summary: you’ve been trying to avoid Jack after your last meeting outside your front door. But a drunken accident forces you to face him, a man desperate to talk. In drunken babbles you reveal struggles that he offers to help with, knowing he’s tethering on his own borders again.
That next night Jack expects to see you at handout, coming in with a hard knot in his chest and a tight grip on his backpack. But Dana’s talking to Lena instead of listening to your gossip. Whitakers handing patients to Ellis instead of you. Robby smacks Jack on the shoulder and he startles with a dissatisfied look. “Did I wake you?” Robby snickers dryly.
“Where’s Hastings?” Jack asks promptly.
Robby rubs the back of his neck, cocking his head with a confused expression. “Didnt she tell you? She asked to switch to dayshift for a change. Said you’d signed off on it. Think she just left.”
Silence. The floor wobbles under him for a beat as he schools his expression, hiding it behind a cough. “Yeah, right. I forgot.” He lies nonchalantly, straightening his spine under Robby’s watchful gaze and walks off in a way he hopes isn’t fleeing.
You manage to promptly avoid him for three whole days, always handing off patients five minutes earlier. He caught the back of your head before you went out the ambulance bay and home when he came in a little earlier despite himself. Despite logically agreeing that the distance was a smart choice, he ached through the night shifts without your questions and laughs and tears. It was all bleak, all monotonous. Not even the medical cases interested him these days, all routine, typical night time patients.
On the fourth night he was visibly pent up. His fingers had hovered over the text bar with your name on his phone a million times, bent over the central hub. But nothing good came from his head, nothing that wasn’t desperate or dumb or unprofessional. He’d rather see you, tell you to your face and pray he could maintain some part of you around him because he’d found it so surprisingly unbearable without. And that night he finally did get face to face to you, in no way he’d expected.
You walked in through the front doors at 2am, wobbly in a high heeled boot and a little outfit, hair tousled, shimmer embracing your bloodshot eyes, liner sharp despite the mess inside you. He was with a trauma when you came in. Matteo was by your side in less than a second, a hand on your arm to steady you, bending his knees to catch your eye. “What happened? Are you okay?” His eyes dart between yours, how your lower lip wobbles with an effort to stay still. You point at yourself, digging the pad of your finger to your exposed sternum
“I’m drunk” you state. A sympathetic, easy laugh escapes him as he nods slowly.
“I can tell” he whispers, turning his head to look around the central bay. “Let me get Jack-“ he says and lets his hand hover near you to make sure youre steady.
“God no please-“ he’s already gone.
Matteo pops his head in, seeing the patient stabilised. Jack looks up from the charting tablet, brows scrunched. The second Matteo announces that you were here, his heart soars before it plummets. Maybe you’d come to talk, is his first euphoric thought, before it drowns in the prospect that you might be hurt. It’s an odd hour, no one walks through the doors at this time just to chat. His tablet is handed to whoever’s nearby him, pushed to their chest as he steers past Matteo that can’t be bothered to follow, realising he should’ve described the state of you first. Jack nearly runs to you, carefully grabbing both your shoulders. Of course you look so pretty in your boots and your skirt with moonlight around your eyes but it’s the red rim behind it all that he cares for first.
“Hey, hey” he says, trying not to overwhelm you with the way you nearly stumble back at his approach.
“Hi” you mutter apologetically already.
“Can you walk?” He asks with a hand at the small of your back and your scolding glare shows him you’re not completely off the rocker.
“How do you think I got here?”
He gives you a dissatisfied, grumpy look as he leads you gently to the nearest free room, subtly shielding you from prying eyes. The curtain shrieks as he draws it closed while you plop down on the bed.
“Are you hurt?” He asks, eyes assessing you immediately. You lift the side of your skirt to reveal a gash down the length of your thigh. He grimaces as he drags the stool under himself, leaning forwards. “Did you get in a bar fight?” He murmurs as he snaps on a pair of gloves.
“My skirt caught on a rusty nail” you mumble, looking somewhere over his head.
“Eyes on me” he says and you find yourself obeying in less than a heartbeat, and then despise yourself for it. It goes cold through you, looking at him properly. Or as properly as your state allowed you to. “Hi.”
Your shoulders slump as you respond. “Hi.”
“Hard to get a hold of these days” he mumbles as he works around you, setting up to disinfect and being incredibly focused on exactly that. You gnaw at the inside of your cheek.
“It’s on purpose.” You state and he huffs.
“I know.”
Silence. He looks up through his brows, hand hovering over your thigh “Might hurt, yeah?.”
“Already does” you grumble and he hums flatly before getting to work. Your nails dig into his shoulder anyways and he lets you, might even feel a little worthy of the sting. Your eyes squeeze together tightly, thigh flexing under his hands. He pulls away with a murmur you don’t pick up on.
“Thought you were focused on applications” he says and tried to keep a light air around it but it’s hard.
“I thought so too.” You shrug sadly, tucking your hair behind your ears. “It was a friends birthday so I made an exception. Of course karma cuts me” you grumble under your breath, fiddling with the end of your skirt. He quietly continued fixing you up and you quietly let him. His hand on your thigh does nothing to quell the burning in your stomach.
“I did want to kiss you, you know,” he says then, when the words press on the back of his throat so hard he might vomit. He hears your breath hitch but doesn’t dare to look up from what he’s doing. You stare down at his curls, blinking slowly.
“Then why didn’t you?”
His lips press together harder, his head shaking slowly as he works, stitching you up with careful precision and an attentiveness he’s only had when he first became doctor.
“I’m your attending. I’m supposed to teach you and guide you to become a good doctor. Plus I’m a hundred years old compared to you, doll” he said, the regret obvious in his voice.
“Right” you mutter because you can’t argue his words, really. “You’re not a hundred, though. Just fifty. And I’m a very capable adult as well” is all you can say, a finger in the air to punctuate your words.
The side of his lip tugs upwards. “I know you are.”
“But you did want to?” You ask again, more softly. He pauses and looks up at you.
“You know I do.”
The small correction to present tense echoes and clings to the walls of your mind. I do. He does. Right now. Always. You swallow down dryness, lashes fluttering in an attempt to collect yourself and he has to look down promptly to not get distracted.
“People would talk” you mutter, trying to get on the same page as him for your own mentality’s sake.
He nods “They would. And you’re very capable- I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I had any hand in your success. Not in any wrong way, at least”
You groan, kicking his shin lightly where you sit “you’re too good a persom.” You complain and he huffs weakly, shaking his head.
“Trust me, I’m not”
The lick of his lips says all you need, the way something darkens slightly in his eye along with his convinced word. You gulp thickly, lashes fluttering as you fidget. His hand is warm as it presses down above your knee gently. “Don’t squirm.”
Your breath hitches. He notices and hates how his ears warm, looking up at you through his brows, watching the shimmer around your eyes twinkle even under fluorescent harsh lights. A beat passes before you lean back against the bed and close your eyes, sighing. He leans back, straightening and letting his hand slip from the warmth of your thigh for something to bandage up the wound with.
“Got anyone who can take you home?” He mutters tightly, equally wanting you gone and never wanting you out of his eyesight again.
“God fuck I don’t even have a home to go to” you grumble and pinch the bridge of your nose. He stills and looks just slightly over his shoulder, hand fidgeting mindlessly with bandage.
“What does that mean?”
“There’s mold in my apartment, disgusting, life eating mold so I’m just couch surfing like some broke college student while it gets fixed” you slur, staring at the curtain that hides you from the rest of the ER.
His eyes dart between your hazy ones as he rolls back to your side, lifting under your knee slightly to wrap your wound. His lips are tight, hands slowing as he works, taking his sweet time which you obviously don’t notice right now. You ramble on about mold and your landlord and stupid friends.
“She says I can sleep on her couch but then her ratty cousin comes and-“
“-you could stay with me.” He says and nearly winces at how fucking horrible of an idea that is. It’s everything he’s fighting that he’s now welcoming with open arms. Suggesting for it to stare him in the face even out of work, haunt him a little further, why don’t you? His jaw flexes erratically, teeth grinding together at your silent, dumb stare.
He shrugs stiffly “I have a spare bed. Office kind of room… didn’t know what to do with it. There’s a bed, is what I’m trying to say. Since you’re on dayshift now, which you didn’t tell me, then we won’t see each other much. You can just have the room.” He says and sounds annoyed with every word. Annoyed at himself, annoyed that he’s fumbling for words when he usually always knows what to say, a dry remark spitting from his tongue every chance it gets. He can’t even look you in the eye, doesn’t want to see what kind of reaction you’re having- if you’re ready to laugh at his face or reprimand him for suggesting something so idiotic.
“I’d like that” you say with a shaky breath before you too straighten your spine, even in this distressed and drunken state “I mean it’s better jumping between bad couches. And you’re right, we’d hardly see each other. That’s fine then, right?” You babble and he just keeps looking at you. “And you know I had to go back to dayshifts so don’t be sassy about it” you finish more firmly and he rolls his eyes, closing off the bandage and pulling your skirt over your thigh, his knuckles leaving goosebumps on your skin.
“I’ll uber you there.” He mumbles and stands up.
You scrunch up your face “I need all my stuff Jack”, his back burns where your eyes demand his but he refuses to give them right now. You watch his muscles move under his shirt as he writes something down on a tablet.
“You can get them tomorrow.”
“I need at least my toothbrush,” you argue.
“Use mine. Or look for a spare under the sink.”
“You’re crossing lines.”
“I know, so be quiet before I regret it” he says, firm and fast.
