so good that you have to keep quiet or we’ll make the entire neighborhood.” He punctuated his sentences with harsher thrusts. “One day, though, I’m going to make sure to memorize all your pretty sounds while you beg and scream my name.”

Would there be another time? It wasn’t the first time he had suggested it tonight. 

You couldn’t even think straight. 

“I can feel your walls fluttering. Is the coil in your stomach tight?” he whispered breathlessly.

You barely nodded and a few soft slaps landed on your ass cheek, making you miss his fingers on your clit, but the sting of his palm was exquisite, sending an electric shiver down your spine before you felt flutters in your chest. Your stomach burned with need, you overflowed with happiness, and you were so close to losing it for a third time. 

“Oh.”

“You like that, too, huh?” he teased. He said it as if he was making mental notes of everything that turned you on, and knowing him the way you did, he probably was. He was nothing if not observant, and he would surely make sure to know exactly how to get you off if the occasion presented itself again. 

You couldn’t blame him, because regardless of the fact that you couldn’t form a single sentence, you had still taken note of everything that made him moan somewhere. You’d probably even get to revisit those things in your fantasies. 

Aaron was all you could think about and he was all you could feel. He was everything that you wanted, and he would be everything you would ever want. 

He drove his dick into you with longer thrusts, hitting so deep you saw stars as you chanted his name. He was not just grazing your g-spot, he was actually hitting it with precision every time he sank into you, and when his fingers found your clit again, you had to bite into his pillow to refrain from screaming your lungs out as your orgasm rocked you in waves. 

You hadn’t had time to warn him, but it seemed to be a blessing when you felt him still behind you, his deep groans filling the room.

You felt him throb inside you, pulsating with each shot of cum you felt painting your walls. 

He seemed to come for longer than you were used to, shaking violently enough to rattle the bed, but you wouldn’t move because you weren’t sure you could, and you wanted nothing more than to have his seed everywhere inside you.

Aaron suddenly let his entire weight fall down on you, seemingly unable to hold himself up any longer, toppling you over before he pulled you close to him as he rested on his side, watching you on your front as he started to delicately trace your spine with his fingers. 

He smiled at you lazily, like a man who had just fucked you silly. 

He looked proud, but he also looked genuinely happy. 

You smiled back, finding it easy to be lost in this silent moment with him. 

Nothing needed to be said or acknowledged. 

His cum was shoved so deep inside you, his dick had stretched you so good you’d feel it for days, and he was smiling at you with affection in his sparkling eyes. 

You didn’t want to wonder whether it would happen again because you were determined to make sure it would. 

You remained transfixed for a few minutes, waiting for your trembling limbs to stop tingling.

Aaron started drifting off, but he shook himself awake and he grabbed your hand with determination. “Come on, I’ll wash you.”

You tried to follow him to what looked like an ensuite bathroom, but your legs were too wobbly to sustain you.

“My legs–” you explained as you almost fell face first.

His arms held you up effortlessly, and he just looked way too smug to have made your legs surrender.  

“Oh, I’ll take care of you,” he cooed. 

Aaron picked you up bridal style without notice as if it was normal to do so, bringing you to his shower as he started it with one hand.

He made it seem easy to hold you up, and you put your arms around his neck, indulging in the proximity he was providing.

He brought you inside the shower once he seemed satisfied with the water temperature, putting you down worriedly, holding you close as you verified that your legs could hold you up. 

He was so gentle and careful, you wondered if this was the same man who had just fucked you senseless into the mattress, the same man who had told you to tell him you were his. 

The same man who is your best friend’s father.

It came crashing down on you all at once. 

You felt guilty, but you couldn’t bring yourself to regret any of it. 

Truth was, you would do it again. 

All of it. 

Am I a horrible friend?

It didn’t matter when Aaron was looking at you like you were the most precious thing he had ever held. 

He kissed your forehead under the spray, letting his lips linger there before he kissed your nose and hovered above your lips. 

You didn’t let him hesitate, knowing he had probably not kissed you until now because this was sacred. This was more. This wasn’t about carnal needs or desires, it was about having a real emotional connection. 

It was about acknowledging this was more than just fucking. 

You grabbed his head and closed the distance, finally finding out that his lips were soft and sweet, and that his breath was warm and soothing. 

You kissed him until he let you graze his tongue, until you sucked on his lower lip, until his knees buckled and you had to hold him up as much as he was holding you up. 

He was out of breath by the time you pulled away, his eyes dark but soft. 

This time, he was the one who couldn’t find the right words.

“Can I wash your hair?” you inquired. 

You knew he liked having your fingers in his hair, and you figured that since you were both wet anyway...

He nodded and kneeled, picking up his bottle of shampoo before handing it to you with a grin. 

His eyes gleamed with anticipation, and he hugged your waist as you patted his head, watching how much younger he looked like this. The lines on his face were nothing if not incredibly attractive, but his whole demeanor as he kneeled innocently before you was simply adorable. He looked carefree, but above all else, he was unguarded. 

Aaron moved back just enough to let you work, his hands on your legs, looking up at you like a golden retriever looked at his favorite human, with pretty and big brown eyes filled with adoration.

You finished washing his hair and you used his body gel to wash yourself clean swiftly, loving that you would smell like him for hours if you wondered whether your mind had played a sick trick on you when you woke up. 

Aaron let his head fall down and for a second, you admired his fleeting vulnerability. You had caught a few glimpses of it tonight, but you knew without a doubt he was having second thoughts because of his son. 

He was a good man. You were a good person. At least, you thought so. 

And you had both just done something very… questionable. 

But questionable shouldn’t feel this good, right?

“He doesn’t hate you, you know,” you whispered softly, hoping to calm the quiet storm which seemed to rage inside him. 

You lifted his chin with your fingers, meeting his tender but apprehensive gaze. He wasn’t hiding and he wasn’t panicking, he was just calling his morality into question. You knew because you were, too. 

He was completely bare before you, in every way possible. “Thank you.”

Aaron didn’t voice that Jack would probably hate him if he found out about this, and you were grateful for that. 

Nothing needed to be said. You had both risked your relationship with Jack tonight.

He didn’t mention that he was concerned that his son already hated him either, but you knew he was worried. To be fair, Jack probably hated the entire world because of his breakup right now, and you didn’t think it had been directed at Aaron in particular. You were both just caught in the crossfire earlier. 

While he and Jack had had their fair share of hurt, their relationship wasn’t rocky. You knew that much. After all, you were around for the last two years and not once did you feel any animosity between them.

You got on your knees, hugging him close under the warm spray. Whatever this was, whatever happened, he deserved comfort. 

You got out of the shower still holding on to one another, wrapping yourselves up into towels before you walked back into his room. 

He offered you a tee shirt before he kissed your crown, his arms wrapping themselves around your waist. “Are you hungry? I could make us something.”

He was so thoughtful, so considerate… 

I am in love with him. 

It wasn’t a scary realization, it wasn’t even unsettling. It was just there. 

“I’m good. Thank you.”

He smiled and put the tee shirt down over your head before he put on a pair of boxers. You wondered what the right course of action was as he got settled in bed, but it became obvious as you watched Aaron opening up his arms to you. You didn’t hesitate and you wrapped yourself around him like a koala, your arms finding their rightful place around his waist.

He kissed your forehead again, his lips lingering there.

“What does this mean?” you finally asked, addressing this pleasant energy between you.

“It means that you should sleep here more often.” 

“Aaron–” It still sounded foreign rolling around in your mouth, after all, you had called him ‘Mr. Hotchner’ for over two years, but it was not unnatural. “What are we–”

“I don’t know. Just stay with me?”

“This can’t ever happen again, right? Jack would never forgive us if he found out.”

“Why? He doesn’t want you for himself–”

Wait. How does he know that?

“Sorry?”

"I know my son isn't attracted to women, sweetheart. I figure, when he's ready, he'll tell me."

Apparently, Aaron was as observing as you gave him credit for. 

But Jack wouldn’t be mad because he was jealous. He would be mad because he brought you here, and you had betrayed his trust.

“It’s not that. He’s my only friend. He’s–”

“Taking you for granted most of the time. He’s everything to you but–” He paused. He clearly knew how much it hurt you to hear it voiced out loud. “You’re a great friend, honey. He’s not. I know my son. I still love him but he’s not perfect– Look, you might have convinced yourself he was the closest thing you had to a brother, but I’m telling you, a friend– a brother– gives back. You bring him back from parties, you make up cue cards for him when he needs to study, you do some of his essays… When was the last time he did something for you?” He paused again, letting you think. “And if he knows exactly who you are like you think he does, he must know what kind of men you like–” he added, tracing your arm with the tips of his fingers, raising goosebumps as he painted your skin with soft touches. “And still, he brought you here…”

“Aaron–”

He kissed your forehead, angling his body so you could curl into his embrace a bit more. His lips were slightly parted as he looked into your eyes, and a faint taint appeared on his cheeks. 

You crinkled your nose in amusement at the sight. 

He was buried inside you minutes ago, and now he was blushing because you had used his first name unprompted. 

He loved hearing his name leave your lips, that much was obvious from his dilated pupils and long lazy blinks. 

“I’ll be good to you, sweetheart. I just need you to let me,” he murmured.

His hand finally sat on your rib cage, and you involuntarily pouted because this was exactly what you wanted, and he was offering it to you on a silver platter without any reservation. 

“I just–”

“Sweetheart, we could find a million reasons not to but I want–” He paused, long enough for you to admire his pursed lips and furrowed brow. He was gorgeous self-assured, as you knew, but he was somehow even more stunning when he was insecure. He tugged on the hem of the shirt he had put on you, bowing his head down before zeroing in on your face. A fond expression ghosted over his features, looking at you through eyelashes that should be illegal on a man. “Look, we’ll figure it out, okay? You live alone, we can sneak around and… I don’t know. We don’t have to decide anything just yet, but I’d like to explore this. I really like you.”

“I– uh– yes. Me too.”

He set an alarm on his phone before he kissed the top of your head, squeezing you tightly into his arms. 

“Sleep, sweet girl. I’ll wake you. Jack sleeps in till noon when he’s hungover anyway.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

You didn’t miss how his breath hitched at the nickname or how his pulse quickened as you yawned against his chest. 

He let out a long breath as his arms engulfed you, lulling you into peaceful safety and unwavering comfort. He played with your hair and massaged your neck, tracing the lines of your face with his fingertips as if he wanted to be able to draw you from memory, effectively rendering you oblivious to the world before you could think about the possible repercussions of what you had just agreed to be for one another.

-------

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[mydearzero]

i need jealous spencer SO BAD if he sees a guy flirting with you it would drive him crazy, no thinking, he just has to have you and everyone needs to know that you're his and only his, smut pls with praise (“good girl” 🥰) THANK U SO MUCH ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Thank you for the request and for reading!! I got inspired to write this as a continuation of Prey, so that's what it'll be! I hope you enjoy ♡

Predator | Professor!Spencer Reid x Reader

This is a part 2 to Prey, but can be read as a standalone.

MASTERLIST

18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Summary: You apparently have a knack for picking up FBI agents. But if prison has taught Spencer one thing, it's that sharing is not his forté.

Contents: NO Y/N, fem!Reader, SMUT, professor/student relationship, age gap, dom/sub, dom!Spencer, sub!reader, public sex, penetrative sex, oral sex (f rec), unprotected sex, creampie, jealousy, possessiveness, praise kink, a lil bit of degradation, exhibitionism. If I missed any warnings please tell me!

3.9K words

You didn't know what you'd expected after finally getting what you wanted. Sure, you weren't going to date your professor. Yet, you had expected Reid to at least acknowledge what had happened between the two of you. Maybe tell you to keep it to yourself, bribe you to not tell a soul. 

Nothing. Not a peep. 

It didn't help he was only on campus sporadically. You tended to forget teaching was only his temporary side gig. He had to go back to catching bad guys. So much for your eye candy. 

You couldn't let yourself dwell on Dr. Spencer Reid. It was a one-time thing, and he probably regretted it. He'd let his desires get the best of him. 

You sighed as you applied some chapstick, checking your hair in the mirror before turning to put on your coat. It was just drinks with friends, but you were in no mood to be social. You hadn't told them about your stint with Spencer and weren't planning on telling them anytime soon. They just knew you were hung up on someone and would likely try to set you up to help you get over it. 

It wasn't fair you were even hung up about it. You didn't have feelings for him. He was just so intriguing. It was hard to see him go. You sighed and locked the door behind you, greeting your friends and getting in the car towards O'Keeffe's. 

Loud music, conversation and laughter met your ears as you entered the bar. You threw a quick glance around the crowded room, spotting an open spot at the bar. You got the attention of your friends, pointing to the free space. 

