Summary: The entire school knew how close you and Ryland Grace had become since you'd joined Grover Cleveland Middle's staff a year prior. That knowledge only fueled the rumor mill, that one that ran between the staff and students alike, on just how close the two of you were. It didn't help that you were definitely head over heels for the slightly awkward and endearing science teacher.
Warnings: pre-Project Hail Mary and should not include spoilers but caution anyways just in case, pre-movie storyline, tooth-rotting fluff, idiots in love, workplace romance, friends to lovers, slightly suggestive-ish comments but no smut, female reader but no characteristics described, definitely some incorrect science information but I am not a scientist so apologies, I am also not a teacher so I am sorry for any inaccuracies there lol, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes
“Can anyone tell me why it was that Penelope asked her suitors to string Odysseus’s bow?”
The silence that followed was deafening. Your eyes shut for half a second, a tiny sigh escaping through your lips. Reopening your eyes, not a single one of your students had dared to raise their hands. No one except for Olivia, your star student, who waved her hand repeatedly in the air from the back of the classroom. A single glance to the clock told you all you needed to know.
11:55. These kids were already in lunch mode, and there was zero way you were getting them to listen to you.
With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you gave Olivia the okay to answer the question. She happily took your permission and ran with it, always the first to answer any questions you posed in class. If only the rest of these damn middle schoolers were as eager as she was.
“Penelope didn’t want to marry anyone else, so she gave them an impossible task,”
“Why does she always know everything?”
Marcus thought his comment was whispered just low enough that you wouldn’t hear him in the first row, but he was never quite that lucky. He quickly shut his mouth and looked anywhere but in your direction the second he caught sight of the disapproving look you were casting directly at him.
“You are exactly right, Olivia. Thank you for answering my question,” there were a few chuckles in the room at the obvious sarcasm laced through your words, as you hopped up onto your desk to relax and get a better look around the room full of kids. “Penelope knew the only person that could string her husband’s bow, was her husband himself. She needed to buy time, especially when these suitors only really wanted to be the ones to inherit Ithaca-”
There was a loud knocking on the door to your classroom that had been left open for the last 20 minutes of class, interrupting your words. You weren’t surprised in the slightest to meet the eyes of none other than Ryland Grace, the science teacher.
“Uh- sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt important book talk stuff. Super important, you uh-you never know when Shakespeare will come up at your future desk job,” the cringe that Ryland physically did at his own comment was easy to see, even from across the room. He gave you a sheepish smile, his glasses barely hanging onto his face from their unconventional spot hanging off of one of his ears. The blonde held up the brown bag in his hand, and you could practically smell the food that rested inside. “I’m early, I’m sorry. Didn’t think you’d want to have a cold burger for lunch.”
“I told you!” Marcus still didn’t understand the concept of a whisper, leaning over to his best friend Jason at the desk beside him, slapping him on the arm. “They’re totally dating!”
“As if Mr. Grace could pull her,”
There was a chorus of snickers and laughter through the class, any semblance of order you might’ve had descending into chaos as every single one of your loveable, little shits just kept casting looks between you and Ryland, who still stood awkwardly in your classroom doorway with reddened cheeks.
Your face was surely no better, you were sure you could feel the heat that was emanating off of your skin, as you ran a hand down the burning skin of your face and wondered why you chose to teach these little menaces for the rest of your life. The world decided to be kind to the pair of you though, for once, letting the lunch bell save you from any further embarrassment from a group of 13 year olds.
“Please come to class prepared to actually answer questions tomorrow!” you called out over the hustle and bustle of the class as they grabbed their things, eager to scurry off to their lunch hour and finally eat. “Your unit test is at the end of next week, and I would prefer not to fail all of you.”
They weren’t listening, but by this point in the day you were hungry and didn’t have the energy to try and argue with them.
Any of that tiredness they brought to your bones? It disappeared the second you watched the way they all interacted with Ryland on their way out the door.
Big smiles, every single one of them excited to see the school’s favorite science teacher lingering in the doorway to their English class. You could just barely hear the tail end of one of Ryland’s terrible science puns, something about a hungry planet needing a ‘light snack’ that got a groan out of Marcus. All it did was bring a soft smile to your face, though, one that somehow softened even more at the quick, secret handshake Olivia shared with him before she was out the door.
Then, it was just the two of you, smiling like idiots as you locked eyes across the room again. And god, did you want that fluttering group of butterflies in your stomach to calm down for just a moment.
Having a crush on Dr. Ryland Grace, the former molecular biologist turned San Francisco middle school science teacher, was inevitable from the moment you turned up at the school for your first day over a year ago. Incredibly smart, amazing with kids, and so incredibly handsome you thought your heart stopped beating the first time you saw him–hell, Mrs. Doyle, the math teacher for over 5 years, said there were at least 4 other young teachers that absolutely had crushes on this man. You were far from the first.
He broke that perfect vision of himself you were building in your head within 5 minutes of meeting, tripping over his own two feet and knocking the stack of papers a mile high from the Principal’s hands, but you had only found it even more endearing.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he apologized again, long legs striding across the room and reaching your desk in a matter of seconds. “I had a free period before this, a-and you mentioned this morning you forgot lunch so I grabbed some for both of us-”
“Sal’s?” you questioned, pointing to the bag of foot now sitting on your desk with the familiar logo. “They’re, like, 10 blocks away. Why’d you go that far?”