You press your lips together, not daring to test your luck any further. You know you shouldn’t accept, you know he shouldn’t even offer and it’s entirely unfair to invite you into his home. He drew a boundary and now he’s walking it, and offering you a hand to come join him on the ledge.
“We’re both mature adults, who put our careers first. There won’t be a problem if we don’t make one.” You say out loud like the statement will make it manifest. It’s obnoxious, intoxicated words. He huffs, rubbing his neck as he turns to look at you.
“Just let me help you outside, smartass. I’m doing this because I want to help you out, and I care. That’s all it should be.” He says, straining slightly as he bends, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and helping you upright. You begrudgingly hold onto him, let him walk you out the front slowly, ignoring Lena’s call of both your names.
An uber pulls up, headlights making you squint in the darkness. He pressed a key into your palm firmly, looking down at you. His breath fans your face just barely
“Put the key under the flower pot if you feel safer with the door locked. Don’t look through my stuff. You’ll know which bed is yours. And please be careful” his voice softens remarkably by his last words, the lights of the car reflected in his sloped eyes. He almost looks like a puppy you think, grazing your fingertips against the grey stubble on his jaw before quickly retracting your head. You both take a step back. “There’s pasta in the fridge” he grumbles, voice reigned in as he opens the uber door.
“Thanks Jack” you mutter as you buckle up, looking up through your lashes. He nods, lips pursing restlessly before he closes the car door.
Summary: You’re called in for a mass casualty at PTMC along with your other night crawlers and everything seems to fail you on shift. Jack is there to catch you, while trying to supress his gruelling yearning. He is your attending after all, and he knows he’s crossed a line.
Words: 5k
Content warnings: Complete medical inaccuracy, sorry </3 this is not the place to go if you care about correct medical terms I just fuck around with it. Yearning!Abbot, Mentions of deaths and blood ofc, slight age gap, problematic work dynamic/forbidden love trope. No y/n but you have a lastname.
———————-
“Oh Robby you can’t be serious-“ you exclaim, voice strained. Robby sighs, hands dug hard into his pockets with his shoulders to his ears, shrugging like things were out of his control with that same expression that was half apologetic, but also set; set in place, set in its decisions. This is just how things are, kiddo.
“I’m way past serious, doc. Wayyyyy past” he says and stretches a hand out in front of him, recovered from the depth of his blue hoodie. You squeeze your eyes tight, pinch the bridge of your nose as painful stars shake behind tired eyelids. You were on your umpteenth hour of a shift you’d been called in for on your rare day off this month. A mass casualty, a water park with a ragged slide, rusty bolts just couldn’t handle the summer heat.
“No don’t do that thing where you act like you didn’t have a choice” you snap, hair sticking to the nape of your neck in swirls. He draws his head back with offence “excuse me?” His lips press together, pulling off his glasses in an agitated move and pointing them at you with accusation that made your heart thud even louder in the name of adrenaline.
You and Robby arguing was a rare sight. Discussing, yes. Disagreeing, it happens. Snapping on the worse days, but not this kind of argument where you don’t have time to pull into a secluded corner with muffled voices. You’re putting on a show in the middle of central bay but there’s such a flurry of workers, victims and god knows who else that decided to cram up behind your white walls, that people hardly notice you. His accusation doesn’t slip past his lips before you’re interrupting.
“Yes excuse you! I was in total control of the situation and you overruled me and now Whitaker’s doing heart massage instead of being out in triage!”
It smells of chlorine and plastic and blood.
He shakes his head adamantly before running a hand down his face with a disapproving sound as he looks around “I don’t have time to consider your goddamn medical pride in a mass casualty, Hastings! I overruled you, I made a decision as your attending that I deemed necessary and now you need to move on instead of feeling sorry for yourself. In case you haven’t noticed, people are dying no matter who makes the decisions right now, and if Whittaker isn’t in triage, then how about you step in and do your goddamn job” he yells, the gravel in his voice become more prominent with each bitten out sentence, his eyes diverting from you to every other dilemma that’s just waiting for his beck and call. And you understand, of course you do, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment and anger and injustice alike. Something presses behind your eyelids and your tongue.
“Yes sir” you say, nothing subservient about your tone and he knows it. But neither of you have the time nor strength to do anything other than walk off with a last look that says you’re both willing to die on your respective hills. So be it. You shoulder your way through. Seemingly everyone has been called in, Lena trying to file out and organize the people like she does the charts, her voice booming over the mass in a way you didn’t know her lungs were efficient for, ordering anyone who wasn’t close relatives or victims to get the hell out of the ER.
“I’ll take over” you said behind your teeth to Whitaker who was bent over the patient, hair amassed in one sweaty curl on his forehead. “Go back to triage, you have an overview there” you order as he looks up, sweat beading on his forehead. He nods, swallows the humid air down as you slide your hands into the chest cavity of the patient and manually start pumping her heart with your hands while Princess updates you on the victims status.
“Can we cram another patient in here?”
You look up to see Jack Abbot with one hand on the doorframe and the other on a gurney. You hadn’t seen him at all amidst this chaos, only heard his name or voice in your periphery. Something eases in his look when you meet his eyes and you nod once, sharp. He taps the gurney to signal them to wait as he steps into the room. You walk backwards while him and princess maneuvres your patient bed as far to the left as you can to make space, your hands close to cramping around the heart in your hands. He looks up through his glistening brow, grey streaked curls sticking out around his ears. “How long have you been here?” He asks as he waves in his other trauma patient, eyes assessing your victim with a narrowed focus you’re always impressed by.
“Since before electricity was invented” you mutter and he has the sparse energy to huff, a flicker of amusement in his eyes before you both snap into focus and away from the familiar banter. Seems you both needed the ten second refuge of kindness in this space of loss and fear.
“Still no rythm” princess mutters close to your ear. Jack looks up over his glasses. He came in on his day off too it seems, swat gear on, no time to change into something more practical. His mouth purses in that way it always does, a question in his eyes. You ignore it, looking back down. You know you should move to another patient. Call it. But you’d called it three times already today and each one felt like it took a part of you with. You were half a man at this point. But Robby had been right, none of this was about you. Still you appreciates that Jack chose to do nothing more than look your way. He didn’t order you to hurry up, didn’t command. He knew you were capable, and left you to make your own decision. Which in the end was what pushed you to let your aching fingers flex one last time before pulling out.
“Time of death 11.43” you said, stuffing the cavity and letting your eyes linger on her face before pulling the sheet to shield her from the fluorescent blinking. McKay was already with another gurney without a home, in the hall. You had to move. With a nod to princess, she got help from the EMT’s to roll the woman away to the morgue. With a swipe of your brow you waved in McKay and pulled of your gloves, hands molten underneath. “Need help?” You asked her, but she shook her head. “All good”
No one had time to look each other in the eye, really. “Get over here” Abbot said instead, nodding his way and you made your way around both dried and fluid pools of blood, your shoulder pressing against the military badge on his. Together you stabilized the patient, called down Garcia while you started intubation. Mateo took over and they rolled the gurney up to the OR. You winced, hand cramping, fingers twitching painfully as the muscles pulled and released from the combined heart massage and intubation. Jack frowned and grabbed your wrist, using his other hand to carefully flex your fingers backwards, gliding his thumb up your palm to stretch out the muscles. It was unusually attentive in the middle of broken bloody limbs, fixing a cramp. He looked up through his brow again, protective swat glasses low on his nose. With your free hand you took them off for him and set them aside without looking away. “Thanks” he muttered lowly, back to stretching your fingers.
“You good?” He asked, releasing your hand as the cramping stopped. He didn’t comment on it. You didn’t either. This was how you worked, often with understanding silence as you fixed things for each other like it was second nature. “Mhm” you said with a long inhale, smoothing hair from your face.
“Saw you and Robby going at it” he muttered casually, trying to inquire respectfully, always making sure you understood that you never owed him anything. Which was why he was easy to talk to.
“He’s an ass sometimes. So am I. Two fuckin assholes” you commented, mumbling more and more as you look to the back of Robby’s head somewhere down in south. Jacks eyes follow your line of sight. A heavy hand sprawls on your shoulder and squeezes briefly.
“He’s a considerably bigger asshole than you” he mutters, lips directed to your ear as he offers you a side glance, trying to ease the stiffness of your disposition. Your smile is half-hearted, mind too far off. Your eyes wander out on the mess around you, hands on your hips to gain some semblance of control.
“I’m gonna help out in triage” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat, ever present today. The woman’s face lingers on the backs of your eyelids and you start, walking off before he can say more. He gives a curious, lingering glance on your back. The distress was obvious in your posture, more so than usual, but then again; a mass casualty will do that to most.
The umpteenth hour continues into the night, and slowly but surely the heat of the masses die down, people simmering out, patients being admitted or walking or home or rolling down to the cold chapels. At 03.00 you have your certified last patient with a bitten off plastic scrap lodged in his stomach. “Check stats and bilateral flow” you call out, the words somehow effortless, on autopilot and your lungs as strident as when you clocked in. You press the ultrasound prod to the man’s stomach, eyes narrowed at the screen. It blurs slightly, but with a hard squeeze of burning eyelids, you focus back in, using your elbow to wipe sweat from your brow. Jack steps in and the status update falls from your lips without you even hearing yourself. “We need to get it out now” you mumble, seeing the laceration in his side that’s already doing internal damage, no time to wait for the OR. “Do you need me to-“ Jack offers
“I got it” there’s defensiveness in your tone that isn’t usual, everybody on edge to do their best. Especially you. Opening up the laceration, pulling out the lodged plastic carefully causes a ray of blood to spurt at your face, down your gown. Jack reaches over with a small woah, packing the wound as Perlah and him stabilize it while you take a step back to make room. A forced step back. “Jack I got this” you said, grabbing the bottom of your scrubs and wiping blood from your eyes. He didn’t listen, or didn’t hear you, moving with precision in front of you.