Spencer chuckled at one of Penelope's jokes, but his smile quickly dropped as he saw you walk into the team's favourite bar. You obviously hadn't spotted him, engrossed in a conversation with a girl he'd previously seen in his class. He sighed, sipping his drink and trying to pull his attention away from you. 

"What is it, Spence?" JJ inquired. He shook his head in dismissal. 

"It's nothing, just a couple of students from my class," Spencer explained, letting his eyes wander over your body just this once. 

"That doesn't look like nothing, boy wonder," Emily raised an eyebrow, following his gaze. 

"Just some unfinished business, is all. Nothing interesting." 

Nothing interesting. Spencer scoffed to himself. Even he didn't believe it. He was glad his break from the BAU was over, not having to force himself to ignore your inquiries any longer. He'd been reckless, and now he'd have to live with the consequences. The consequences haunted his mind every time he closed his eyes. 

Please, Spencer. Please.

Your desperate words echoed around his head. He should've never given in. 

"Do tell more, my inconspicuous sage," Penelope leaned her head on her crossed fingers, a big grin on her face. 

"There's nothing to tell, Garcia. They're my students," Spencer shrugged. He had a superb poker face, but nothing could be hidden from his team. 

JJ narrowed her eyes at him, trying to figure it out. Emily was way ahead of her, letting out a pleasantly surprised scoff. "You animal! You slept with one of them!" 

"Will you keep it down?!" Spencer whisper-yelled. Realizing he hadn't denied it, he looked at the glass in his hands, refusing to meet the girls' eyes. 

"I see you, Casanova. Wouldn't have pegged you the type," Penelope laughed. Spencer shook his head.

"Because I'm not! It was a mistake," it was more to convince himself than the others. 

"So, which one is it?" JJ questioned, wanting to discuss his type with the girls. 

Spencer refused to look in the direction of the bar, not wanting to give anything away. "Can we please just change the subject?"

"No can do, Spence. Now, is it the tall, leggy blonde? Oh! Is it the one talking to the newbie?" That caught Spencer's attention. 

"What?" His head snapped up, turning to where you were leaning against the bar, Luke Alvez whispering in your ear. Spencer's grip on his glass tightened as he observed your pleasant smile. He squinted his eyes, trying to make out what Alvez possibly could've said to paint that smile on your face. The smile he'd wrongly presumed was reserved for him. 

"Oh, that's the one, alright." Emily laughed. Spencer snapped out of his jealous tunnel vision, trying to appear unaffected by the situation. Damn you, Alvez. He was supposed to go and get drinks, not flirt with girls barely over the legal drinking age. He crossed his arms and tried to tune in on the girls' conversation. 

"Look at him, definitely jealous. Crossed arms? Refusing to look in their direction? Chewing the inside of his mouth? Classic signs of jealousy." JJ spoke, gesturing to Spencer's body. He really regretted agreeing to go out. 

He watched you throw back the last of your drink, laughing at a story Luke told. 

"Do you have any pictures?" You asked. Luke had been telling you all about his Belgian Shepherd, Roxy. You couldn't even remember how the topic came up in the last ten minutes you'd been speaking with him. 

Luke was classically handsome. Toned, too. You admired his features, but condemned yourself for comparing them to a certain professor's. You'd approached him as he waited for his drinks, asking if you'd previously met. He looked familiar. You just couldn't put your finger on why. Surely you would've remembered meeting someone as handsome as him.

The mystery man had told you that, no, you hadn't met, but introduced himself as Luke Alvez. 

Luke showed you a few pictures of his adorable dog before continuing the conversation. "So, what do you do?" 

"I'm a full-time student, currently. You?" You got comfy leaning against the bar, enjoying his company. 

"I actually work for the FBI," Luke informed you. You nearly choked on your drink, instantly realizing why he'd been familiar. You'd done your research. 

"You wouldn't happen to be a part of the BAU?" You winced. 

"Yes, actually! How'd you kn-" 

Luke was cut off by a harsh grip on your upper arm. Your head turned, only to find the hand to be attached to the source of your dread. 

"Spencer? What are you doing here?" You tried to be casual, but you were panicking. Was he here with Luke? Or was it just a coincidence? 

"I could ask you the same thing," Spencer dejected. 

"I was actually talking to my new friend Luke here," you tugged your arm out of Spencer's grip, a challenging expression on your face. Luke looked uncomfortable, clearly already having figured out how you'd learned he was a part of the BAU. 

"Why do you have to be so fucking diff- No, you know what? I'm not doing this. Let's go," Spencer motioned towards the door of the bar. You furrowed your brows in confusion. First, he wanted nothing to do with you, and now he expected you to just leave with him without question? 

"What? No, I'm not leaving. I'm here with friends. Besides, why would I leave with you, Professor?" You questioned. Luke's expression changed to one of surprise. That definitely wouldn't have been his first guess, seeing as you'd called him 'Spencer.' 

"Is that Professor Reid? Oh my god, hi!" One of your friends finally noticed what was going down. Spencer gave her a tight-lipped smile and half-hearted raise of his hand. Their attention quickly returned to their previous conversation. 

Spencer looked agitated, taking a deep breath to recollect his bearings. "Please, just come with me," he pleaded quietly. You crossed your arms and huffed. 

"You can't go making demands, Spencer! Not when you've been ignoring me!" You tried to keep your volume down, trying to not give away what had obviously happened. 

Luke took that as his queue to leave, but not before earning a nasty look from Spencer. He raised his hands in defence. When Luke returned to the table, he was met with excited whispers from the girls. 

"I've never seen him like this," JJ exclaimed. They were all observing as you were arguing with Spencer. 

"I take it you know what's going on there?" Luke sat down, putting his beer next to Spencer's unfinished glass. 

"Oh, newbie. It's a true scandal. Our resident genius was very jealous of your new lady friend," Penelope clapped her hands together in excitement. 

"But she's his student, right?" 

"Exactly why it's such a scandal!" 

The team observed your body language as well as Spencer's. They noticed your defensive stance, a change from the relaxed one you'd had when talking to Luke. Spencer, too, exuded a different energy. He was clearly in charge of the conversation, domineering stance looking like his second nature. It was clear there was a side to him they hadn't seen, intentionally hidden away. 

"Oh Ehm Gee, look!" Penelope clamoured. 

Spencer had had enough, dragging you towards the bathroom instead of the door like he'd initially intended. He'd tried to hold back, but you made it so damn difficult. 

"Where are we going? Let me go," you struggled in his grip, nearly tripping over your feet as he dragged you to the bathroom. 

"You clearly need to be taught a lesson in respect," Spencer spat, pushing you into the women's bathroom and closing the door. 

"Stop it, Spencer. You're acting childish," you scoffed, trying to push past him out the door. 

"I'm being childish? What was that back there, then? Flirting with my coworker in front of me? That's a new low," Spencer mocked. His body language was hostile and distant. He was feeling worse about it than he was letting on. He clearly had unresolved feelings about your situation, just like you did. 

"I didn't even know he was your coworker! Or that you were here! And you've ignored me every time I've tried to talk to you! You don't get to stake some sort of claim over me!" You defended. Did he really expect you to just wait around for him? 

"I'm not staking a claim! I just assumed we had an understanding!" Spencer's voice was rising with every sentence he spoke. The small bathroom seemed to only get smaller as he towered over you. 

"What understanding, Spencer? We only fucked once," you sneered, rolling your eyes. 

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?" Spencer's tone shifted, simmering anger underlined with something you couldn't place. You searched his face for emotion but only found his tightened jaw and eyebrows raised in question. 

"So what if I did?" You challenged, crossing your arms. He wasn't backing down, staring into your eyes. You felt your resolve crumble little by little. 

"Bend over," Spencer demanded, motioning to the sink with his head. 

"I'm not bending over some gross bar sink! Especially not for you," you tried pushing past him again, to no avail. His hands found your upper arms, turning you around and pushing you over the sink. 

"You'll listen to me if you know what's good for you," Spencer whispered in your ear. The dampened bass thrumming through the closed bathroom door had nothing on your heartbeat. 

You awaited his hands against your ass, but they didn't come. You stayed in the position he'd put you in, waiting. Spencer stepped back, and you didn't dare move a muscle. 

"Hmm, good girl. See how easy it is to just listen?" He ran a hand over your back, stopping at the hem of your bottoms. You didn't reply, waiting with bated breath. 

"Now, do you remember the rules?" Spencer made eye contact through the mirror. You felt yourself nod before correcting the behaviour. 

"Yes, Sir," you were quick to stammer the words. 

"Good girl..." Spencer trailed off, hooking his fingers into your waistband and pulling everything down to your ankles, leaving you exposed. 

He admired your pussy, kicking your legs apart to give him a better view and access. He wasn't wasting any time this time around. He placed his hands on your ass, squatting down to be at face height with your nethers. You jumped and tried to contain your reaction as he licked a stripe between your folds. Your hand slapped over your mouth, begging nobody could hear what was going down. 

"Wait, Spencer. Lock the door," you remembered. 

"Shut up. Did I give you permission to speak?" Spencer spoke against the warmth between your legs. 

"N-no, Sir," you answered. Your eyes darted to the unlocked door again, anxious someone might walk in. It was a public bar, after all. You wanted to question him. What if someone walked in? But you knew better, keeping your lips sealed. 

Spencer resumed with his mouth on your cunt, slowly devouring and driving you crazy. Tremors built in your legs as he sped up his advances. The wet sounds of his tongue lapping at your clit reached your ears, sending blood rushing to your cheeks. You clenched your eyes shut and balled your fists, doing your best to withhold your reactions. 

"Fuck..." The soft whimper left your mouth as Spencer sucked harshly on your clit. It was almost enough to send you over the edge. Almost. Spencer seemed to know as much, teasing endlessly. You wanted to beg, plead with him to make you cum, but you knew any words from your mouth would urge him to do the opposite. 

The doorknob clicked, and you tried to kick Spencer away from you. His grip on your hips was unwavering as he maintained his eager actions. 

The door flew open, and an unknown girl shrieked at the sight before her before quickly backing out the door. You'd hidden your face to the best of your ability, but there was no doubt what was going on. The least you could do to spare your dignity was hide your identity. 

Your heart beat rapidly in your chest at the intrusion. Even though you hated that you'd gotten caught in such a compromising situation, you couldn't deny it was a little exhilarating to know anybody could walk in at any moment while Spencer had his way with you without a care in the world. 

"You liked getting caught, didn't you? That's what little whores like you get off on," Spencer muttered against your pussy. You shook your head, denying his accusation. 

Spencer got off the floor, and you met his gaze through the mirror. "No? You didn't like it? Then why'd you get so wet," his words were emphasized by the fingers running through your sensitive folds. You whined at the sensation, biting your lip. 

"Fine, have it your way," Spencer sighed, leaning over and finally locking the door. The damage had been done, anyway. 

"Get up and turn around," Spencer ordered. You quickly obeyed, spinning to face him. Your ass pressed into the sink as Spencer stepped closer. He observed you for a second, his right hand coming up to cup your cheek in a strangely intimate moment. 

He quickly snapped out of it, bringing the hand down to your chin and gripping it tightly. You attempted to beg him to continue without words, but he was taking his sweet time. While his touch was no longer tender, the unexpected kiss he planted on your lips could only be described as delicate. A promise. 

His lips quickly moved down your neck, sucking harshly in any open spot he could find. His hand went up to your hair as he put the other on your waist. He tugged strategically, intentionally messing up your put-together appearance. This, combined with the trail of bruises he was leaving on your neck, made one thing clear: He was marking his territory. A fond feeling you wanted to ignore, perhaps to preserve it for later, bloomed in your chest. 

Spencer pushed you backwards onto the stone sink. You crossed your fingers it was a sturdy one, knowing what Spencer likely had in mind. He stepped between your opened legs, unbuckling his belt with one hand as the other remained on your thigh, rubbing the skin and driving you crazy. 

He reached into his underwear, tugging his rock-hard cock out of its confines. He held it tightly in his fist, stroking it as he kept rubbing his fingers closer and closer to your heat. You would've easily been able to take his teasing if he hadn't left you hanging on the edge with his mouth. The seconds he spent stroking himself lazily as he watched you felt like torturous hours. 

Finally, he made contact, tapping the head of his dick against your clit crudely. The sensation made you jerk backwards. He placed his length between your lips, lazily sliding yet never pushing inside. Every time the tip hit your clit with the upwards motion of his hips, a meek noise escaped you. 

"What would Luke think if he saw you like this, huh? Think he'd still be all over you if he knew you were such a little slut for me?" He accentuated his words by finally thrusting inside, pulling a moan from your throat. 

"Bet you'd like that, huh? Having him walk in here? Have him watch as I ruin your little pussy?" You cried out at his words. You couldn't help but imagine it. 

"But you're my good girl, huh?" The slide of his cock against your walls felt phenomenal. You felt yourself tighten at his words. The ridge of his tip got stuck on your entrance, and Spencer chuckled. 

"So tight for me. My pussy," he continued pushing inside, ignoring how you squeezed around him. 

"Say it," he urged. "Tell me who this pussy belongs to." 

"You! Belongs to you, Sir," you whined. You felt your body slowly slip off the sink with every push. You brought your hands to Spencer's shoulders as leverage to keep yourself upright. 

"That's right, all mine," Spencer moaned. His voice was raspy. It was the sexiest thing you'd ever had the pleasure of hearing. 

"Let me hear you," he coaxed. You took it as permission to finally speak. 

"Please, Sir, more," you begged. You no longer had control over your body, throwing your head back and nearly crashing it into the mirror. Your throat was quickly becoming hoarse with the pleas and whines escaping it. 

"More what, sweetheart?" The nickname sounded anything but sincere, just like the last time he'd used it in his office. 

"Fuck- Spe- Sir, harder, please," you were gradually losing your sanity. Your nails dug into the skin of his neck in desperation. 

He fulfilled your request, speeding up the momentum of his hips. You could only hope the music from the bar drowned out the sound of his balls slapping against your cunt with every harsh thrust. The wet squelches coming from where your bodies connected were vulgar. 

"Fuck, baby. So good. Such a good girl for me," Spencer babbled as he leaned forward to plant a messy kiss on your lips. You kept him close with the hold on his neck. 

You brought your hands up to his delectable locks, tugging harshly when he hit the magic spot inside of you. 

"Spencer! Oh my god, please, don't stop," you exclaimed. He continued pounding into you roughly. 

"Nobody can fuck you like I can, nobody will make you feel like I do," Spencer groaned. He was right. He'd ruined you for anybody else the second he'd set foot on campus. 

"O-oh, shit..." Spencer whimpered. If his rough voice was sexy, then Professor Spencer Reid whimpering in your ear in desperation as he neared his climax was on another level. The filthy whispers and sounds falling from his lips were enough to bring you back to the brink. 

"Fuck, Professor," you moaned. It snapped something in Spencer, whose hips stuttered. His pace turned brutal. 

"Say that again," he commanded. Who knew his official title would've set him off? 

"Please, Professor," you whined. The noises falling from your lips sounded foreign to your ears. Frenzied moans left you as Spencer brought his hand to your clit, rubbing circles in tandem with his thrusts. 

"Good girl," Spencer moaned. "Such a good girl for me." You could tell he was about to cum, mirroring your own predicament. 

"Fuck... Let them hear, baby. Tell them who's making you cum," Spencer's hips pressed hard against your own. 

"Spencer, oh- shit," you were no longer holding back. 

"That's right, cum for me." 

His words sent you over the edge, vision momentarily going black as your toes curled. You felt your legs shake as Spencer pushed inside one last time, cock pulsing as he shot his cum deep inside. It was concerning how quickly you'd come to love that specific feeling. 

He allowed you a second to catch your breath before he pulled out of you, tucking himself back into his pants and buckling his belt. He wasted no time, gathering some toilet paper from one of the stalls and carefully cleaning you up. He threw the paper in the toilet and flushed it, turning his attention back to you. 

He bent down, placing a peck on your mound. "All mine."

You scoffed at the action, pushing him away. "You sap." 

"Caught me," Spencer smiled softly, helping you off the sink. You pulled your bottoms back up, cringing at the wet feeling of his cum trickling down. 

"Spencer, I can't go out there like this," you gestured to your exterior. 

"You can and you will, c'mon," he placed a hand on the small of your back, ushering you to the exit. You did your best to rearrange your clothes to look somewhat presentable, but there was only so much you could do with your dishevelled appearance. The messy hair, ruined makeup and blotches splattered over your neck would be enough to give away what had happened. 

Your eyes searched the bar for your friends, but they were nowhere to be seen. You grabbed your phone, and with all the notifications, your suspicions were confirmed. They'd left without you. 

"Spencer, can you drive me home?" You tried turning to him, but he kept pushing you to the table where his team and Luke were still seated. Luke wolf-whistled at your appearance. You tried to shrink into yourself or to hide behind Spencer, but he wouldn't allow it. This clearly was some kind of dick-measuring contest to him. 

Spencer sat down next to Emily, pulling you into his lap. "Knock it off already. They get it," you groaned. 

"So, you're taking Spence's class? How's that working out for you?" The blonde next to Luke questioned. Spencer put a drink in front of you. You didn't question its contents, taking a sip before answering. 

"Well, I guess we had some disagreements over some of my work, but it seems we've found a way to work that out," you joked. There was no use in being sheepish about it. Spencer had made very sure they understood exactly what your dynamic was. 

"So it seems." Luke chuckled. You gave him an apologetic smile. He shrugged it off, raising his glass to clink it against yours.

Spencer's arm around you tightened. He'd 100% gotten his message across, but that didn't mean he liked you talking to Luke, or anybody, for that matter. If there's one thing Spencer learned from prison, it would be that sharing definitely wasn't his forté. Especially not you. No... You were all his. 

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

anathema

warnings: 18+!!!, NSFW, language, angst, biblical references, religious metaphors, perversion of religion, smut (dirty talk, degradation, fingering, oral, p in v, dp (samifer x reader x michael!dean), overstim, forced orgasms, cockwarming, dom/sub dynamics), heartbreak, pining.

a masterpost for the very first fic i ever wrote and put out on tumblr!!! this one is from all the way back in march, can you believe that i only started my writing journey back up around that time? you can see the difference in my writing from this to now, but i do love this story! i have been going through some religious guilt lately and i thought... i should actually try to put some of y'all onto this because i don't know how many of you have even read it, so... here's the first warped thing my gross mind came up with when i decided to start writing again in march (after like six years of not writing at all.) all the love.

anathema (uh-neth-uh-muh) 1. something or someone that one vehemently dislikes. 2. a formal curse by a pope or council of the church, excommunicating a person or denouncing a doctrine.

part i

part ii

part iii

part iv

part v

dean taglist: @deansbeer @bruisedfig @sacr1ficialang3l @angelicjackles @tinas111 @ccainesideboob @anxiety-prime-max @vmiina @bejeweledinterludes @love2liz @lunaleah @angelically-yours @kblognar @angrydragon90 @mj-102009 @emeraldcrs @suckitands33 @lyarr24 @winchestersbgirl @nevercameraready @sunnyfuffly @prettyboy56 @mostlymarvelgirl @kaz-2y5-spn @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @artemys-ackles @sbwifey @angellust333 @sunnyteume @allthingswickedpodcast @paristheonewhoreads @0ccvltism @insensiblelimerence @podiumackles @acklesarchives @itshellfire @livya99

[sacr1ficialang3l]

Handwritten letters from a ghost girl⋆˚✉︎⋆｡˚

Dean Winchester has seen some strange shit. Things that would drive the strongest man crazy, that are written about in horror novels, that are believed to only exist in the worst nightmares—but this gotta be the weirdest thing he’s ever been through.  He has a goddamn secret admirer.

“You don’t know me, Dean, but I know you. More than you think.” ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎—your ghost girl♡

MY LOVE IN SMUDGED INK, FOREVER AND EVERMORE:

⋆˚ ✉︎⋆｡˚ If we could stay this way forever, would it ever be enough?

⋆˚ ✉︎⋆｡˚ Your lip got split, spill grenadine kisses.

⋆˚ ✉︎⋆｡˚ Lost your baby teeth in the backseat, said somebody knocked them out.

⋆˚ ✉︎⋆｡˚ There are things we’ll never say, but we know.

⋆˚ ✉︎⋆｡˚ We could have stayed this way forever, but it would never be enough.

P.S. I'LL ALWAYS COME BACK TO YOU (bonus chapters):

⋆˚ ✉︎⋆｡˚ I wear your bruises on my shoulders, now.

NOW PLAYING: BABY TEETH - FLOWER FACE read on ao3 / playlist

NOTES: OMG IM SO EXCITED FOR THIS. okay, this is a HIGH SCHOOL AU, which means that there will still be supernatural aspects (monsters are real, the boys are hunters, it all started with mary and azazel) but there will be some changes.

Think about it like this: we are following the series' storyline, everything that happens in canon will happen eventually, but some characters will meet earlier than expected. every character we meet (except for one, because I just really wanted to include him) are exactly who they are in canon, they just happen to attend Sioux Falls High with the boys.

I promise it's not as complicated as it seems, you'll get it soon.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BEING HERE, and I'll see you soon with the first chapter.<3

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @rafeskitty @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90 @urblondiebaby @fertilise-me @angelicjackles<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[irlganseyiii]

SOOO GOOD HOLY SHITTT

[sacr1ficialang3l]

꒷꒦You’re so handsome when I’m all over your mouth꒷꒦

SUMMARY: horror movies, the most grotesque and disgusting ones, make you all soft. 9.5k playlist<3

WARNINGS: friends to fwb to lovers. porn with plot. pining. smut (mdni). blood play. knife play. unprotected vip. blood drinking. spit kink. pain kink. kink discussion. shamelessly self-indulgent. self-harm (sexually). just a tiniest bit of angst, but it's just dean's self-deprecation.

You’ve been acting weird lately.

Dean can’t really put his finger on it, and he sure as fuck can’t talk to Sammy about it, but something is going on. He just doesn’t know what.

It’s not like your taste for horror is a sudden development. It was one of the first things the two of you bonded over, back when you were just teens. 

Dean met you at a Blockbuster, hunting some crossroads demon. He’d been alone, nineteen, and bored. So when a pretty girl dragged him into a janitor’s closet and confronted him about being a hunter, he couldn’t help himself but to tell you the truth. When you’d offered to work together, Dean thought back on Dad’s words. 

“Other bastards will only slow you down, son. It’s best to keep to yourself and not involve  anyone else in your mess.”

For once in his life, Dean had decided to disobey his father. And oh, is he glad he did.

So you’d agreed to hunt the son of a bitch together, and when you’d roamed around the scary movie section of the place in search for any clues and you made a Hatchet Man reference, Dean knew that he never wanted to work alone again.

And he hadn’t, because no matter how bad things got in his life, you stayed by his side. Year after year, storm after storm, battle after battle.

And so he’s found himself here, eight years later, with that same pretty girl as his best friend. 

His only friend, really. But that’s just too sad to admit. 

One of your preferred hangout plans—is it a hangout if you basically live on the road together? Dean isn’t sure, but any sense of normalcy he can treasure is appreciated—is movie nights. You’ve done it since forever, in motel rooms and drive-ins and at Bobby’s. It’s always nice, to find some peaceful moment when life seems bent on slowly driving him insane. 

He might be going crazy anyway. 

Because as you all sprawl out over the motel carpet, the beds way too small for two of you to fit and all of you refusing to sit on the moldy cuck chair in the corner, you pick a slasher flick again. For the tenth time this week. 

Sam groans where he sits in the middle of you and Dean, and you just pout but insert the DVD anyway.

As much as Dean loves horror, and as much as he knows you do too, it’s still strange. It’s not even near spooky season, and yet you’ve decided to go on a scary-strict film diet. He’d usually pay it no mind, but he’s been noticing a… pattern.

At first, his hypothesis was that you get off on the adrenaline. 

But you don’t really get like this after a fight, or when you’re running from some evil motherfucker through the woods, or even when he dared you to jump off of a cliff into a lake back when you were twenty-one. Maybe he’s seen that same expression in you when he’s patching you up, suturing a cut or bandaging an extra-deep scratch. But you’ve always been a bit of a cuddlebug, so you probably just need some affection after getting hurt. It’s not that. 

Horror movies, the most grotesque and disgusting ones, make you all soft.

You get this spaced out look on your face, lips parted and eyes wide, hitting peak cuteness whenever a gory scene comes. You also get extra cuddly, hugging whatever’s near, whether it’s a lucky pillow or a lucky Sam. Or a lucky Dean. He’s gotten lucky quite a few times in the past few days, with your pouty face pressed into his shoulder and your body curled into his chest. 

Physical affection has never been a big part of your friendship. It’s a sore line that makes Dean wince every time he gets too close to it. That fills his veins with something too good to be true, and so he evades it as much as he can. Just so it doesn’t snap, and he’s left forsaken in the middle of a labyrinth, without the thread that would lead him home. 