“Dr. Abbot step away” you said firmly and pressed your way to his side again, a wild look in your eyes. You had to save at least one more patient. Every single person in your care today had struggled tremendously. He turned to look at you fully for a beat. “Right now I’m more capable than you” he said. “You’re covered in blood- I’m not” his voice wasn’t unkind, wasn’t like Robby’s superior scolding. Still you had to swallow it down, wincing slightly as you took a defeated step back again. He wanted to say more but the time wasn’t there.
You stepped out of the room, eyes glassy and dull. “Honey go take a shower and get some new scrubs on ya” Dana said as she peered over her glasses with sympathy, tapping her clipboard. “We’ve got it under control down here.” She assured. You nodded tightly, lips pressed together as you didn’t trust your own tongue. But instead of beelining for the doctors lounges, your feet carried you out to the ambulance bay. You’d forgotten how dark it was outside, only a few stars visible in the busy city light pollution. The brick wall met your back, your knees protested as you sat down against it, head tipping back. You don’t know how much time passed before the ambulance bay doors slid open. You didn’t have the energy to crack an eye open.
“Thought we’d lost ya” Jack slides down the wall next to you, his swat vest discarded, green undershirt catching on the rough bricks. You hum dryly, finally opening your eyes. The sun is rising somewhere behind city blocks, casting a strange kind of light on his tired face. His brows scrunch, eyes darting across your face. A knuckle comes up, brushing your cheekbone so barely that you almost don’t feel it before it falls in his lap again. “You look like a warrior” he mumbles. You remember all the blood that must’ve dried in streaks on your pale skin. You feel it crease as your lips move.
“Don’t feel like one” you say, voice dry and garbled. He hums, still studying you and you look away, starring at the asphalt marred with tire tracks and bathed in purple morning hues.
He tips his head forwards slightly. “Robbys doing a farwell circle in there if you want to join” he says, clasping his hands and resting them on his knees. You shake your head. “He’s mad at me” you sigh, flicking dirt off your shoe.
Jack shakes his head too “No he’s not. Don’t let it get to you.”
Hot tears gather behind your eyelids and you despise it, squeezing your eyes tight and pressing the pad of your thumb and forefinger against them to try and stop the waterworks. Jacks lips tug downwards, surprised by how deep his discomfort is at watching you tremble. Automatically he reaches for you, but pauses mindfully, knowing how sensitive you could get in these situations;
“Can i touch you?” His voice it hoarse. You nod, eyes still closed and shoulders hunched. He reaches over your shoulders and gently push you into his side until your head falls to the crook of his neck, and his chin can rest on your head. He exhales deeply, hoping to render your nervous system to his, to let you borrow some of the ease to your frayed ends. You allow yourself to slump, feel the heat from the skin of his neck. “So many died today” you mumble, feeling him nod. “And most of them were my patients” you add quietly and it cut through you to say it out loud. You sit up before he can hold onto you “I need to look through all of the cases again- make sure I didn’t miss something, because if-“
“-hey hey hey,” he says and sits up with you. He often finds himself copying your movements, for some strange reason. “None of it was your fault” he assures and you turn your head back to look at him with a desperate and incredulous look.
“How do you know? A million things could’ve made it my fault. I was tired, stressed, things went fast-”
“-I looked.” He uttered, looking away briefly to the sole ambulance in the bay before looking back, like he was shy to admit it. Your face twisted in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I looked through all your cases today. Dana told me it’d been rough for you and I knew you’d blame yourself and spend the rest of the night going over all the journals. So I checked it all out. You did everything perfectly, on every single case. Even bold moves that were right despite things not panning out.” He said, feeling heat in his cheeks and ears to confess his own meticulous work that he had no obligation to do. You’re still for a while, the furrow of your forehead smoothing out.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me” you say with surprise more than anything else. You squashed the urge to check for yourself, choosing to put your faith in his words. There’s a stunted silence where Jack feels the back of his neck burn and something exposing itself between his ribs that he has no control of. Suddenly you twist your body backwards, reaching for something under a broken off brick, your leg kicking out. He has to catch it with one hand, “You’re gonna knock out all my teeth” he huffs, holding onto your ankle.
“Sorry” you come back upright, huffing hair from your face as you open a busted pack of cigs. He gives you an incredulous look, brow raised and head pulled back with that scolding assessment. You give him a glare “-give me a break. Dana and I hide these for emergencies only. I don’t smoke” you say as you place a long, thin cigarette between your lips, cupping your hand around the end of it as you light it up.
He hums “this tops any moment you’ve ever lied to me” he says, having half a mind to snag it from you. You shrug, squinting as you put the pack back in its hiding place.
“If you tell anyone, Dana will hide them somewhere else and won’t ever trust me with ‘em again” you say before watching his lip tug upwards. You realise your mistake and point the toxic thing at him. “It’s my one guilty pleasure after killing five people, don’t take it from me” you say.
His face falls again. “Don’t say it like that” he looks out at the morning traffic that’s slowly coming to life in the metropolis. You suck in hard, eyes up. The tears seem to be ever present, lingering and ready to run any minute. He purses his lips; he really should take that thing from your hand and squash it under his shoe. He’s your attending, this is a teaching hospital. An attending who should get up and go back inside. An attending who doesn’t move an inch.
“How do you do it?” You ask with a bitter taste in your mouth. He sighs, rubbing s hand over the bottom half of his face to buy himself a second. He stored every hard death somewhere, and sometimes it felt like it got easier; sometimes it didn’t and felt like the first time seeing life leave someone’s eyes all over again. He shook his head in thought.
“You have to remember the good things” he said but it sounded wrong out in the air between you, and your flat hum was confirmation of that. “I don’t know it-“ he runs a hand over his face again, shoulders sagging “you really do have to remember the wins. Remember the reasons you do this, the fact that you tried more than anyone else.” He says, more earnest. You nod slowly. He slaps his thighs, groans as he gets up wrongly on his prosthetic, still offers a hand. You finally twist the cig into the ground, marking a spot of your existence there before accepting his hand. He squeezes it before letting go, “Get cleaned up. Look a mess” he says. You huff dryly and shoulder past him with a grumble.
-
The shower does little to wash away the mental drag you feel, but it’s efficient at washing off the blood. You scrub your skin raw, wring your hair dry. A message from Robby. You ignore it, choosing peace as you drag your own clothes back in place. He manages to find you still, before you can sign out. The ER has died down significantly.
“I uh- wrote a recommendation of you to ER medicine. If you wanna get into that” he said, scratching his neck and forcing himself to keep eye contact with you. Your brows raised; clearly this was his way of apologising but it was a pretty good guilt offer and you nodded gratefully.
“Thank you. I’m seriously considering it” you said and he nodded, head cocked, “we could use you down here. Permanently.”
You huff a weak smile. He opens his mouth to say more “I don’t want to talk about today.” You interrupt with a hand mid-air and he closed his lips quick and nods in understanding. You steer for the door.
Outside Abbot and Matteo lean against a pillar. Your eyes drag down to the six pack of cheep beer dangling off two of jack’s fingers. He looks up when he sees you, lifting the beers with a nod to the park. You chew on the inside of your cheek, mulling it over because your bed and a long cry was really calling to you. Jack had the urge to fight for you staying but bit down on his tongue. Santos, Ellis and Whittaker came out behind you.
Ellis’ hand finds your neck “You’re having a beer” she decided and you shrug, following along the group. “Whatever you say goes I guess” you mumble, and she snickers triumphantly. Jack sits on the bench, the glow of the streetlamp on its last leg before they turn off and the sun replaces their light.
You take the beers from his hand “get that leg off” you mumble and open them up, handing everyone a can.
“Beer at 5.30, in the morning, not what I thought I signed up for. But I’m not complaining” santos said before cracking hers open. Ellis chuckled, “welcome to the Pitt”
Jack propped his prosthetic against the bench and accepted your beer with a small thanks, purposely scooting a little to the side. You sit down, tugging your knees to your chest with an exhale. “You look like shit” Santos says after her first sip, the quiet apparently not what she was on board with.
Jack gave her a disapproving look, brows low “how about you play the quiet game until you finish that beer” he says flatly. She rolls her eyes, turning to Whittaker who’s mid gulp and therefore can’t stop her stream of words his way.
Jack leans in, still looking forwards “I think you look great.” You tuck your chin back and tip your head as you look at him, incredulous. He shrugs and takes a steady sip, keeping his eyes on you. “How’re you holding up?”
“Robby wrote me a recommendation for emergency medicine.” You said.
Something twitched in jacks face, his finger toying with the metal cap “I could’ve done that if you’d asked” he said, aiming for a flat voice but something else fissured through the cracks. It amused you, slightly.
“I know. Two attending recs wouldn’t hurt” you said, with a head tilt. He looked up, the bratty expression softening from his features.
“Don’t be so offended, I didn’t ask Robby. He just felt bad.” Jack hummed, taking a sip.
“You planning on staying around?” He forced his voice to be neutral, lifting his chin and kicking his foot out in front of him. You take a look at the group, at everyone’s red rimmed eyes- everyone who should be home and sleeping but somehow all your individual choices had led you to be here at this hour instead.