But you’ve been jumping the line, whenever blood splashes on the screen or when someone’s guts are spilled on the ground. He’d attribute it to you being scared, but you don't get scared by films. You just don’t.

This new development means that you get to spend even more time together, though. When you drag Sam away from his nerd books and force him into the blanket nest you’d built on the bed or couch or ground. You’ll snuggle close to the brothers, press play to whatever sick little movie you please, and Dean has around two hours where he can let his guard down and finally enjoy being alive. 

The gore thing is still a bit weird. He tries to ignore it, he really does, but curiosity is corroding his brain. He knows you more than anyone else, every twitch of your lips and every thought that flashes on your eyes, and so it’s killing him to be out of the loop. When he catches himself actually considering whether you could’ve been transformed into a vamp without him noticing, he decides he needs to chill the fuck up. 

He’s probably just overthinking the hell out of the situation, and the quickly-rising danger in your lives has made you more susceptible to scary shit. There’s no reason for his mind to wander any further than that.

(There is a reason: Dean’s fucking gross.)

So he tries to concentrate on the slasher playing on the TV instead. It’s a cheesy, cliche one, with a blonde, half-naked girl running through some kind of factory and some dumb clown chasing her.  He can’t even focus on the way the girl’s boobs bounce as she runs, too busy trying to ignore Sammy’s head dropping forward every once in a while so he doesn’t have to turn his head and see you. 

Right when the movie goes completely silent and Dean’s shoulders tense with expectation, Sammy lets out the loudest snore he’s ever heard. It makes Dean jump so high he’s surprised he doesn’t somehow hit the ceiling. He turns to glare at his passed out brother before daring to look your way.

Big mistake. 

You don’t even seem to have noticed the dinosaur roar that just rumbled through the room. Your eyes are glued to the screen, your whole face now glowing red as blood drips down the camera lens. You’re chewing on your lower lip, knees pulled up to your chest as you drink in the image of the girl laying there on the asphalt, her hair stained crimson and her throat slit open. 

Something strained flashes on your face as the killer climbs on top of her, starting to cut down her torso, and you hide further into the blanket on your lap. Had someone attacked you and you didn’t tell him? And now you’re dealing with it by watching a bunch of gory shit?

No, you wouldn’t lie to him about something like that. 

“You okay?” He still needs to check.

“Yeah.” Your voice is hoarse, Dean isn’t sure he believes you.

Before he can press further, Sammy wakes up with a gasp of “what did I miss?” And so Dean is left with no choice but to take your word for it. 

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You’re in Baby the next time you decide it’s time for a movie night. 

You’re parked outside of a suburban house, waiting for Sammy to get back from hanging out with Artsy Girl. Dean’s proud that the kid is having some fun after watching him be consumed by nothing but grief for so long. And he’s also just glad he gets to spend some alone time with you.

You’re both huddled in the front seat, Sammy’s laptop propped up on the dashboard right in the middle as you hack into Artsy Girl’s home wifi. 

“Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

You just shrug, sending him a sly look. “A magician never reveals her secrets. But it might’ve been Ash.”

The days are getting hotter after a long winter, the sun shining through the window and making your skin glow. You’re wearing a pair of short shorts and a tanktop that lets Dean see the bracelets dangling on your wrists and a silver of your bra. It’s red and lacy. Dean is not a teenager, he can control himself. 

You glue yourself to his side, even when the air is a little sticky with heat. It’s just so you can both get a view of the screen, just that. The skin of your thighs is smooth, soft-looking under the golden light. Dean wishes he wasn’t a dirty dog and could afford to touch you without staining you, like when Sam wraps an arm over your shoulders or Jo sits on your lap at the Roadhouse. 

To distract himself, he asks what you’re watching. You just grin.

This time the film is quiet. It’s foreign, some slavic language Dean can’t recognize playing through the speakers. It still engrosses him even as he reads the subtitles, and he finds himself leaning forward as the suspense builds. It’s explicit, very explicit. But it’s also beautiful, with careful shots and captivating cinematography. Not like Dean really knows about those things, but anything that distracts him from the soft sound of your breath next to him is welcomed.

The distraction doesn’t last long. Because the two protagonists—a couple, both young and pretty beat up—end up tied to some chairs, and you shuffle closer. 

Your bare thigh is pressed against his denim-clad one. Dean’s jaw tightens. 

An older man appears on screen, a knife on his hand as he circles the couple. He goes to the dude first, draping himself over his back and whispering something in his ear as he presses the blade to his neck. You swallow loudly, Dean ignores it as best as he can. The boyfriend pulls on his restraints, starting to tear up. The killer shushes him, pressing the knife to his cheek and asking him to “be good and shut that pretty mouth.”

It’s very homoerotic, Dean wants to make a joke about it.

But then the older man starts to cut down the boyfriend’s face, a thin line that quickly spills scarlet, and your hands tighten around your knees. Your nails dig onto your skin, knuckles white and skin turning red. It’s distracting. 

Dean decides to wrap an arm around your shoulders, convincing himself that he’s done this a million times before whenever you have a nightmare. You must really be getting scared, and he’s just reassuring you. It has nothing to do with how good you smell or how much of your skin he can see. You’re so pretty, it should be illegal.

You stiffen at the touch, and Dean worries he fucked up. But then you let out a stuttering sigh and melt into his side. He decides to softly run his hands through your hair, in that way that always quiets down your sobbing whenever a dream is particularly bad. It earns him a different reaction this time—fluttering eyelashes, knees being drawn up to your chest, tongue peaking out to wet your lips.

You hiss, a little too breathy, when the killer moves to the woman, pulling her head back from her hair and slicing a deep line across her chest. Then he stabs her once, on the shoulder, and Dean recoils. 

“Scared?” you tease, nudging your shoulder into his chest, one of your legs dropping from against your torso and landing over Dean’s. He might as well be the one getting butchered. 

“Never. I don’t get scared, darling.” He manages to keep his voice steady. It doesn’t matter how much your bodies are touching or how much he’s longed to graze your like this for years or how long it’s been since the last time he’s fucked someone, because somehow no one feels worth it anymore—he won’t get a boner from some cuddling, because he’s not a blushing school boy. And you deserve better than that. “But I’ve been stabbed in that same place, it’s not fun. Are you scared?” 

You hum lowly, fingers fidgeting with the frayed edge of your shorts. 

“I’m never scared when I’m with you.” Before he can even process how fucking adorable and groundbreaking that is, you keep talking. “You know I like—this kind of stuff anyway.”

It’s Dean’s time to hum, still softly massaging your scalp. “This kind of stuff?”

“You know what I mean,” you grumble, pouting as you press your face against his shoulder. Dean fights to keep his heartbeat steady. “Don’t make me say it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart. You’re gonna have to tell me.”

Your eyes don’t move from the screen. “Gross stuff, Dean. You know I’m into gross stuff.”

He forces out a laugh, pretending like his chest isn’t contracting and his mind isn’t wandering toward territories he’d banned years ago, when he got to the conclusion that having you in his life was more valuable than having you under him. 

You keep watching the movie. The scene is long, and Dean stopped reading the subtitles a while ago. It’s not like there’s much to read anyway, it’s mostly pained noises and slashing sounds. You let out a soft little noise of your own, and then the laptop gets pushed right in front of Dean.

You roll onto your side as best as you can in the tight space, both your legs now over his as you sit half on his lap. 

He’s seen you like this with Jo before, cuddled in her bed or couch while you watch dumb chick-flicks. He’d even seen you in a similar position with Sam once, when the two of you got so drunk you couldn’t walk and you’d ended up falling asleep on top of each other in Bobby's living room. This is normal, friends cuddle. He can handle it. 

You snuggle into his chest, warm breath filtering through his thin shirt, and he can definitely not handle it.

The woman on the screen screams, and Dean’s surprised he’s not screaming as well. His hand is still on your hair, cradling your head against him as you keep shifting, trying to get comfortable. His other hand brushes your knee, and he holds his breath. You don’t seem to notice, only shuffling closer as the boyfriend gets his head chopped off. 

He wraps his free fingers around the steering wheel, forcing them to behave as you finally settle down. He allows himself to relax, stroking your hair and attempting to focus back on the film. But then the tip of your nose brushes his neck, and he startles. He blames it on the killer pushing the woman’s chair to the floor. 

When you start speaking, he almost misses it from the way his ears are ringing. 

“It’s kind of weird, isn’t it? That I like them so much.”

It takes Dean a few seconds to figure out what the hell you’re talking about, but when he does, his heartbeat definitely picks up. 

“They’re just movies, sweetheart. We see worse shit every day.” Your face’s still hidden against his shirt, and Dean starts to worry about you spiraling into one of those ugly, completely irrational, self-deprecating lows you hit sometimes. “You know I enjoy them too.”

There’s a pause, and even the killer seems to be waiting. 

“What if, uh—” you clear your throat, squirming in his hold again. “What if it wasn’t? Just movies, I mean.”

Neither of you move, Dean doesn’t think he even breathes. Both your eyes stay in the laptop, and the screaming has somehow gotten even louder. But your voice is so hesitant, and he never wants you to hesitate with him, so he moves his hand from the wheel to your thigh, squeezing lightheartedly.

Wrong choice. Your skin is tender and malleable under his palm, Dean’s going to die. 

“Do you need me to get rid of a body for you, sweetheart? Are you confessing to murder?”

You huff, a frustrated little sound against his collarbone. “Don’t be a dick, Dean. You know what I mean. It’s nothing extreme, but—”

“I really don’t know what you mean.”

“Blood,” you whisper, burying your face further into his shirt.

“Blood? We see blood all the time,” he murmurs your name, a little concern making its way into his chest. Maybe you really did get turned into a vamp. 

“No, I don’t mean monster goo. It’s—blood,” you repeat, like it explains everything. “It’s… good. Appealing, I mean.”

There’s a long moment in which Dean can’t hear anything but the beat of his heart and screaming, then he looks down at you with wide eyes. 

“Are you talking about sex, sweetheart?”

You whine, eyes screwed shut right before you try to push away from him. “We’re done watching this.”

You reach for the laptop, but Dean stops you before you can grab it. He pulls you back down onto the seat, not wanting you to run away from him. He never wants you to hide anything from him because you think he’ll shame you, especially when he knows how hard it is for you to talk about this stuff. So he’ll be here for you, always, even if the information is breaking his brain a little. You’re still his best friend, before anything else.

He accidentally tugs you further into his lap, and it makes it harder for him to put a sentence together. You’re facing each other now, and you’re almost straddling his thigh, but your gaze stays on Dean’s chest, right over his heart. 

“It’s okay, we can talk about it.” The movie is still going, the woman is getting chased, he very much cannot do this. “Have you ever—has anyone ever done that to you?”

Dean cringes at his own words. He had The Talk with Sammy more than once, he should be better at this. 

“Of course I haven’t. Who would do something like that?” you laugh, but it’s a little bit bitter. “Aside, y’know how I feel about… casual stuff.”

He does. God damnit does he know. It’s haunted him for years, how off limits you are. Because you don’t do casual, and Dean is not someone girls want for anything else. 

A rush of relief rushes through his body at the knowledge you haven’t done anything like this with some bastard that wouldn't even know how to take care of you. It’s selfish, it makes him nauseous.

So he mans up, and tries his best to keep his mouth from twisting into a scowl. Dean isn’t allowed to want things, but you are. You could want the whole universe, and Dean would make sure it got served right into your gentle hands. He also knows that he’s a sick motherfucker, his porn preferences being a common joke in your small group. It’s probably why you decide to trust him with this, so he gives you his best attempt at nobility.

“If you were to do it, you need to make sure you’re safe. That you’re with someone you trust—”

“If I do what?” Your wide eyes flick up to his, like it wasn’t you who brought up the topic.

“Uh, masochistic stuff? Knife and blood play, or whatever.” He never got further than a few spankings into the BDSM category, he’s darting into unfamiliar territory.

“Why do you know that’s a thing, Dean Winchester?” A little playfulness tugs at the corner of your lips, and there’s the pretty girl that kidnapped him inside a closet. 

Somehow, his fingers have stayed in your hair all through this unexpected journey, so he tugs at the locks softly. Your mouth falls open with a low little sight. Danger. That's the danger zone. 

“I should be asking you that, you little shit. You’re the one getting off to horror movies.”

You gasp, a little horrified as your cheeks bloom in a pretty red. “I don’t get off to them! I’d never—get off with Sammy in the room.”

You don’t mention Dean, he tries to not dwell on it. “So, what is it?”

“They just…” Your cheeks darken, your voice dripping with embarrassment. “They make me think about things.”