“If it’s possible” you say with fondness. His shoulders sink a fraction, that same place under his ribs throbbing softly.
“Could join the night crawlers for good” he suggested. You took your bottom lip between your teeth
“you recruiting me already?” Your chin rests on your knee. He holds his beer to his mouth, pressing the coolness there.
“Don’t let it get to your head” he rumbles. His free hand slings over the back of the bench. The conversation migrates to one big group circle. It’s easy, it’s about anything else than the hospital, a pretend game where you don’t mention what’s burning in the back of your head, the losses and wins of the days all alike. Instead you talk about new movies, stupid bets, the news, your families. Eventually the talk falls back to today’s events, though; it always circled back around, when someone couldn’t keep it on the backburner any longer.
“Hey didn’t all your patients like die today?” Santos says, trying to be humorous in a show of sympathy, and perhaps also letting the second beer loosen her tongue. Your chest tightens inexplicably.
“Help me with my leg?” Abbot says quickly before you muster up a proper response or reaction. His fingertips brush your arm. “Sure” you mumble, standing up.
You both know he doesn’t need help to put on the damn prosthetic, he’s been doing it on his own for years, every day. Still you crouch down, and he lets you despite the dignity in him that the situation chips at. He doesn’t care. He tried meeting your eyes but you stay firmly on his leg before standing up, tossing your can in the trash.
“See you guys” you sigh, rubbing your eyes and waving half heartedly with the other. Whittaker mutters something to Santos, slapping her arm. Abbot givers her a warning look too before he strides up to your side.
“Thank you” you mutter, yawning. He hums in response
“she’s mouthy.” He says with narrowed eyes somewhere behind you.
“She’s learning” you correct, kicking a rock. “She wants friends”
“She has a funny way of making them.” He adds, walking with you down the road despite his apartment being the other way.
“Like you’re so predictable yourself” you say, watching the sun finally say hello over the lowest buildings. It’s golden, just grazing the edges of jacks tired curls. His lip tugs upwards, eyes following the pavement along with yours, hands hidden in his pockets.
You loop yours into the empty space between his elbow and ribs and he lets you, with a soft side glance as to not scare off the touch. He should reject it, but decides to revel in it as his own guilty pleasure, his reward for a hellish shift. You seem to give it a second before you let your arm relax around his when he doesn’t retreat. “You aren’t either” he says through a breath, causing you to crack an eye his way. He meets it the same way. “How so?”
He pushes his lips to the side in thought, eyes drifting off. He wants to say a lot of things about how unpredictable his nervous system is around you, his no man’s land. He swallows it down.
“Didn’t take you for a filthy smoker, for example” he says dryly. Your eyes roll, making a tsk sound with your tongue and tugging on his arm so his shoulder dips against yours
“there are way worse habits I could’ve picked up. I don’t drink-“ his brow raises and a side eye burns from your face and down to the hand that held a beer a couple minutes ago “-that often” you add defensively. “And I’m not going to at all these next months. I have to apply for a residency. I have to focus” you say with determination and a youthful hope that strikes him.
You’re young, way young compared to his old ass, not even in residency yet, and here he is locking arms with you instead of writing you a professional recommendation. But at the Pitt you were pretty much installed as an ER resident already, they gave you the responsibility and independency amounting to one, at least. No one hovered over your decisions like they used to. But in technicality you weren’t quite there yet.
You stop in your tracks, in front of the steps to a brownstone apartment building where you live. It snaps him from his inner works as his arm slips from yours. The sun is starting to warm up, stabil and almost down to your eyes. The sky is brighter, the city is bustling more and more with the diverse population of Pittsburg waking up, the rare crowd just now going home. A breeze blows a stray strand into your eyes and you snatch it away with a finger, looking at the flush of jacks cheeks. You’re so tired, so sad but so happy that he’s here, that you didn’t go home and let the bed swallow you up. It’s a strange euphoria when the sun rises after you feel like it might never, like the horrible night will drag on and take you with it. Here people are, to-go cups in their hands, phones at their ears, children in the car. Life goes on.
He’s about to pull away, the knot in his stomach, the stupid realisation that keeps catching up to him about how hypocritical and wrong he’s being tearing at his nerves, fraying the ends and pushing on his chest. Pushing him away. But you’re too caught up in the moment, in the way he carried you through the aftermath of today.
You seize his wrist gently to anchor yourself, raising yourself to your toes and pressing your lips against his, feeling the tickle of his grey stubble on your pale skin. You give it a second, but his lips don’t seem to move at all and with a heartbeat so violent it hurts you move back, heels in the ground with wide eyes. He swallows thickly, opening his mouth but nothing comes out because it’s all he’s wanted and all he shouldn’t, his foot moving back until it hits a mailbox. Everything’s a flame inside of him, his hands fisted so hard in his pockets that it ached up his tendons. “I’m so sorry Jack I thought-“
“It’s okay-“ he assures, his voice barely coming out, which you obviously mistake for discomfort. Which is was, but not at all in the way you clearly figured with the way your lips quiver. He has to look away “it’s okay I promise it’s just- it’s not a good idea to- I didn’t-“ he says, trying his best to convey but he’s never felt so useless before, so teenage.
“Forget I did that. Please. Don’t tell anyone. I’m- I’ll go now. I’ll see you. Sorry, I’m really sorry” your hands fumble as you open the door, keys rattling in your hands. He doesn’t stop you, cursing under his breath as he forces one shoe in front of the other, not daring to look back. He knows how unfair he’s being, taking without giving. He’s been selfish for it, letting himself wallow in your laughs and touches, your refuge in the storm, and now retreating like a coward. He should have drawn a line the second the two of you started knowing each other a little better than the rest, purposeful or not. He didn’t mind teaching, but it wasn’t usual for him to take a liking to any new people the way he did you. You found a rythm fast, learned each others habits in a symbiose others noticed but didn’t comment on. He shouldn’t remember what syrup you like or what book you read, the nervous tick when you have to deliver hard news.
He should’ve let himself forget, but he opened up a space for it that he regrets now, trying to wire it shut.
Part six of Simon seeing reader cry for the first time. This one is really just Simon’s pov of you, and he’s heading into the jealousy stage… he’s low-key growing obsessed? Enjoy.
Simon was fuming. Not with you exactly, it wasn’t your fault you were such a delicate, pretty little bird- of course you’d get attention at a scummy pub like this. And it wasn’t like you were his territory, his to claim in some way.
But if the bartender didn’t hurry up making that drink you wanted so that the handsome stranger next to you could move on, he’d get up from the cramped booth and make it him damn self.
You clearly weren’t the type to just bring someone home. Or were you? Fuck, was that a sexist prejudice he just had? He runs a hand over his face, over the surgical mask he had put back up the minute that man approached you to try and mask any reaction he might have. He’s so used to his grimaces being hidden that he was scared he couldn’t control them.
Soap nudged his arm that barely moved as he laughed heartily at his own story. Simon didn’t flinch, his eyes didn’t leave you. Aye, Soap noticed, shooting Gaz a knowing glance but none of them dared say anything because they were still having a good night.
Finally your hands grasped around a tall glass, ice rattling as you bid the man goodbye and headed for the teams designated table. Simon hadn’t been able to read your interactions; had you been flirting? Maybe politely declining? You’d be the type- Arh there he goes again giving you prejudices when you keep surprising him everyday about what ‘type’ you actually are.
You sit down with a small, flustered smile. Fuck, fuck, Simon’s hands tighten around his own pint, that otherwise sat untouched after you left. You blink up at him, looking like he’s the one that’s flustered you but he knows that isn’t true. It couldn’t be. He’s unmoving, eyes slowly dragging you over.
“What?” You ask, nervous, maybe a little defensive and he knows that you hate not being able to read him. He’s bristling, if he was a cat all hairs would be standing on end.
“Nothing.” His voice is terse, gruff as usual but it sounds like he has to force the words from his throat, willing his lips to move. You frown, and now he knows you won’t let it go- it gives a thrill through him: he knows you now. Knows what your expressions mean, what you’re feeling.
He sees your eyes drifting off, clearly in thought before your jaw tightens and your eyes fall to your drink. You look disappointed. That’s not what he expected really, and know he doesn’t know what to do. Jesus Christ why does he overthink everything when it comes to you now? It used to be simple before you bared your soul to him and now he just wants to keep you open for him.
He doesn’t know how to address this now. Why did you look like that? After that bath, where he’d asked you to touch him and gods you had touched him and he swore he died and went to heaven; after that, what was supposed to happen? Maybe you didn’t know either. You quickly schooled your expression and leaned a little over the table to join the conversation Simon had pushed into background noise. He didn’t like that one bit, putting your walls up now? Well he couldn’t have that.
“What did he want?” Simon tried asking casually as you leaned over, his mouth almost at your ear. You tensed, a micro movement but he noticed. You hadn’t expected him to adress it head on, perhaps, as you leaned back, diverting your attention to him again.
“My number” you replied and he felt his tongue sucking on his own teeth to calm down. He hummed in response.
“Did you give it?” He asked, trying to seem nonchalant, grateful for his mask as always. Your eyes twitched, expression lacing with some sort of offence or disbelief. He struggled to stay composed, heart rate elevating a little too fast.
You shook your head but it mainly looked like you were annoyed with him, more than it was an answer. Your eyes found the table, gathering yourself before looking up at him with a seriousness and intensity he hadn’t expected. “Of course I didn’t. Why would you think that?”
Shit, you seemed genuinely upset in some way. He was flustered, caught off guard. “I don’t know. Looked like you were having a good time.” He shouldn’t have said that, jealousy shining through his teeth and he knew it.
“Well I wasn’t” you said, quick but steady.
“You’re angry with me” he said it as a monotone statement because he didn’t want you to hear it for what it was.
“No- no im not-“ you sighed, running a hand through your hair that he eyed almost nervously. “I just don’t know why you would think that I would give him an ounce of my time” you mumbled, raising your brows shortly to indicate something. He swallowed thickly.
“I didn’t think it, I feared it” he admitted and it felt vulnerable enough that he had to look away, into the crowd of people. “Smiling like a schoolgirl when you came back, dove” he mumbled, a little to himself
“At you.” You corrected, trying to meet his gaze. “I found it funny that-“ he felt you lean closer so only he could hear, if anyone should happen to try and listen in. “-anyone would even try talking to me after I had my hands around your….”
He stiffened, shoulders moving a little, mask covering the blood surging to his cheeks at your next word. He had to clear his throat, make sure Soap didn’t hear. It was right, in that tub your hands had wandered a bit like he’d asked you to. Nothing more had happened than you feeling him up, leaving him on that gruesome but wonderful edge. Hearing what that meant to you, that that moment had solidified something between you the way it had to him made him wanna fucking moan. His eyes snapped to yours, a newfound confidence in them.
“Giggling at someone trying to take you home?” He said, his tone infinitely more lighter now. You merely shrugged, the offence from your face gone. Good.
He hummed, considering you for another second before huffing in dry amusement, shaking his head and finally lowering the mask again. He picked up the pint but your smaller hand gently pushed it to the table, earning his attention again.
“You don’t need to be jealous, Simon.” You said, oddly calm, brows scrunching subtly.
“Im not” he was quick, too quick and you both knew it. He swore under his breath and picked up his pint again as he saw the winning streak across your face.
But he knew that this meant. If he was jealous of someone else trying to pick you up, he’d have to do it himself or his feelings wouldnt have a valid place to settle, no value. Ugh just his luck, now he was basically forced to take you home himself…
Masterlist of; Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley seeing reader cry for the first time…
Part one : Simon seeing you cry for the first time
Part two : you cleaning and bandaging his knuckles
Part three : going on an undercover mission as a rich couple
Part four : Simon takes care of you on your period
Part five: Simon comes back vulnerable from a mission, and you take care of him Part six: Simon gets jealous when someone flirts with you at the pub
Part five of Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley seeing reader cry for the first time; this one made me fucking giddy. This time it’s Simon being soft and vulnerable with you for the first time after a mission…
It’s been three days since you’ve seen him. Simon went on a solo mission and you swear you’ve never felt time go by so slowly, feeling so sluggish with each passing hour. When he volunteered for it, you had to bite your tongue to stop from protesting. You had absolutely zero entitlement to say anything, and even less arguments for why he shouldn’t be the one to do it when he was the most capable.
The day before was when he had drawn you that bath for your pain, respectfully looked away as you undressed, his ears perking at the sound of each soft thud of clothes to the floor, the water singing as you lowered yourself into it. His hands were digging into his thighs in his pockets.
It was a foamy bath because he’d found one of your products that smelled nice. You had your back to him and beckoned him to turn around. He had stared at you and felt his hands shake as he ran a cloth over the expanse of frail skin.
Then the very next day he was gone like he’d never been there at all. You even - to your own deep, mortifying embarrassment - snuck into his barracks and stole a t-shirt. Because you had none left yourself and he didn’t exactly need them right now, you tell anyone if they made notice.
Then on the fourth night, you felt like you were going insane. Because what if that was it? What if he never came back and you only ever got so close to whatever had started blooming between you as a knuckle kiss? The thought that he might never know how much space he had made for himself inside of your head was one you had to force out of your mind as you sat with the others in the rec room. It was a quiet Friday. You had an untouched beer in front of you.
Then the door was pushed open somewhere and you stood up in a heartbeat because for some reason that you didn’t have time to analyse, you recognised his footsteps. You ran.
Then you stopped as you saw him, nearly fallling over your own feet. He looked dangerous at first, chest expanded and heaving heavily. There was a dark crimson staining parts of his clothes and mask and it was dripping to the floor. He looked like a wounded lion and you were simultaneously frightened and so so relieved.
He was scowling the same way he had found himself doing the last four days, a dark veil, a black lens over his eyes. Then he saw you.
You in his shirt and a pair of sweatpants, hair tucked away, eyes a little too tired.
He fell to his knees.
A heartbeat passed, flinching at the movement before you were right there with him. His hands were slightly painful where they grabbed your waist, your hips and your shoulders, clawing and pawing to make sure you were real and here and that everything was okay. He made a sound like a groan and a whine as his head awkwardly bumped into you when he tried to nuzzle your neck and inhale. You couldn’t move, eyes wide at the way he was basically just falling apart for you, acting like some needy cat.
“You’re hurt,” you insist.
“You’re here,” he responds.
It’s like something bursts inside him. He had almost died out there and when all he found himself worrying about was who might help you with your cramps now, he knew he was fucking done for.
“M’ here Simon” you confirm softly, trying to cradle his jaw to make him look at you, but he didn’t budge from where he had somehow managed to press his face into the delicate skin of your neck.
His hands kept you under lock and it started to burn in your muscles from the position you were in, but you didn’t make a single sound, not even as you felt his shoulders tremble slightly, chest hiccuping.
“You okay, lovie?” He asks after a solid five minutes of maybe crying into your neck a little.
You almost laugh, choking on a little sound of amusement as your eyes crinkle. But you hid it well enough. He was asking if you were okay? You?
“I am now. Are you?” You pulled your head back slightly to look down, hoping he’d reveal himself from the shadows. Slowly he peeled himself away, gear shading his face. There were streaks from his eyes in that black, dried war pant that revealed slivers of his pale skin, his lashes sticking together. He just looked at you for a long moment.
“No.” He confessed, sounding like it took all his reserves of strength to admit to such a thing and he looked ready enough to bolt now that he’d finally said it. You only nodded in understanding, wary of how to treat him now, how to do this right.
You stood up and he clawed at your legs, his brute strength making you stumble. “I’m just gonna draw you a bath. Come.”
It took him a while before he wordlessly got up and slumped after you. You went into your own room, and he didn’t comment on it. Not even as he sat down on the little stool and watched you pour one of your good smelling soaps into the tub as the water streamed, creating a white noise that filled the mutual comfortable silence you had created.
“Are you hurt?”
“A little” he said, once again wincing at his own admission of vulnerability. You slowly walked over until you stood in between his legs, looking down at him with a gentle head tilt.
Then you unstrapped his headgear. Left the mask alone, his eyes tracing every move of your hands with both apprehension and affection. You undid his vest before slowly going to your knees, caged between his thighs and blinking up at him. He swore he died, something inside of him jolting at the visual. His jaw ticked. You slowly put his guns away. Peeled his layers one by one, barely touching him and he watched wordlessly.
He even lifted his hips for you until he only wore his boxers. You saw his chest rising and falling a bit rapidly. “I’ll take care of you.” You pulled on his neck as your hands met his cold skin, dragging him down and his heart stopped when your lips were closing up on his, but you angled your chin and met his forehead instead. He was relieved. Disappointed?
The soft press sent shivers down his spine and he felt deliciously awful at this vulnerable disposition he had. His shoulders slumped and he watched you clean his wound, muscles tensing at the sting.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He mumbled.
“Never said you had to.” You respond, turning off the faucet before turning back to him. “Do you want me to leav-“
“-no.” He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even care anymore, he told himself; if he was embarrassing himself, if you found him pathetic. Each time that fear clutched him this last half hour, he looked up and saw an odd sense of assurance and calmness in your eyes. Like you knew this was the natural next step for both of you and it calmed his nerves like a balm.
“Do you want me to look away?” You ask, breaking his train of thought. He looks up at you. Then he slowly shakes his head.
“…no.”
You breathe in a little sharper than usual as nervous excitement bubbles up your spine. You nod in a way that lets him know you don’t really want to look away either. He stands up and strips himself of his boxers. You take an appreciative glance over his now bare body, lingering on his stomach, instead of where he might think you’d look. He subconsciously flexes.
“Beautiful.”
He downright blushes and therefore hurriedly lowered himself into the tub with a groan. The water melted away the worst of the grime, tickling his chest as his eyes closed with a deep sigh. You smiled as you sat on the lip or the tub. He cracked an eye open.
“Come” he said and nudged his head to the tub, not managing to say anything else, his eyes selfishly looking at your neck again. It felt primal, almost not even… sexual as you stand up, hands possessing a slight tremble as you undress before him. He watches and you let him.
The water is a bit dirty, but bubbles foam at the top as you lower yourself in front of him, facing his front as your legs tangle under the surface. The water stops at the dip of your waist. He watches it, the dangerous waver of it that caressed your skin and he wished it was him. You lathered some soap on the cloth he had used for you before. Mind you he still had the mask on, only finally taking it off and breathing in. You gently use the cloth on his face, around his eyes, down his neck, humming softly.
“I missed you. Is that… is that fucked up?” He asks, his voice hoarse. This mission, its horrors, the loneliness; it wasn’t supposed to all just go away when he saw you. So why had he suddenly forgotten these last four days?
“I don’t know. But I’m glad that you did. I was going mad.” You tell him, a soft crinkle to your eyes as you dip the cloth in the water. His stomach tenses as the material scrapes down the hard planes of muscle. He groans softly.