“Things.” He repeats, his thumb brushing behind your ear. In the background, the woman finally gets caught. “So they turn you on?”

You splutter, and the pure look of fluster in your face makes Dean chuckle. It helps him focus more on teasing you than the topic actually being talked about.

You—the most sensitive and gentle person Dean’s ever known—are a pervert. And you thought telling him was the right move. Dean will move past this, one day. Maybe when he rots in hell once some evil bitch finally gets him, maybe not even then.

“I—it’s not like I wanna get murdered by a psycho,” you stutter, wiggling against his leg. He’s doing great, thank you very much. “It’s not like that.”

Dean nods. He’ll need at least three business days to actually process all of this. 

So instead, he carefully turns you around on his lap until you’re facing the laptop. Still straddling his thigh, a leg pressed between his and your back toward him as he tries his best to watch the rest of the movie over your shoulder and not go insane from the new information learned. 

You chew on your lip, halting for a moment before turning your head to him. “You don’t mind? After what I just—”

“Nah.” He wraps an arm around your waist with the excuse to comfort you, just that. He’s doing this for you. He pulls you closer, and you slump against his chest. “It’s kinda cute. You’ve always been so reserved, who would’ve imagined.”

You grumble something under your breath, elbowing him in the stomach. You both laugh, and the air inside Baby is a little more breathable after that. 

You continue to watch the end of the movie. The woman is somehow still fighting the killer, now pining him against the ground as she drives his own knife into his eye. There’s so much blood, your face is cast in a red glow again. You’re pressed even closer now, he kind of regrets pushing Sammy to get laid. 

“Would you ever… consider helping?” The air becomes smoke in his lungs just as fast as it had cleared. He gapes down at you, you keep looking directly straight. 

“What the hell do you mean?”

Your teeth sink into your lip hard enough that Dean thinks you might break skin, and he doesn’t know if he could handle that right now. 

“You said it was okay,” you whisper. Oh God. “You said I should do it with someone I trust.”

Dean must be misshearing. He must’ve died and woken up in heaven. He must have stumbled his way into an alternative universe or a Djinn must have gotten their hands on him, because there’s no freaking way you’re asking him what he thinks you’re asking him.

“You—want to practice freakin’ platonic sadomasochism with me?”

You whine again at that, your hands darting up to cover your face. Dean’s absolutely losing his marbles. “You don’t have to say yes. Or say anything. Just—forget I said anything.”

But Dean can’t. He really, really fucking can’t just forget. Because now the idea has been implanted in his brain, and you’re sitting on his lap, and he loves you so fucking much. But you don’t do casual, because it makes you feel empty and dirty afterwards, and Dean isn’t allowed to want things.

“I don’t—I don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart. Not if you’re gonna feel even worse later.” 

You shake your head frantically, your eyes not leaving the movie for a moment. “I won’t. I told you, Dean, I’m never scared when I’m with you. I trust you more than anyone in this world. I will be fine as long as it’s you, even if it’s… platonic.”

The woman is stabbing the killer over and over again, guts flying in the air as slow drums start to play. Dean’s not really paying attention. 

Platonic. Dean is not thinking about platonic fucking BDSM. His mind is very much drifting to romantic BDSM, because he’s a piece of shit. But you want to do this, and if it’s not him, it will be some other scumbag. 

The thought makes his skin crawl.

At the distance, Sam slips out of Artsy Girl’s house, a dopey smile on his face and his hair all messed up. He looks happy, for the first time in months.

Dean is not allowed to want things, but you are. And if you want him, even if it’s just for this, then who is him to deny you. 

“What if I said yes?”

Your lips twitch into a smile as you slide off his lap, opening the passenger door as Sammy glides over to Baby. “Then I’ll be right here, watching another slasher.”

Dean is for sure not doing this to himself, right? 

Right?

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Dean will be doing this to himself.

He spent all of last night staring at the ceiling of another dank motel room, deliberating. 

He’s a freak, everyone knows that Dean Winchester is a freak. He likes sex, and he likes women. He won’t ever apologize for that. Not even when a voice in the back of his head tries to reason that he doesn’t even like it as much as he pretends he does. Not even when after a night in some random girl’s house, his chest is still empty and his hands are still bloody.

Because Dean’s hands are always bloody. He doesn’t remember a time when they were clean. His whole life has been built in violence and pain, nothing strong enough to wash it away. So even though he’s known for his libido, Dean has never tried anything too extreme. 

Mixing pain with pleasure has never sat too right with him, not when he already struggles to differentiate himself from the monsters he hunts. And he never wants to hurt you. Not you, the only person that really fills the emptiness.

But it’s you, and you want it. You asked him for it, when even talking about normal sex makes you blush. Dean guessed you didn’t really offer sex, just sexually-charged knife play. It still fucks him up.

He’d know how to take care of you, that little voice told him. He knows where to cut someone when he’s aiming to kill and where it’ll only make a mess. He knows how to handle a blade, how much pressure to apply and how to patch it up after. He knows how to indulge you, and make it safe. 

He actually thought about it, and he could see it. You, under him, writhing from pain and pleasure. Soft under his hands and pleading with him to hurt you. Because you want it, and you trust him. More than anyone in the world. 

By the end of the night, he was half-hard and absolutely restless. 

Apparently, he’d be into almost anything if it’s with you.

That leads him here, knocking on the door of your motel room. You’d decided to take a break from hunting, staying in Pennsylvania for a few days before going back to demon tracking, and you’d specifically requested your own room last night. Sammy had tried to question you, Dean had tried his best not to explode. 

The door opens, and Dean wonders if miracles actually happen. 

You stand there, smiling at him softly with your hair down and your lips glossy. You’re wearing one of his shirts, a faded Led Zeppelin one Sammy had gotten him for his birthday a long time ago, and nothing else. There are ruffly socks around your ankles, but when his shirt rides up as you point toward the bed, he can’t see anything but bare thighs.

“Want to join?” There’s something playing on the old TV, the blankets on the bed all crumpled up, still holding the shape of your body. Dean nods stupidly.

He steps into the room, the door locking behind him, and it’s like he’s walking into a trap. He sits down at the edge of the mattress, and when he looks up, you’re stopping right in front of him. He’s trying to ignore how naked you are, because he’s mature enough to do this, but then something catches his eye—

Two thin, careful lines on your upper thigh. There’s dried blood around them, just barely deep enough to draw any, but Dean’s mind still jumps to panic. He has to remind himself that you’re safe, no one hurt you, no creature got their dirty hands on you. It’s a kink. Dean can manage kinky. 

“Did you do that to yourself?” he asks, a little more hopeful than he should.

Your nod is barely there, cheeks blushing again. “Y–yeah. But it’s not the same on my own.”

Dean’s hand moves on his own, his fingers finding the scars and softly brushing over them. You immediately tense up, breath catching. “And you want me to do it instead.”

It’s not a question. A little noise rumbles through your chest in affirmation anyway. 

“Are you… saying yes?” you sound so fucking nervous, Dean needs to devour you whole. 

“How do we, uh, do this?”

He doesn’t even get to beat himself up over his own awkwardness before he’s attacked with a lapful of you. Your legs straddle his hips, and he’s glad to find out you’re at least wearing underwear. 

“Can I kiss you, Dean?”

His plea of “fuck yeah, please,” gets thankfully swallowed by you immediately. It’s a soft, delicate kiss. Dean lets you take the lead, his hands gripping your shirt in an attempt to control himself. Your lips move sweetly against his, adding just the tiniest hint of tongue right before you move away. He bites back a whine. 

There’s that spaced out look. Eyes glossed over, lips parted. You’re so fucking adorable, it’s ripping him in half. If you get like this after one little kiss, he can’t even imagine what’s in store for him. 

How will he continue to live after this is over?

Your tongue peeks out the corner of your lips, and Dean can’t stop himself. He fists your hair and pulls you against him, licking into your mouth. The moan you let out is loud, and Dean drinks it like it’s the most exquisite elixir. 

He’s being sloppy. Dean never allows himself to be sloppy, because chicks usually prefer him cool and in control, but he’s getting drunk on you so quickly. Spit dribbles out of your mouths as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you incredibly closer. Your teeth clank, and Dean pulls on your hair again until you melt against him, nails digging on his shoulders and another sweet noise leaving you. He licks behind your teeth and against every crevice of your mouth, sucking on your tongue before biting down on your lip. 

In a second, his lap is empty. 

He panics. Maybe that was too much. He was too much, and now you don’t want him anymore. He just ruined the best damn thing he has, and he has no idea how to fix it—

He turns his head, and he finds you crawling to the other side of the bed, reaching for something on the ground. Your pretty ass ends up high in the air, and Dean resists the urge to pine you down and make you pay for being such a fucking tease. 

You return to him, dropping down on the mattress and placing something in between you.

A knife, one Dean recognizes. It’s thin but long, and it has a pretty, carved wooden handle. There are flowers engraved on the blade, thorns that go all the way down to the hilt. It’s the knife Dean gifted you when you’d lost your father’s. 

“Is this the one you use?” Your nod ignites something so wild inside of him that it might just kill him. It growls, burning and burning until Dean’s left with nothing but pure blaze. 

He grabs it, testing its weight and brushing the pad of his thumb on the edge. “You’ll tell me to stop if you need me to, right?” You nod again, and Dean tsks. “Words, sweetheart.”

“I will,” you breathe out, slowly laying down on the pillows. “I promise.”

Dean almost cuts himself at the sight. Your thighs parted, your thin, white cotton panties barely covering anything, his shirt halfway up your middle. This is a view he never thought he’d seen outside of shameful fantasies, and he isn’t sure that he’ll survive it. You’re so fucking beautiful, goddamn it.

And so shy, too. As Dean makes his way between your legs, you keep squirming, trying to tug the shirt down to cover your crotch. Dean runs his fingers up your thigh, all the way to the scars, and you shiver. 

His mouth opens with teasing words, but you pull him down for a kiss instead. It’s just as messy, tongues twirling and hands roaming. It’s your turn to pull on his hair, and he can’t help the way his hips jerk. They don’t press against yours, thank God, but the way you suck on his tongue fucks him up anyway. 

When you start chewing on his lip like you’re about to eat him, he forces himself to lean back. 

Your eyes are hooded, lips puffy and chest rapidly rising and falling. All shame has been erased from your face, replaced by an ardent desperation that Dean can empathize with. One of his hands moves back to your thigh, slowly stroking up and down as the other one grips the knife’s handle.

Without taking his eyes off of yours, he presses the blade to his forearm and slices. He hisses as you gasp, letting out a confused little “Dean!” as blood starts splurting from the cut. 

“Just testing the sharpness,” he mutters through his teeth. The pain isn’t that bad, the edge of the knife smooth and clean. He feels more comfortable now, when the ache slowly subdues on his own skin. “Still want this?”

You don’t look at him, eyes glued to the cut on his arm. When he repeats the question, your lips twitch, but you stay frozen. Then Dean attempts to move away, and you grasp onto his arm, letting out a needy whimper. 

Dean watches dumbfoundedly as you tug his arm up to your mouth, licking up the trail left by his blood dripping, all the way from his wrist to the cut. He hisses when your tongue presses over the wound, your eyelashes fluttering before you look right into his eyes. And maybe you are a fucking vampire, or some kind of succubus, because you continue to suckle on his skin while staring at him with wide, pleading eyes. 

Dean’s at risk of coming in his pants, so he pulls his arm away and pushes you down onto the bed when you try to chase after him. The roughness leaves you a little dumb, and Dean barely contains his hands from shaking. He must’ve been superman in his past life.

The hand on your thigh moves to your torso, just under the hem of your shirt. “Wanna take this off, pretty?”

Your breath hitches, but you nod. Dean rubs slow circles on your hip as you tug the shirt over your head, and there it is that lacy, red bra. It’s okay, this will definitely not come back to haunt him in the worst moments. 

“You look good in my clothes,” he manages not to stutter. It’s never been a secret that Dean thinks you’re beautiful, he’s mentioned it once or twice. He’s still scared that any direct confessions of it will break whatever you’re building right now. But when he takes in the image of you under him, hair sprawled on the pillow and the perfect skin of your stomach exposed, the words escape him. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

The praise makes you blush down to your chest, the top of your breasts dusting a pretty pink that Dean yearns to taste. Your eyes get even glossier, and all this new information about you is a lot to take in. 

“You said it’s not the same on your own.” Dean’s a good friend, he’s here to take care of you. He needs to take care of you, and not think about himself. “So it’s more about power?”

You seem to struggle with your words. “I guess a bit, but it’s mostly about—pain.”