“Just don’t tell anyone about this, yeah?” He mumbled as he leaned his head back, eyes closed in a bliss he hadn’t known before now. You bit your lip.
“Never. God forbid Simon Riley enjoyed himself.” You shook your head with a faux stern expression and his lips hinted at a smile, eyes barely open.
Part four of Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley seeing you cry for the first time, due to demand which I am (so) grateful for. Simon’s accidentally a little mean at the wrong time lol- readers on her period.
It’s the second time Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley sees you cry that he looses himself into some kind of caretaker instinct.
The last time it had happened, it was after a brutal mission where he’d found you as a crying heap on the floor. So naturally his heart started pounding painfully in his chest when he creaked the door open to your room and saw you curled in bed, sniffling softly.
Once again the vulnerability you showed seemed to hurl him away like a storm. It was such a precious, private side of you and he wanted to go on his knees for you in thanks for allowing him to see it.
He’s by your side with three stalking striders, crouching down next to the bed. His hand hovers over your waist, then your shoulder, then your face because he doesn’t know if he can, or even where he should touch you right now, your shoulders shaking as your head nuzzles into your tear stained pillow.
“Hey. Stop.” He says, voice almost holding a small tremble, laced with panic because as much as he adored this side of you, he wanted you to smile again. Please?
You didn’t respond, only curled further away like an uninterested cat. He frowns and then grabs your neck, gently turning it until you meet his gaze. He wants to gasp at how pretty you look with glistening, red cheeks and glossy eyes, lashes sticking together as you pout at him.
“What is it lovie?” The nickname slips before he knows how to stop it and he winces internally, tensing. But it seems to coax you to nuzzle your face into his hand instead, and he keeps it completely still, scared that a single movement would scare you away. He feels your cold cheek press into his palm, itching to curl his fingers into the soft skin.
“Nothing” you whine.
He huffs. Jesus Christ.
“Nothing, yeah? That’ why you’re crying like a baby?” He smiles, eyes crinkling behind the mask but yours have closed and he sees your face contort into more sadness, more crying and his eyes go wide, immediately holding you a little tighter.
“No! No, shit, sweet’eart it was a joke” he says quickly, voice urgent. You usually took all his teasing with great stride or an even better comeback, but seeing you cry even more because of him made a strange knot form in his throat that he couldn’t seem to swallow down.
You demonstratively turn your back to him on the bed. It was actually insane to him, seeing you like this. You were always sharp, focused, witty; slapping Johnny and Simon on the arm when they start bantering too much on the way to a mission.
He was sort of addicted to it, he thought, as even your back turning made something warm flutter in his stomach as he reached for your shoulder, entire hand able to envelop it and tug gently.
“M’ sorry? M’ sorry just… talk to me.” Silence ensues.
“Please.” The word falls unnaturally from his lips.
It seems to be the keyword because your head turns painfully slow until you blink up at him, now with a slight scowl.
“It hurts” you whisper, bottom lip jutting out. He immediately pulls your cover down to your thigh to start looking you over for injuries but your cold hands tug his wrist and puts his palms over your lower stomach. He blinks.
“You pregnant?” He blurts.
Your eyes widen and he swears he sees a hint of a smile and triumph floods his system. “No you idiot! I’m on my period. Cramps!” You say with a shake of your head, eyes closing for a beat.
He was a bloody idiot to be fair. A lot of things from today seemed to click for him when you said that, and his shoulders relax, head tilting as his eyes narrow, framed by the black mask. His hands on your stomach fan out, thumbs stroking the skin under your shirt. He feels your muscles tighten at his touch.
“Sensitive?” He muses.
“Shut it” you mumble, looking away and trying not to let the enjoyment of his touch show too much, but your eyes flutter closed and he could practically hear you purring. But he doesn’t say anything, once again afraid he’ll ruin this little bubble that you’ve let him be a part of, for reasons he doesn’t understand.
After long minutes of comfortable silence, his hands running over the expanse of your stomach, caressing and massaging softly, he sees your lips part in soft breaths. Slowly and lingering, his hands retreat so he doesn’t do anything stupid. But you whine, immediately noticing the lack of his touch, even in your half asleep state, grabbing for him. His jaw flexes as he tried not to smile.
“M’ gonna run you a bath, lovie. I’ll be right back.” He promised, suddenly turning into some kind of caretaker role he never thought he wanted to be. Until you came along and now he finds himself wanting to do all kinds of things for you, after seeing how you reacted to his touch. The scrunch of your brows when he tells you he’ll run you a bath gives him a high he can ride for days.
He’s just trying to repay how sweetly you bandaged his hands weeks ago. To repay how you played along to his little story at the last mission about how you and him had met.
Trying to repay these insatiable and foreign feelings you brought forth in him, so you wouldn’t take them away. Ever.
Now maybe he just had to actually tell you about them? No. No way. The thought was forced from his mind immediately.
I know you’re the author and everything so betting doesn’t make sense but I bet a crisp high five that says he’ll admit to his feelings when she is the one catching him in an emotional state 🙂↕️
Part four of Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley seeing you cry for the first time, due to demand which I am (so) grateful for. Simon’s accidentally a little mean at the wrong time lol- readers on her period.
It’s the second time Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley sees you cry that he looses himself into some kind of caretaker instinct.
The last time it had happened, it was after a brutal mission where he’d found you as a crying heap on the floor. So naturally his heart started pounding painfully in his chest when he creaked the door open to your room and saw you curled in bed, sniffling softly.
Once again the vulnerability you showed seemed to hurl him away like a storm. It was such a precious, private side of you and he wanted to go on his knees for you in thanks for allowing him to see it.
He’s by your side with three stalking striders, crouching down next to the bed. His hand hovers over your waist, then your shoulder, then your face because he doesn’t know if he can, or even where he should touch you right now, your shoulders shaking as your head nuzzles into your tear stained pillow.
“Hey. Stop.” He says, voice almost holding a small tremble, laced with panic because as much as he adored this side of you, he wanted you to smile again. Please?
You didn’t respond, only curled further away like an uninterested cat. He frowns and then grabs your neck, gently turning it until you meet his gaze. He wants to gasp at how pretty you look with glistening, red cheeks and glossy eyes, lashes sticking together as you pout at him.
“What is it lovie?” The nickname slips before he knows how to stop it and he winces internally, tensing. But it seems to coax you to nuzzle your face into his hand instead, and he keeps it completely still, scared that a single movement would scare you away. He feels your cold cheek press into his palm, itching to curl his fingers into the soft skin.
“Nothing” you whine.
He huffs. Jesus Christ.
“Nothing, yeah? That’ why you’re crying like a baby?” He smiles, eyes crinkling behind the mask but yours have closed and he sees your face contort into more sadness, more crying and his eyes go wide, immediately holding you a little tighter.
“No! No, shit, sweet’eart it was a joke” he says quickly, voice urgent. You usually took all his teasing with great stride or an even better comeback, but seeing you cry even more because of him made a strange knot form in his throat that he couldn’t seem to swallow down.
You demonstratively turn your back to him on the bed. It was actually insane to him, seeing you like this. You were always sharp, focused, witty; slapping Johnny and Simon on the arm when they start bantering too much on the way to a mission.
He was sort of addicted to it, he thought, as even your back turning made something warm flutter in his stomach as he reached for your shoulder, entire hand able to envelop it and tug gently.
“M’ sorry? M’ sorry just… talk to me.” Silence ensues.
“Please.” The word falls unnaturally from his lips.
It seems to be the keyword because your head turns painfully slow until you blink up at him, now with a slight scowl.
“It hurts” you whisper, bottom lip jutting out. He immediately pulls your cover down to your thigh to start looking you over for injuries but your cold hands tug his wrist and puts his palms over your lower stomach. He blinks.
“You pregnant?” He blurts.
Your eyes widen and he swears he sees a hint of a smile and triumph floods his system. “No you idiot! I’m on my period. Cramps!” You say with a shake of your head, eyes closing for a beat.
He was a bloody idiot to be fair. A lot of things from today seemed to click for him when you said that, and his shoulders relax, head tilting as his eyes narrow, framed by the black mask. His hands on your stomach fan out, thumbs stroking the skin under your shirt. He feels your muscles tighten at his touch.
“Sensitive?” He muses.
“Shut it” you mumble, looking away and trying not to let the enjoyment of his touch show too much, but your eyes flutter closed and he could practically hear you purring. But he doesn’t say anything, once again afraid he’ll ruin this little bubble that you’ve let him be a part of, for reasons he doesn’t understand.
After long minutes of comfortable silence, his hands running over the expanse of your stomach, caressing and massaging softly, he sees your lips part in soft breaths. Slowly and lingering, his hands retreat so he doesn’t do anything stupid. But you whine, immediately noticing the lack of his touch, even in your half asleep state, grabbing for him. His jaw flexes as he tried not to smile.
“M’ gonna run you a bath, lovie. I’ll be right back.” He promised, suddenly turning into some kind of caretaker role he never thought he wanted to be. Until you came along and now he finds himself wanting to do all kinds of things for you, after seeing how you reacted to his touch. The scrunch of your brows when he tells you he’ll run you a bath gives him a high he can ride for days.
He’s just trying to repay how sweetly you bandaged his hands weeks ago. To repay how you played along to his little story at the last mission about how you and him had met.
Trying to repay these insatiable and foreign feelings you brought forth in him, so you wouldn’t take them away. Ever.
Now maybe he just had to actually tell you about them? No. No way. The thought was forced from his mind immediately.
Third follow up on the dynamic between you and Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley after he sees you cry for the first time. He’s getting so fucking obsessed with you and this next mission does absolutely nothing to help that:
It was a classic, but one you’d never experienced yourself before now; a mission where you had to gain intel from someone at a high class event. Meaning you had to get dolled up with your mission partner. Guess who?
It had been forever since you’d worn a dress; this way or work didn’t give much opportunity for it. It had been so long that you only had one in your closet- but it was everything to you- a tiny part of the persons you’d had to store away when becoming part of a military task force. Hidden away in a box on the top of your closet at your barracks.
You smoothed it out, admiring it on its own for a moment before slipping it over you, tying the back so it dipped at your waist, giving you a sense of security at the slight pressure. Your hands ran over the dark green fabric that matched the emeralds in your ears and down along your cleavage, looking like crystal droplets over the taught skin of your collarbones.
Your hair had been neatly curled- cheeks rosy, eyelids shimmering and lips a muted mauve. It was very different from the tactical gear most operations called for and it felt naked to only have the gun at your inner thigh and the smallest piece that was draped over by your hair.
Your heart pounded like a war drum as you stepped into the entrance of the base, at the double doors that led to the parking lot.
You knew it would draw attention- you’d never looked anything like this since you joined the task force and you felt so self conscious that your knees nearly buckled, feet unsteady in the heels that hugged them. But you knew you looked good- repeated it to yourself because half of this was confidence.
And so did he. Simon was adjusting the cuffs of his suit with a grunt, annoyed at the feel of the tight button up trapped under the black habit jacket that bulged over his muscles. But when he turned around his hand fell away from his cuffs mindlessly, going lax at his sides. He hadn’t known the way his heart stuttered before. He hadn’t known what to expect but you- you were a sight for sore eyes.
It didn’t help him at all with how he struggled to decipher his feelings for you. After seeing you so vulnerable and human, crying on that concrete floor he thought that was as far as he could ever go. Then you had bandaged his knuckles, and let him cuddle you in the irrevocable silence on that couch. But this was another stepping stone: you in that dress.
He could see a confidence in you that he’d either never noticed or that was brought forth by the way you looked tonight. Which would be very valid in his opinion because he’d been looking at you without saying anything for a solid minute now.
You frowned, fidgeting with the rings on your fingers because you couldn’t read his expression at all.
“You should wear a suit more often,” you said, roving shamelessly over his hunky figure, looking even taller with the dark suit on, his thick thighs coming to their right. You wanted to kiss his knuckles again.
Kiss a lot of him, actually.
“Fuckin’ annoying” he grumbled and rolled his shoulders in the suit, the jacket creaking with the motion. It was his way of accepting the compliment without, and you both knew it. He wanted to compliment you too, but there was so much he wanted to say that absolutely nothing came out. And when he saw the shameless hunger in your eyes as you trailed the movements of his hands, he definitely couldn’t speak. Had you always looked at him like that? Or did these past weeks open gates for you too?
You gulped down the disappointment when he didn’t say anything after a long beat of opportunity, masking your expression quickly as your spine straightened, hands smoothing down the fabric along your hips. “The car is waiting” you say, silence unbearable as your heels click on the linoleum, walking into the moonlight lid parking lot.
You both go over the mission details in the car, but his eyes kept finding their way to your silly curls bouncing around your face, the light in the car shining off of your lips. He gritted his teeth.
“Where’s your gun?” He asked because he would never forget that the mission was so much more dangerous like this- despite the rest of the task force being on standby, you could both get hurt way easier in this attire- especially you. He could wear a bulletproof vest under his button up. You could not- and ghost had yelled at you to find something else to wear but you refused. This was your lucky dress.
Then you unconsciously did the hottest thing he’d ever seen in his goddamn life as you spread your thighs slightly in your seat, fingers grazing and pulling aside the satin material of the slit in your dress to reveal your bare thigh, gun strapped to the plush of your inner skin. He might’ve died, and you had no clue, simply pulling the dress back in place and looking over the blueprints one more time.
The air prickled at your skin and you tugged the shawl closer around your arms when his large hand slipped over the satin, landing on the bare skin on the small of your back. The contact was electric and you both stiffened, looking up at the adorned building ahead, checking your earpieces before walking up the shiny stairs.
Right before the staff opened the golden double doors for you, giving out your fake names, he leans down to the shell of your ear.
“You’re the most gorgeous fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen, love, I can’t focus.” He managed to grumble out just before nudging your lower back gently to start walking. His eyes immediately honed in on the people and the layout. But you felt frozen in place, eyes widening impossibly much at his singular, lethal sentence.
That he’d ever seen? Of everything in the entire world he’d ever seen? It rung around your skull, zapping all the way to your toes that curled inside the heels, a unusually giddy feeling wracking up and down your spine, making your hips sway a little more as you followed his guiding hand.
He could feel your warm skin under his palm, the way your muscles moved with every sway, and immense satisfaction coursed through him when he noticed the subtle change his compliment had caused.
Maybe tonight he would pretend- for the mission of course- that you really were his. Really give it his all- make up a story of how you met. Tell people he’s gonna propose. No no no what the fuck? He’s taking it way too far. The mission came first. The thrill of showing you off on his arm came second.
That’s what he said, until a woman commented on how lucky he was, both his and her eyes watching you as you stood next to one of your targets for intel, sipping a champagne glass and twirling your hair.
“I am. I really am.” He said, not noticing the woman had already left.
It's when you think he gets too arrogant, too mouthy that you push Simon 'Ghost' Riley down by the shoulders. He could easily stop you and you both know it. But he welcomes it, a little taken aback by the sudden gesture but intrigued.
You had been arguing over yet another mission- he said you were too soft and sentimental, you said he was too cold and aloof. One day arguing had led to him hoisting you up against the wall and fucking you to prove a point. You guys had argued a lot more since then.
He lets himself lay down on the bed, feet still planted on the ground. It takes you 0.1 second to slip off your panties under your skirt before you're crawling over him, climbing him like a tree and slowly sitting yourself down
You manage to catch his eyes before his face disappears under your skirt. You think it might be love, the way he looks up at you.
And it worked because he doesn't say a single thing- no protest or thanks. He just gets to work, hands curling around your thighs, opening his warm mouth for you and letting his tongue delve into your cunt. Eventually there's a groan of appreciation that sends shivers up and down your spine, making you arch and simultaneously press yourself down onto his mouth harder. He sticks his tongue out in response, urging you to move by yourself with a tug on your hips.
It had been a ridiculous discussion where he'd been praising his skills far too much and yours far too little- but it melted from your mind as you rocked your hips over his face, feeling his nose nudge your clit.
He mumbles against you, slobbering and sucking diligently -doing his duty- serving his apology with gentle sucks on your clit.
His eyes are closed tightly. What had you been arguing about? And why exactly hadn't you shut him up like this before? And would you pretty please do it again?
He feels you drip down his chin and onto his neck, his brow furrowing as he groans. He wanted to actually eat you up, gently scraping his teeth on your sensitive clit as you cum all over his face. He was gonna piss you off more often now on purpose if this was how you'd punish him.
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley being ready to go on his knees for his favorite nurse… but he has no idea how to show it.
Then he sees you at the pub.
It settled inside of him as a feeling of uselessness because he’s so used to knowing what to do. He takes action. He fixes things. And now he gets all flustered when you tend to his wounds, absentmindedly stroking his thigh and talking to him so so sweetly. Calling him a good boy when you finish the stitches, biting your lip as you focused on making them as neat as you could for him. He would stare at you the whole time, his cheeks heating because no one ever showed him this much care and you didn’t even seem to struggle with it- it was all natural.
You had labelled him ‘favorite patient’ in your phone but he didn’t know that. He figured you behaved like that with all the soldiers who came in- the reason you were such a good nurse.
After a well succeeded mission, the task force and the bases Staff all crowd down to the nearest pub. It was an excuse for you to finally be out of your work attire, adorning a black lacy top that made you feel sexy along with your glossy lips. He was already there, leaned back in a booth with Soap and Price as you walk in, looking around nervously.
He has to grit his teeth as he sees you. Fuck fuck fuck. This was gonna be a long night. He fisted his hands beneath the table.
This feeling of hopelessness, of not knowing what to do was so foreign that it bubbled into anger. Price frowned, noticing the rigid way his Lieutenant suddenly sat. Soap was too busy telling some story to notice anything, slamming down a hand, the beers rattling. Your colleagues crowded you into a booth that so conveniently faced him.
Why did he look at you like that? He was positively fuming, glowering, brows lowered and face set. You cowered under his gaze, eyes flickering away nervously.
His lips parted in soft surprise. Why did you look so nervous? Had he done something?
Because of course he was no clue how damn intimidating his so called love stare stare is. He follows you as you walk to the bar, leaning over, your skirt riding up. He has to blink up at the ceiling because it felt simultaneously like a gift from above, being allowed to see you like this, and like a curse from hell.
“Oh he’s down bad for her ain’t he, that fucker?” Soap exclaims, finally catching on as he lets out a hearty laugh. Simon glares.
“I think LT needs another pint” Price muses. Soap, ever the sergent he is, groans and gets up, patting Simon heavily on the shoulder before walking up to the bar next to you.
“You got him weak in the knees, Bunny” Soap grins casually, ordering the pints. It takes you a few seconds to comprehend before you lean backwards slightly, catching Simon’s gaze. This time he averts his eyes immediately. He was fucking fuming inside, not knowing how to get these feelings to go away. The only solutions he could think of were violence or sex. And violence he’s had enough of- and he’s sure the training dummies had too. Every damn night these past days he’s been punching his knuckles bloody, hoping it would satiate his restlessness. It didn’t.