“Oh,” Dean hums, moving the knife up to your collarbone. He presses the dull side onto your skin, your whole body trembles. He tries to meet your eyes, but they’re locked on the blade. “So it’s not just blood. You wanna be hurt, sweetheart? Has anyone ever done that to you?”

You swallow harshly as Dean slides the knife down the valley of your breasts, pressing it sideways against the lace of your bra, right over where he knows your nipple is. “A little. Not—nothing like this.”

Something bitter and ugly writhes inside of Dean. You don’t do casual, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t seen you flirting with guys at bars or hitting it off with some witness. There’s also that boyfriend you got when you were twenty, the one Dean had to actively stop himself from murdering. It didn’t last long, and you didn’t even look all that sad after, but Dean still hated him. He always hates everyone who dares to put their hands on you, but he’s not jealous. He just imagines cutting their dicks off every time. 

But this is a first, a first you’re trusting Dean with. They can all suck it.

“Was it good?” He must be a masochist too.

“Mhm,” Dean moves the knife down to your stomach, brushing the blunt edge against your ribs. You arch into the touch. “Yeah. This is better, though. You—you’re the best.”

This pain shit must really get to your head, because there’s no fucking way you’re actually saying this.

“We’ve barely started, doll.” The pet name slips on accident, it makes you glow a little. The knife gets dragged lower, just barely grazing your panties. You hiss as the tip barely misses your mound, so sensitive already.

Dean lowers himself on your body once the blade presses against your leg, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead before leaving another one on your stomach. His lips latch onto your upper thigh, right under the two scars. He sucks on the skin, leaving a mark he knows he shouldn’t indulge in. Your skin erupts in goosebumps and you moan, so Dean guesses it’s okay.

“Ready?” He murmurs against the skin, admiring the way it’s now blooming purple. 

“Please.” Your hips jerk in frustration, Dean pines them down in a silent order. You obey, his grip on the knife tightens. 

Dean turns it swiftly until the sharp end digs onto your skin, and then he draws a shallow line across your uncut thigh. You both gasp as blood starts to flow. When Dean looks up at you, you’re staring at the cut, hands fisting the blankets.

There’s a wet patch on the front of your panties. Fuck.

“Feels good?” He checks in, rubbing his thumb under the wound.

“Yes, yes.” You shut your eyes, hips twitching, searching for some kind of relief. Dean would laugh if he wasn’t absolutely wrecked by the sight. The trust you’re putting on him is intoxicating, Dean never wants this to end. “Keep going, please.”

Wetness coats his fingers, and when he looks down, the blood has dripped onto his hand. He spreads it across your skin, and it’s a lot more erotic than he ever expected.

“Please, Dean.”

He tilts his head, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow. “Please what, doll?”

“Can you just—” Dean presses the knife against your skin again, a little higher up now. You whimper, head dropping back into the pillow. “Please touch me.”

He cuts a little deeper than he should at that, but your whine is so loud, Dean is sure Sam can hear you next door. He can’t speak, adrenaline rushing through his body. Everything he’s ever wanted, at the tip of his fingers. 

Almost everything, but he won’t pine right now. 

His thumb finds your slit over your panties, pressing against the wet stain. “Are you sure, baby?”

You yelp, grinding onto his hand until your clit bumps on his finger. You throw an arm over your eyes, lips pouty. “Yes.”

Your sulky little tantrum doesn’t last long, because Dean is quickly sliding the knife under your panties and tearing them off of you. You gasp again, watching Dean with sparkling eyes as he discarts the ruined fabric. 

Unsurprisingly, your pussy is fucking pretty, glistening and ready for him. Dean fears he might be drooling. 

He presses two fingers to your clit, rubbing in circles as he lowers his head, licking one long strip up your folds. He barely gets to relish in the perfect taste of you before he’s being tugged up by the hair, a tongue being shoved into his mouth.

You must be able to taste yourself on him, because you press harder against his fingers. 

“I thought you—” He attempts to speak between kisses, but licking into your mouth is more important. There’s spit everywhere, Dean never gets to be like this. You don’t seem to mind. “Wanted me to touch you?”

“I’ll cum if you use your mouth,” you pout, Dean licks it away. 

“You can cum, pretty.” 

You shake your head. Dean’s fingers have stopped moving. “Not yet. Want you to cut me up a little more.”

Right, the knife.

Dean leaves one last sloppy peck on your lips before picking it up again. He traces two fingers between your folds until they dip into your entrance, right before returning to your clit. You keen, loud and needy as he digs the blade into your lower stomach. 

Blood pools on your skin, wetness coats his fingers. The cut is longer, all the way from your hipbone to under your navel. Dean can’t help but lean in, kissing and biting at the soft flesh. He licks up your hip, biting a little too hard. Teeth marks are left behind, you don’t complain.

He presses his palm against your core, your moans echoing through the room as his tongue finally meets blood. It’s warm and metallic on his mouth, staining his teeth and washing down his throat. You pant and squirm under him, mumbling intangible words.

You’re dripping from your cunt, dripping from Dean’s cuts. He’s absolutely parched. 

So he dips back down, pulling his hand away as he buries his face on your pussy. He licks over your folds, flicking your clit before pressing his tongue against your entrance. You taste like heaven all over. 

His hair is fisted angrily, a grumble of his name barely registering on his ears. He gets dragged away again, still manages to brush his lips over your middle.

His mouth is coated with something warm, either your juices or your blood, and you look almost hypnotized by the sight. Staring up at him like he’s an angel, when he’s nothing more than a monster. He licks his lips, and your hips buck.

Fuck.

Dean lets out a choked groan when your crotches meet, his erection straining through his jeans. You freeze.

He’s about to apologize for being a fucking creep, finally having crossed a line that you weren’t willing to bend. 

“You’re hard,” you whisper, like he needs the reminder. “Why?”

You look shocked, almost confused. Absolutely adorable, completely lost. 

“I, uhm—” He’s cut off by your hand suddenly gripping his dick. He’s honestly surprised he doesn’t come on the spot. “Fuck, baby, you can’t just—”

He drops the knife on the bed before he stabs himself, trying to draw back. You’re not up for it, pulling him even closer and squeezing him through the denim. Dean grunts. 

“You want to fuck me, Dean?” An embarrassing, high-pitched noise slips out of his throat. He almost wants to deny it, but there’s no going back. He’s already here. So instead he lets out a low growl, barely a response at all, but you seem satisfied. “I want—it.”

You try to hide your face on his neck, but he pushes you back down onto the pillows. You’re still palming him, his words are a little slurred. “What do you want, doll? Use your words.”

You pout, already pulling on his zipper. “Want you inside me.”

You’re a fucking demon sent to ruin Dean’s life. 

He sits back on his knees, pulling down his jeans and boxers on his own to try and regain some sort of control over himself. He’s fine. You’re the girl of his dreams, one of the most important people in his world, the love of his life. And he’s about to fuck you, and nothing more. He’s fucking fine. 

He could’ve never expected your reaction to his nudity. Your mouth opens, big eyes glued to his dick and nowhere else. Dean isn’t bashful, he knows he’s pretty well equipped, but you look like you’re about to start salivating. 

You dart forward, ready to swallow him down, and he has to stop you with a hand on your hair. This is about you, Dean can’t afford to make it about himself. He doesn’t get to want things.

“Shh, doll.” He shushes you when you whine, leaning down to lick into your mouth. “Do you have condoms?”

You hesitate for a moment, and Dean starts to wonder how fast he can make it to the nearest pharmacy without getting arrested. 

“I—I want to feel you, Dean.” 

Your ability to render him speechless should be studied. 

“Baby…”

“I’m clean!” You panic a little, hands tugging on his shirt. “I barely have sex anyway, but I got tested after last time. And I’m on the pill, so—only if you want to.”

Dean takes a deep breath. “I’m clean too.” He studies you carefully. “You sure you wanna do this?”

Your little “yes, please” is so desperate that Dean couldn’t deny you even if he wanted to. But he doesn’t, his cock twitches only at the thought of it. 

He pulls off his shirt before returning to hover over you, slowly taking off your bra. It’s unfair that someone can be this perfect. His admiring is interrupted by you fisting his cock, brushing your thumb over the tip before stroking up and down. Once again, Dean is faced with the threat of coming too fast.

He pushes your hands away, taking revenge by shoving two fingers into your cunt. You mewl, back arching as his palm presses back against your clit. Dean leans down to kiss and bite at your tits, sucking a nipple into his mouth until it’s all stiff and you’re moaning. He leaves more bruises all over your chest, delicate skin made to be marked up. 

The other residents of the motel definitely hear it when Dean finds that spongy spot inside of you, pressing against it until you’re soaked. You’ve barely touched him and his dick is already weeping, he’s so pathetic for you. 

He gets a little complaining noise when he pulls out, nails scratching down his chest. “Come on, Dean. I need you to fuck me.”

Being needy makes you mouthy, who knew. 

Dean picks up the knife, giving you a sharp grin before pressing the blunt edge against your throat. It effectively shuts you up, eyes unfocusing and breath hitching. “Please?”

“That’s better, doll.” The knife is pulled back, and Dean leans in to lick at your lips. It’s not even a kiss, too dirty. His dick throbs. 

He presses the tip against your entrance, rubbing himself on your drenched pussy. He pushes until the head pops inside, halting then. You whine, legs wrapping around his hips and smearing blood on his skin, attempting to pull him closer.

“Easy, baby,” Dean’s voice cracks when his hips uncontrollably jerk, pushing himself deeper inside of you. “We can go slow—”

You very clearly don’t want to go slow, because your hands find his waist and tug on him until he’s buried all the way to the hilt. Only then you melt into the mattress, sighing dreamily. 

Dean stays still, very fucking still. You’re fucking perfect, better than he could’ve ever imagined. Warm and tight all around him, gummy walls clenching down on him, squeezing him until he feels he might die. 

He’s ruined. Nothing else will ever amount to this.

You squirm against him, trying to grind your hips onto his, and end up with your hands pinned over your head. The knife is lodged in between your palms, scratching the wood of the headboard. “You need to relax, doll.”

You whimper, and Dean kisses you until you’re putty on his hands. He starts to move then, barely-there thrusts of his hips. “Feels good?”

You can’t really speak, letting out soft cries of pleasure as his pace starts picking up. Dean grinds impossibly deeper, and your lips fall open. Dean kisses you again, mostly to stop himself from spilling all his disgusting feelings. 

“So full, Dean,” you pant, head thrown back when he hits that soft spot inside of you, ramming into you until all you can moan is his name. “De—fuck. So good, so big—Ah!”

The knife is back on your skin, scraping your chest, right under your collarbone. “Here?”

Your chant of yesyesyes mixes with the loud slap of skin against skin, Dean can’t get enough of how fucked out you look at the pure suggestion of pain. 

Cutting your chest feels a little more terrifying, but the way you tighten around him makes Dean a little more reckless. His thrusts halt as he carefully draws a line down your sternum, nails dragging down his back when he reaches the valley of your breasts. 

Crimson wells up, your skin is flushed to match it. You mewl, eyes rolling back on your head as Dean finally drops the knife and starts to properly fuck you, slamming against your cervix over and over again. 

The cut is deeper than all of the others, it will surely scar. Dean hopes it does. He leaves more bruises in case it doesn’t. His face gets dragged up and a tongue pushes inside his mouth. He tastes blood, and he must’ve accidentally licked it off your chest.

One of his hands glides over to your clit, thumb rubbing quick circles as his hips pick up at an almost impossible pace. He feels high, something furious and fervent rushing through his veins like heroin. 

He breaks the kiss when your mouth goes slack in bliss, and there’s blood pooling on your chest. It gets scooped up on his fingers and slipped onto your loud mouth. The taste makes you purr, tongue wrapping around the digits and sucking them deep into your throat. He can’t help but slap your pussy, shushing your little whine. 

He kisses your mouth around his fingers, then hooks them over your lower teeth and pulls it open.

Your eyes are huge and glossy as your tongue lolls out, like you’re asking for something. 

Dean lets some deep and instinctual thing inside his chest take over, spitting directly into it. You swallow around his fingers, eyelashes fluttering. Dean is for sure not lasting long.

You’re trembling, moaning with your mouth full, cunt getting impossibly tighter. Dean keeps thrusting into you, sliding you up the mattress and rubbing harder against your clit. All it takes is one deliberate flick of his thumb for you to scream and start to dribble down his cock.

Watching your orgasm wash down on you is one of the best things Dean’s ever experienced. You bite down on his fingers, eyes rolling as you back arches. You’re all bruised and bloody, and Dean’s stained with it all. The knowledge—and the way you squeeze like a vice around him—is enough to send him over the edge.

Dean’s never came this hard. It explodes in his chest and leaves him blind with ecstasy, travels down his throat until it reaches the hole inside of him and starts to fill it, more and more until Dean almost feels sane.

He’s driven right back into madness when he takes you in. Hair messy, drool on your chin as he pulls his fingers away, cunt fluttering around him. You hum contentedly as he fills you up, hips wiggling as warmth spurts inside of you. Dean’s absolutely wrecked. 

He licks up the blood pooling on your collarbone, gripping your jaw tightly. You open your mouth immediately, ready to have it filled up again. You sigh at the taste of your own blood and his spit. It’s sinful.

He keeps lazily kissing you for way too long, the blood drying on your skin and his dick softening inside of you. Every time he tries to pull away, you whine, mumbling something against his lips about not wanting to be empty.

Dean tries to remember what being empty feels like. Because now that the hole in his chest is overflowing, he doesn’t know what he’ll do when it’s all drained. He doesn’t know how he’ll move on from this, from having you under him and wrapped all around him. From being coated in you, every inch of his being. 

He won’t. Dean very simply will be stuck here forever, watching you walk away like a dog abandoned on the side of the road.

You end up squirming, trying to get fucked again before Dean’s even pulled out. Only the promise of burgers and a Saw movie binge gets you to let go of him. 

Dean can’t resist the caveman urge to hold your thighs open, watching as your pussy drips with his cum. He manages to imprint the image onto his brain before he gets pushed away, almost falling off the bed.

An apology gets him permission to carry you to the shower, and he even gets to hold you under the warm rain. He tells himself this is just aftercare, making sure you don’t drop after doing something this extreme. Endorphins and BDSM rules or whatever, he keeps placing soft kisses on your skin as he cleans every cut. They’re not deep enough to need patching up, Dean’s pleased to be able to stare at them.

You’re all blushy by the end of it, tucked into his chest and nuzzling onto his neck. Dean gets you through at least three more orgasms before he finally gets you into bed, sliding in beside you and holding you tight against him. You reassure him he didn’t hurt you, kiss the tip of his nose and promise him it was all “really, really good,” and Dean finally allows himself to relax.

You go all quiet, and Dean thinks you’re just passing out after getting railed. But then you hide further into his chest, and mumble his name against his skin.

“Hm?”

“You—uhm, you know it wasn’t just… platonic sadomasochism, right?” Dean’s heart skips a beat. Did he say too much? Did he fucked this up earlier than expected? Are you mad that he took advantage of the situation to indulge in his sick desires? “For me?”

A beat passes, the world freezes.

“What are you talking about?”

“I feel bad about lying to you, letting you call this platonic when I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let this happen.”

“Hey, hey,” he sits up on the bed, dragging you up with him until you’re settled on his lap and he can cradle your face in his hands. Your eyes are glossy, and it’s not from pleasure. Dean’s words grow urgent. “What are you talking about, baby?”

“It’s always been you,” you whisper. “I couldn’t have done this with anyone else, it had to be you. I don’t do casual, Dean. It has to be you.”

Either Dean has officially gone batshit crazy and will now have to be hospitalized, or God has finally decided to show his face and grace him with heaven on earth. 

“I don’t—” he stops himself, because you look scared. He never wants you to look scared, ever. Not with him. So because he’s not good with words, he does the best next thing. He pulls you down for a kiss, soft and gentle and full of love. “It’s always been you, too. But I can’t—I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You giggle, all the tension melting from your body as you push him back onto the mattress, pulling a blanket over your tangled bodies. “You won’t, my love. And even if you do, you know I like it.”

He smacks your ass, relishing in your laughter. “You little vixen. I love you.”

“I love you too, Dean. I always have.”

Dean Winchester doesn’t get to want things. But maybe, just maybe, he gets to have this one. Because as you wrap your arms around him and fall into peaceful sleep, something tells him that he never needs to worry about being empty again.

NOTES: im so sorry for this one guys. i'm not proud, but this is what I am. one day i'll be able to write smut without being awkward about it, I swear. in the meanwhile, you'll have to make do with this shit.

I'm working in some of your requests (all fucking amazing) so i'll go back to that now, I just needed to let this one out.

thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @snoopysnote @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90 @urblondiebaby @fertilise-me @angelicjackles @fratbrochrisgf @deerplaygroundpoetsflowers13 <3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[sacr1ficialang3l]

my back arched like a cat.ᗢ⋆˚࿔

DEAN WINCHESTER X CATGIRL!READER

SUMMARY: A witch hunt gone wrong leaves reader with some unexpected furry features. dean wonders if the hentai gods have finally answered his prayers. 4.1k

WARNINGS: smut (MDNI). cat-hybrid reader. which means mentions of animal ears, tails, meowing, etc (do not read if you don't likd that kind of stuff). piv. unprotected sex. dean is a nerd and a freak but we knew that. one (1) mention of tentacles.

NOTES: i can't stop thinking about dean watching "cartoon smut" so here it is. the author is a virgin so there might be unrealistic details but reader is a catgirl so actually anything could happen. as always, english is not my first language. enjoy<3

Focused on using your last witch-killing bullet before the old woman in front of you finishes chanting a spell that’s apparently sucking all the air out of Sam’s lungs, you don’t notice the black cat behind you.

The case had been simple enough. Another witch causing mayhem in a small town, leaving hex bags scattered around for you three to find. You spoke with the locals, identified the suspect, and followed her to the small abandoned house she used as a lab. It looked almost like a real lab—petri dishes everywhere, concoctions bubbling. The smell of spices and herbs would’ve been overwhelming if you weren’t so focused on fighting for your life.

The black cat, apparently not too fond of you shooting its mistress, sinks its teeth into your ankle with a strength no normal house-cat should have. You shriek and try to step forward just as the cat tries to dart away. You do your best not to step on it—the animal might be the familiar of an evil witch, but you still refuse to hurt a kitty—which only causes you to trip. You and the little feline end up rolling away in a tangle of claws and limbs. You stumble into one of the lab tables, and because your luck is the worst, a sticky liquid spills all over you. Thankfully, it isn’t one of the bubbling concoctions, so there’s no third-degree burns. Instead, you’re drenched in a purple, syrupy substance that smells like… candy?

You spit out the cat fur that somehow made its way into your mouth, while the source of this whole disaster hisses at you, as if it’s all your fault. The cat walks off, offended, head raised high and tail flicking in the air. Then, suddenly, the sharp crack of a gunshot makes both you and the cat turn. Dean had regained consciousness after being knocked out by a blow to the head and had finally killed the witch. You and the feline both make noises of displeasure, but for very different reasons.

The cat runs off, meowing in sorrow for the loss of its guardian. You groan, because with the witch dead, it’s going to be a hundred times harder to figure out exactly what the hell you’re covered in.

So now you are in the bunker, all three of you reading any book you can find on magic and candy-scented potions. You leave Rowena a voicemail, but you doubt she’ll get back to you anytime soon.

The substance had absorbed into your skin a few minutes after the accident, not even giving you time to try and wash it away. It had basically disappeared, only leaving a faint glow and a sweet smell on your skin as proof of the whole ordeal. 

After hours of finding nothing useful, you drag yourself into the kitchen to make your third batch of coffee. Something feels off, but in a weird, unfamiliar way. Everything smells stronger, sharper, and more complex. You suddenly have the urge to stretch and lie down in the sunlight, even though you’ve always been known for your vitamin D deficiency. And for fuck’s sake, you still can’t get rid of the sensation of cat fur in your mouth.

“Stupid witchy cat.” You grumble as you wait for the coffee maker to finish its job.

A snicker coming from behind you makes you jump, and you quickly turn around to find your boyfriend leaning on the kitchen island. Dean gives you one of his signature grins, but you can see the undercurrent of worry in his eyes. He’s just as desperate as you to figure out exactly what’s happening.

“Are you done pouting at the coffee? I think Sam is about to pass out.”

That only makes your pout deepen, and Dean chuckles lowly before he starts to walk around the island.

But suddenly there’s a pressure on your head, and your vision gets a little blurry. You lean back against the counter, blinking slowly until the dizziness fades. Once you’re able to focus your eyes again, you turn to Dean.

Your boyfriend is frozen, staring at you with wide eyes and his jaw dropped. You start to get a little worried. What if the potion gave you some horrid, irreversible mutation, and now you have to be sent to the middle of a labyrinth like the Minotaur?

“Dean? Dean!” But he doesn’t even blink, he doesn’t move, he just stares at you. But no, he isn’t looking at you, per se, his gaze is laser-focused just a little higher, right into the top of your head.

That’s when you feel the pressure on the sides of your scalp, and then something twitches. Dean lets out a choked sound, and your hands shoot up instinctively, finding two furry triangles nestled in your hair.

“What. The. Fuck?”

You turn around and find your reflection in the glass of the microwave. Indeed, there are two black cat ears sticking out of your head, the same color of your hair and— the same color of the familiar’s fur. 

“That son of a bitch!”

Something behind you stiffens, then shoots upward in response to your anger, and this time Dean curses loudly. In the reflection, you can see it sticking from behind your shoulder, a long black—something—that twitches at the same time your new cat ears do. You hope it’s not what you think it is, but it looks a lot like…

“Are you fucking kidding me? A goddamn tail?” 

You turn your head around to look, and there it is, sticking from under the black skirt you had changed into when you got home from the hunt. Same color as your ears, and swinging slowly, lifting your skirt a bit.

“Holy shit.”

Your head snaps up, locking eyes with Dean. His expression is frozen somewhere between awe and disbelief, but there’s something else too—something heated lurking beneath the surface. You’re too busy panicking to dwell on it.

“Guys! I think I found some– oh.”

You’ve locked yourself in the bathroom for what feels like hours. Turns out, the ears and tail weren’t the only side effects of that unfinished shape-shifting potion. No, you’ve also grown fangs—which, okay, you have to admit, are kind of pretty— and you are feeling a little… kittenish? 

Like, you have to fight the urge to hiss every time Dean yells through the door for you to come out. You keep catching yourself wanting to rub your side against random furniture—scenting, Sam called it. And worst of all, you’re battling an overwhelming impulse to knock every delicate object in the bunker straight onto the floor.

“Come on, sweetheart. You can’t stay in there forever.”

You sigh, ears flattening against the top of your head. Dean’s right, if you want to fix this you have to leave the bathroom. With a defeated huff, you finally unlock the door.

He’s waiting on the other side, smirking, but he immediately tries to hide his amusement when he catches sight of your frown. You swallow down another hiss, striding past him and into the room you two shared, head high, tail flicking in clear offense.

But as soon as you brush past Dean, an overwhelming smell hits you. You admittedly liked the way Dean usually smelled, like whiskey and motor oil, something musky but sweet at the same time that you had grown to associate with home. But now, with your newly developed sharp senses, it is intoxicating.

“Baby, wait–” Dean tries to stop you from walking away, but you’re already moving, pressing yourself against his chest before you even think about it. “Uf. What…?”

You bury your nose in his neck, sniffing. Dean makes a small, strangled sound when the tip of your nose brushes behind his ear, but you ignore it. 

“You smell good.” You mumble, hands pawing at his chest and keeping your face pressed to his skin. 

“Thanks?” Dean huffs out, his hands wrapping around your waist. Your boyfriend smells like heaven, but something is missing. A deep, instinctual frustration wells up inside you, and before you can stop yourself, you start nuzzling against him, rubbing your cheek against his skin with frantic determination. He tries to pull you away, and a loud whine rips itself out of your throat. 

The sound makes you snap out of it, and you’re suddenly jumping back. You press your back against the wall while you try to catch your breath. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will away the heat crawling up your spine.

“Sorry.” You whisper after a long moment. “I don’t know what happened.” 

Dean blinks at you, still standing where you left him, hands half-raised like he’s not sure whether to reach for you or give you space. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“Uh. So it is that bad, huh?”

You don’t answer, still pressed against the wall, mortified.

Dean scrubs a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “Look, sweetheart, no need to freak out, okay? You’re just, uh—adjusting.” His lips twitch. “Though, gotta say, not used to you being this eager to cuddle me in the middle of a crisis.”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Dean, please.”

“I’m just sayin’" He lifts his hands defensively. "if this is a side effect, I’m not exactly complaining.”

Your glare sharpens, but Dean just grins, eyes flicking to your still-twitching ears. His smirk falters for a second, though, when he remembers that sound—the desperate little whine you let out when he pulled away. His fingers flex at his sides.

“But, uh… you’re okay, right?” His voice is softer now, eyes scanning your face.

You nod, still rattled but slowly coming back to yourself. 