And as for sex… he didn’t- well he didn’t not want that but that’s not where he wanted to start. He always threw himself into hookups or fiery flings that burned out too quickly, leaving embers he didn’t care for. He didn’t want that with you. He wanted to be genuine, slow, proper. And he had no idea how. He didn’t like not being good at things.
Your eyes stay on him, forcing his head to turn back to you. Your expression is unreadable, his fingers curling beneath the table before he rapidly stands up. You almost jolt at the action, the floor creaking from his weight as he stalks over to you and Soap, grumbling something.
Soap leaves, Simon trying to casually lean his elbows on the bar. “Just gonna wait for the pints” he tells you, then his jaw ticks because why did he say that? You probably don’t give a fuck what he’s doing there.
You smile softly, intrigued. “How’s your shoulder?”
It startled him, his head whipping to yours like you said something totally out of sorts. His shoulder? Right— It takes him way too long to answer.
“Fine. You did a good job. As always,” he said gruffly, looking down at the chipped wood of the bar, drumming his fingers impatiently.
“You look good.” The words slip past his lips, eyes quickly giving you a once over.
“I know.” He looks at you, sees a small glint in your eyes and the smile you smother. He wants to groan out loud at the sight.
A dry, almost laugh escapes him, shaking his head softly. “F’course you do.”
There’s a long, awkward silence where you both look anywhere but at each other, spines straightening, then slumping, then you both look at the bartender to keep busy.
He places your drink in front of you, three pints clattering in front of Simon. Neither of you move to take them.
“So I’m gonna go” Simon rumbles and turns, the pints clutched in his hands. He was overheating, fumbling in ever possible way he could and he couldn’t take it. You opened your mouth but he was already halfway across the room.
The pints rattle as he sits down. “So?” Soap asks as he leans forward. Simon grumbled that this isn fucking high school. But it’s not Soap he’s mad at. It’s himself. He had you right there.
You can’t focus the rest of the evening, laughing hollowly and sipping your drink with disinterest. Did he not find you interesting? It was so hard to read him that you started to doubt if he was playing with you. Maybe this was just the way he… was.
You hadn’t noticed everyone going out for a smoke. You hadn’t noticed the way he looked at you through the window like some kind of fucking stalker, only the glow from his cigarette giving colour to his shadow.
You down the rest of your drink, pulling your coat around you. The night is crispy, air poking your cheeks like needles.
“Are you ever going to ask me out? Because if not then I’d like to know- I don’t really know if you don’t like me or if I scare you or if there’s something entirely different at play but you cannot just stare at me and expe-“ a cold, chapped pair of lips silence you. They’re gone as quickly as they came you Simon’s eyes are wide, dropping his cigarette to the ground.
“I’m sorry- do you wanna- can I ask you out? I didn’t mean to do that but you talk a lot” he said bluntly, stuttering his way through his own mortifying actions.
He kissed you. To shut up your mindless yapping he… you shake your head in disbelief.
“You are unbelievable” you say, but there’s absolutely no malice in your tone- only wonder.
“Is that a yes?” He asks, his throat feeling tight.
“Yes. It’s a good technique you have there- do you do that on everyone? Kiss them when they talk too much? I can just imagine how Soap would rea-“
He did it again, eyes closing and inhaling sharply as he covered your cold cheeks with his hands. Christ you were a talker but he didn’t mind so much, if he was allowed to quiet you like this from now on.
Sorry not an ask but I just wanted to say- I freaking love your writing. Not hating on other writers on this platform but a lot of them seem quite unrealistic to me (personally or like, realistically wise) but I feel like yours balance nicely between ‘yeah a bit out there’ but also ‘yeah, this is plausible’ if ya get me? Keep up the good work - 💗
Fuckkkk thank you so so much!
Very important point in not hating on different writing styles; that’s what’s so great about this platform- there’s something for everyone
And I’m so so glad that you like what I do. Keeps me going. 🫶🏼
Gonna do a little Ghosty thing again that I thought off while falling asleep yesterday lol- gonna keep this lovely comment in mind 🤭
the way you write just tickles that lil corner of my brain. it’s not like some other stores that make me cringe a little, or the ones that are literally just straight porn that hurts my little asexual heart. it’s just right, warms me up. keep up the good work!!! ❤️❤️
This literally made my day🥺
I’m so happy that sharing my thoughts can reach other people like this; how fucking cool is that!!
more on the dynamic after Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley saw you cry for the first time…
Things were in fact different from now on. Not in an obvious way but you both noticed it. You had been embarrassed the next day, scared he saw you as weak for crying in his arms like that.
And now his eyes softened a little more every time he looked at you. He remembered how precious and frail you had felt in his hold. He longed for it in a way that made him practice his punching until late in the night, grunting and groaning as the dummy got the best of his strength. His knuckles were bruised, a manifestation of the foreign feelings he tried to let out in the only way he knew- violence.
You were up, snuggly sitting with a mug of tea when Simon comes in, doors swinging open. It was late. Late enough for the owls to hoot and the moon to be at its highest.
He was panting, sweat glistening on the strained muscles of his arms. He stopped dead in his tracks as he spotted you in the corner of the recreational area. You blinked at him, studying his demeanour with intrigue.
It made him shy. He got fucking shy from the way you stared so shamelessly and intensely. He hadn’t noticed it before. The way your eyes lingered on his arms. Maybe it was new thing, or maybe he hadn’t taken the time you really look before now.
“You’re up late.” You whispered, voice small in the silence. His chest heaved as he stretched his fingers, rolled his neck.
“So are you.” He countered. There was a question in both of your statements but none of you decided to answer. Maybe you were awake for the same reasons, he thought. The mere thought was enough for his legs to move towards you, the couch dipping and creaking as it took his weight. You lodt your balance where you sat with your knees tucked to your chest as the seat tilted under you, making you thud into his side, shoulder to shoulder. He snickered under his breath, grabbing you like you were a porcelain doll to help you sit upright. Your mouth dried.
“Do you think I’m weak?” You asked him then, the words bubbling your throat before you could stop them. They had simmered for a whole week now, just under your skin. He frowned, brows set deep on his face as he looked you over.
“Quite the opposite” came his gruff reply like it was obvious. It took him a second to realise what you were referring to. Seeing you cry had made him think so much more of you than before. He saw the insecurity flash in your eyes before you looked away and he tucked a finger under your chin, slowly pulling your gaze back to his.
“Haven’t stopped thinking about it, in fact” he said, confessed it like secret into the night. He tried to keep his voice steady. At least steadier than his heart. Was he sick? Was it weird for him to be so obsessed with that one moment of you… crying?
You exhaled sharply, like his words had squeezed your lungs. Gaze narrowed, head tilted, you tried to figure him out. There was nothing but honesty and a little wariness in his eyes. Had he said too much?
“Me neither.” You replied slowly. It was enough. Enough to know. A cold blow of relief washed over him, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He only now realised he still had a finger under your chin, thumb stroking along your jaw absentmindedly. He withdrew his hand, regretfully.
If he was sick, then so were you.
“You’re hurt” you whispered, staring down at his knuckles. They were bleeding. Your eyes snapped to his, slightly wider than before as his jaw ticked, gaze otherwise unreadable. Was it because of you? The thought made your stomach twist in.. several ways.
“It’s fine.” He insisted, brushing it off and hiding his hands in his pockets. But you were already up, disappearing somewhere. He sighed, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. This wasn’t calming down his breathing one bit.
Warm fingers gently pulled on his wrist, and you felt how heavy his hand was as you pulled it into you lap, sitting cross legged next to him. He had to focus hard to remain indifferent when his hand rested high on you’re plush thigh. His fingers flexed slightly around it, gripping it with a bit more purpose than necessary. It made you struggle to open the sanitising wipes.
He hissed as you cleaned the wounds, but the care you put into it had his heart stuttering. You looked down at his knuckles, immersed in being meticulous as you wiped the valleys of his knuckles clean. He wasn’t looking down, though. He was looking at you.
“Take this as a thank you” you said just to break the silence before you slowly lifted one hand, almost like you were holding. Fuck it made it easy for him to imagine that you actually were.
“You don’t need to thank me. I’d do it again.” I want to do it again, he should’ve said. He wanted to hold you, and be the one you curled into when you needed it. Needed him.
Carefully you wrapped his knuckles. Your hand lingered around his afterwards. It looked like you were considering something. Slowly you led his hand higher until you lowered your chin and left a barely there kiss on the white bandage. He swore he died. Such a simple gesture and he felt like a madman.
You wrapped the other one. Did the same. He felt paralysed. It seemed you had understood him quite well.
“You can.” You said then, after placing both his hands down onto his own lap, now bandaged and cleaned.
“Can what?” He asked, voice hoarse and weaker than he would’ve liked as he curled his fingers. He swore it was tingling where your lips had touched.
“Hold me. Skin to skin contact can be calming. Mutually beneficial…” you said to try and reason the action, which there was no point in because the minute you had started your sentence he had wrapped his arm around you and tucked you closely into his side, using his other hand to swing your legs over his lap. Your mumbling became nothing as you nuzzled into him. He was scorching hot and you nuzzled into it, shivering.
He had never felt this good in his life. You seemed to fit perfectly into his side, your legs anchoring him down and your head resting over his rapidly beating heart- which was vulnerable as hell to him. But he allowed it when he heard you hum in satisfaction and saw your lashes flutter, eyes closing.