“As okay as you can be after being physically-modified without your consent.”

Dean watches you for a beat longer, then huffs out a breath and shakes his head.

“Alright. Well, if you feel the urge to, y’know, scent-mark me again, maybe give a guy some warning next time.”

The words ‘scent-mark’ make you grimace, and you cover your eyes with your hands again.

“I will murder you, you know I can.”

The threat only makes him laugh, and you sigh in defeat. You will never live this down, that you are sure of.

“Did Sam find anything about how to fix this?”

You hear Dean shift closer, and you drop your hands, meeting his gaze.

“Rowena called back while you were locked in there.” He hesitates, pressing his lips together like he already knows you’re not going to like what’s next. “Since the potion wasn’t finished, the effects are temporary. You’ll just have to wait it out, baby.”

“This is a fucking nightmare.” You scoff, leaning back against the wall in resignation. 

Your cat ears flatten, tail curling low around your thigh. The kitten fangs feel too big in your mouth, and the sheer overload of sounds and scents is driving you insane.

Dean steps closer. It’s only then that you notice his pupils—blown wide, dark with something unreadable. You frown, about to question it, but before you can, he moves.

And then he’s kissing you.

The kiss is hot and sudden, stealing the breath from your lungs before you can even react. It is a little rougher than Dean usually is with you in moments like this, but you’re not complaining. His hands find your waist, pulling you in as he swallows your surprised little gasp.

His palms roam your sides, fingers pressing in like he needs to feel every inch of you. Your hands clutch his shoulders as he leans in closer, deepening the kiss until your head spins. It’s only when your lungs start to burn that you break away.

“Dean, w– ah!” As soon as you pull your lips away, he starts kissing down your neck. “What’s gotten into you?”

He hums against your skin, warm and insistent, sucking softly just below your collarbone. His teeth graze you, and a sound slips past your lips. 

A. Literal. Mewl.

Dean groans like you just wrecked him. Before you can even process your own humiliation, his hands slide under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly.

You yelp, arms flying around his shoulders as he holds you against him. 

Next thing you know, your back hits the mattress.

Dean looks possessed—breathing heavy, eyes dark. You glance at the door, which was already closed. Your eyes return to Dean when his hands slide under your skirt. You’re about to ask what’s going on again, until you notice the way his eyes are locked on your kitten ears.

Your tail sways, slow and deliberate against the sheets. Realization hits you suddenly, and you grab Dean’s shoulders to stop him from leaning in again.

“You’re into this shit.” It is more an affirmation than a question.

And suddenly, everything makes sense.

Dean’s weirdly specific interest in anime. The late-night “cartoon smut” Sam always rolled his eyes at. The alarming amount of Japanese erotic magazines you’d found in the Impala’s trunk that one time. His utterly feral reaction to your new feline features. 

You inhale sharply, scandalized. “Dean. Do you have a catgirl fetish?”

He scoffs, but a blush creeps into his cheeks. For the first time in your life, you’re seeing Dean Winchester flustered.

He tries to straighten up, but you stop him, still gripping his shoulders. Your grin stretches wide, ears perking up with curiosity.

You just stare, eyebrows raised, as Dean struggles to compose himself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His comeback is so lame you can’t help but laugh. Just like that, the stress of the potion incident vanishes now that you had an opportunity to tease your boyfriend. 

“You little freak!” You slap his shoulder, still a little embarrassed by the whole situation. “Oh my god, I can't believe this.”

“Shut up.” He grunts.

You open your mouth to tease him again, but he shuts you up with another kiss.

Your tongues tangle as Dean tugs your skirt down in one swift motion. You let him, arms lifting when he starts to pull your shirt over your head.

Sure, you’re still freaking out a little. And yeah, Dean being into the catgirl thing is mortifying.

But the heat pooling in your stomach drowns out your embarrassment. Your chest rises and falls, breath hitching as Dean’s hands roam your bare skin—every touch heightened by your new, razor-sharp senses. 

Your panties are soaked through in seconds, and you wonder for a second if it is a cat hybrid thing. Your little fangs brush against Dean’s tongue, and he breaks the kiss with a groan. 

“You’re so fuckin’ hot, baby.” Your underwear is gone in seconds, and you moan when his fingers slide in between the lips of your swollen cunt. “You’re so wet, shit.”

Your back arches off the bed when his thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles while his fingers press lightly against your entrance. You spread your legs, giving Dean more room in between them. The sound that comes out of you when his middle finger finally buries itself inside of you is so kitten-like that it makes you flush. 

“Dean, please.” You mewl, not sure what you’re asking for.

The moment you open your mouth, Dean’s eyes lock onto your little fangs. His thumb brushes over your upper lip before tugging it up, eyes going wide.

"Son of a bitch." He mutters, running his finger over the sharp point of one. "Look at that. So fucking cute."

You brush your tongue against the pad of his thumb. The sensation has you drooling, your mouth forced open, and before you can process it, Dean shoves his middle and ring fingers inside.

You suck on his fingers, your head bobbing and tongue curling around them. Dean groans, pushing his digits deeper into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. He only pulls away when saliva spills down the corner of your mouth, wiping his hand on the sheets before kissing down your neck.

“So damn messy for me, kitten.” He licks and nips at your chest, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth. You push your hips down, trying to get him deeper inside you. “You’re so needy, baby. Like a kitty in heat.”

Dean’s words are hushed, a little rambly—you’ve never heard him like this. Mr. Confident and Nonchalant, completely unraveling. He’s so crazily into this crap, it’s almost funny.

Your laugh comes out breathy as Dean presses his thumb a little harder against you. That makes him pause, eyes flicking up. He looks as disheveled as you expected him to be, but he is now frowning. 

“What are you laughing at?” He grunts, settling between your legs.

“I should’ve known your hentai-ridden brain would be into this shit, but I never imagined you’d get this—hot and bothered over a pair of cat ears.”

You wait for Dean to yank off his shirt before leaning in, voice dropping to a whisper.

“Are you into tentacles too? Or maybe—”

You are silenced by Dean slapping your pussy.

The smack echoes around the room, and it makes you choke on your words. 

“You better shut that pretty mouth before I shut it up for you.”

The “don’t threaten me with a good time” dies on your tongue when two more fingers enter you. You were loose and wet enough for it, throbbing with the need to have Dean inside of you. 

Maybe you are in heat.

You whine when the digits suddenly pull out, but then you’re being turned around into your front. Dean helps you positionate on all four, face low against the mattress and ass raised high, back arched in a perfect, flawless curve. 

You almost get knocked down when Dean suddenly presses against you. The blunt tip of his cock brushes up and down your slit, collecting the obscene amount of slick that is steadily dripping out of you. He slowly presses against your entrance until only the head is inside. Dean waits a few seconds, making you whimper desperately before he buries himself to the hilt in one swift motion.

You let out a high-pitched moan at the sudden feeling of fullness. 

“Hell, look at you.” Dean starts to thrust immediately, hips rocking mercilessly against you. “Look at your pretty tail, fuck.”

That makes you turn your head around, and you catch sight for your tail swinging in contentment at being fucked. Your blush worsens and you hide your face against the covers. 

“You feel so good, kitty. Such a tight, warm cunt, just for me.” 

Dean’s hips shift and suddenly he is slamming against that spot that makes you grip the blankets for dear life. You mewl helplessly, ears twitching and pussy tightening around Dean.

“Yeah, Dean. Ngh- right there.”

Dean keeps thrusting into you at a brutal pace, and the only sounds your enhanced hearing can pick up are your loud whines and Dean’s rough moans. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you hope Sam is reading away in the library, far enough not to hear.

Amidst all the burning sensation, you almost miss the way Dean’s hand curls around the base of your tail. It makes your shoulders tense up, and then he tugs at it.

The sensation that runs up your spine is like nothing you had ever felt before. Your mouth falls open and your eyes roll back. You let out a yowl of pleasure, totally overwhelmed by it.

The way you tighten around Dean makes him still for a second, surprised by your intense reaction. You whimper and rock your hips back.

“Again. Dean– again.”

There’s one more second of stillness before Dean resumes the roll of his hips with new-found vigor. It is almost violent in the best way, and it makes your nails drag down the blankets, your tongue lolling out of your mouth.

“You like that, baby?” Dean whispers, and he sounds wrecked. His voice is strangled and the hand that is not on your tail is gripping your hips so hard you just know it will leave marks.

“You like having your tail pulled? What a needy little thing.”

You nod as best as you can while being rocked back and forth insatiably, and you are rewarded by a harsh tug to your tail. You moan and mewl repeatedly, asking for more.

Dean keeps pulling at your tail, his other hand leaving your hip and sliding around your body until he finds your swollen clit. He starts rubbing it and tugging your tail at the same time, making you throw your head back and scream.

“I’m close.” You cry out. “Fuck, Dean. Gonna come.”

“Cum for me, kitten.” The head of his cock keeps hitting that sensitive spot, and you feel like you’re going to lose your mind. “You’ve been so good for me, get this cute little cunt all messy for me.”

You let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a meow as you cum, wetness dripping out of you and running down your thighs. 

Your boyfriend keeps fucking you through your orgasm, thrusts now sloppy and desperate.

“That’s it. So goddamn tight, fuck. Fuck.”

He grunts loudly as he comes inside of you. Thick ropes of cum cover your inner walls, filling you with warmth. You hum in satisfaction at the feeling. Dean stays deep inside you even after his climax ends, panting and stroking your tail softly. 

You whine, ears going flat against your head when he slowly pulls out. It makes him chuckle, and you pout. It quickly disappears when Dean lays down next to you, pulling you against his chest before draping a blanket over your naked bodies. 

“You like getting your tail pulled.” He breathes out, like he is still marveling at the discovery. 

Still recovering from the most intense orgasm you have ever had, you hide your face against Dean’s neck and groan. 

“Shut up.” You grumble. But after a second, you end up whispering. “It felt good.”

“Yeah, I could tell.”

That earns him a slap on the chest. He just laughs, pulling you closer. Too fucked out to care, you nuzzle your cheek against his skin—scenting him. He already smells like you after everything that just happened, and the thought fills you with a deep, lazy satisfaction.

Then, suddenly, a low, rumbling sound vibrates deep in your chest. It rolls through your whole body, making you melt further into Dean’s arms. His hand, still tracing up and down your back, abruptly stops.

He calls your name, voice tinged with shock.

“Are you… purring?”

That makes you pause.

You are fucking purring, from getting railed.

You’re about to die from embarrassment when Dean curses loudly, his forehead dropping against the top of your head. Your kitten ears twitch and brush against his cheeks, making him groan again. 

“God fucking damn it. There’s no way—this has to be some messed-up fever dream.”

If you’re being honest, your boyfriend being so affected by it makes all the shame wash away. You giggle, still purring. 

“You fucked me so well you made me purr.” You whisper in his ear, and he looks like he’ll combust. 

“You can’t say shit like that.” He grunts, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“Just saying the truth, love.”

You stay like that, wrapped up in each other, chests pressed together. The steady rumble of your purring fills the space, low and soothing. At some point, your tail curls around Dean’s arm, and he just chuckles, tracing lazy shapes along your back with his fingertips.

You scent him one last time for good measure, this time dragging your lips along his neck, leaving little bruises and imprints of your sharp teeth all over.

He lets you, exhaling softly, his other hand finding your kitten ears. The gentle scratch behind them pulls a sweet, contented sigh from your throat.

“Y'know,” Dean murmurs after a long stretch of silence, mischief lacing his voice. “There’s one more thing we should probably check before the potion wears off.”

You hum, too relaxed to question it.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

"Do you have a rough tongue?"

You turn to him in disbelief, catching the way his eyes darken.

"We already kissed, dumbass. Your fingers were literally in my mouth. You know I don’t."

You shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, that cocky grin only widens as he leans in further, voice dropping to a whisper.

"Maybe… but we should make sure. Plus, y’know, cats love milk—”

"You absolute perv!" You push him again, harder this time, and he finally falls back against the mattress with a chuckle.

You shake your head, laughing at his audacity. “Shut up before I tell everyone big bad hunter Dean Winchester is a fucking nerd with a catgirl kink.”

By morning, all kitten features are gone. You celebrate while Dean mourns the loss, But you already know—eventually, you’ll be asking Rowena for a similar potion. 

You simply like making your boyfriend feel good, even if it includes some weird hentai shit.

It had nothing to do with how good the tail-pulling felt, of course.

NOTES: yes, i had to watch catgirl hentai while researching for this (no other reason). I can't believe this is so long but I am unable to shut the fuck up. anyway, hope you liked it!

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery <3

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