“Because I know they’re your favorite,”
The flare of heat in your cheeks was instant. Ryland Grace, who rode a damn bike to the school every day, used his free period to ride 10 blocks away and pick you up lunch from your favorite spot, all because you mentioned offhandedly at 7 a.m. about forgetting your lunch for the day.
Well, he certainly didn’t do that for the four fresh out of college teachers that had crushes on him. You’d mentally consider that a hefty win in your book.
“How sweet of you to remember,” Ryland simply waved you off, head turned away as he passed your wrapped burger into your hands, taking up space on your desk chair while you stayed comfortable on top of your desk. “You even remembered tomatoes this time!”
“I forgot them one time and I never hear the end of it,” laughter was shared between you both for a moment as Grace took a bite of his own burger. “I caught the tail end of that discussion. Olivia answering all your questions like a champ?”
“Isn’t she always,” you shot back with another laugh, turning slightly on your desk to better face him. “I swear she’s the only one that I can ever get to answer any of my questions. She might be the only one that does any of my assigned readings.”
“To be fair, can you blame her?” Ryland’s words were muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. You couldn’t even contain the slight smile that grew as he managed to just barely catch the ketchup dripping off his burger before it could smear itself on the stack of papers that needed graded at your desk. “Shakespeare was just…so interesting. Couldn’t get enough of his stuff. Don’t know why your kids don’t want to read it.”
There was silence for a moment, your eyebrow quirked in his direction. The blonde stopped mid bite of his burger, looking back at you quizzically, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.
“You know we’re currently learning The Odyssey, right?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll let you think about that for a second,”
He did, just slowly blinking in your direction. He glanced at the chalkboard behind you, covering in little notes you’d made throughout the class discussion, before they flickered to the copy of the book that sat on your desk. That was finally when you saw the light bulb flicker on above his head, Ryland’s eyes shutting as he let out a loud sigh.
“...that wasn’t written by Shakespeare, was it?”
The laughter that bubbled out of you practically had you throwing your head backward.
“No, but I’m sure Homer won’t be too offended,” feet landing on the ground as you hopped off your desk, you gave Ryland’s shoulder a quick squeeze as you moved past him. “The attempt was cute, though, it was a good try.”
Cute. Why in the world did you let that one slip? You were practically cursing yourself in your head for that one, taking another bite of your burger as you worked to erase the whiteboard to prepare it for your next class. You didn’t dare steal a glance over at Ryland, in fear that your little slip-up was going to ruin everything.
There was only quiet for a moment before the single moment of awkwardness was gone.
“I promise you I know Homer wrote that. I swear!”
The desperation to believe him drew another laugh out of you. Sparing a glance in his direction, Ryland was giving you his best, exaggerated puppy dog eyes, begging you to believe him, as a smile just barely squeaked its way onto his lips.
“Right, of course you did. My mistake. Whatever you say, Ryland-”
“I mean it!” It was his turn to laugh this time, a sound that had those butterflies rattling around once more. “I was just…distracted.”
“Uh-huh, distracted,” as if you were preparing to scold one of your students, you turned to face him fully with a hand on your hip, eyebrow raised expectantly. “By what, exactly?”
If a human being could buffer, Ryland Grace always seemed to be constantly buffering. Your eyebrow remained raised, waiting for him to piece together his response. All he could do was open and close his mouth like a fish, before looking away and taking another bite of his food.
“Nevermind that, just finish your food before it gets cold. I did bike, like, three miles to get that thing,”
With a roll of your eyes that held zero malice what-so-ever, you made sure the blonde could see your next bite of your food, a satisfied smile on his face.
“Back to the previous topic,” you steered the conversation in another direction, wiping off the last bits of chalk on the board and writing down your next period at the top so that you could start the discussion on the reading over again. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to get some of these kids to just read the content. They all pay attention in your class!”
“I heard Jason make a comment yesterday during class that Marcus has a crush on Olivia. Maybe they’re too distracted to read,”
You shot him a skeptical look.
“Marcus, crushing on Olivia? He was just making fun of her before you came in the room,”
Ryland averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his ID badge hanging around his neck from his school issues lanyard.
“W-well, maybe he just doesn’t…know how to express his feelings,” he spared a glance up at you, seeing you were still watching, as he tripped over his words again. “It can be hard for boys–and men–of all ages, to…tell someone how they feel.”
“Well, I don’t know where he’s learning from, but making fun of the girl you like isn’t the right way to go about things,” you shot back.
“Then teach them!” Ryland sounded absolutely ecstatic, that light bulb over his head going off again as he looked like he’d come up with the world’s greatest idea. “Classic literature, there’s plenty of great love stories in there. Get his interest by teaching them about that, so he can learn from them.”
“Alright, give me an example then, Mr. Suddenly an Expert in Classic Literature,”
“Romeo and Juliet,” he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, balling up the remnants of his finished food and tossing it in the bag it came in. “Greatest love story ever told, so great Taylor Swift wrote a song about them.”
“Except they don’t run off and get married and live happily ever after, Ryland. Romeo thinks she is dead and kills himself with poison, and when Juliet realizes he’s dead she stabs herself,”
Ryland’s excitement fell slightly, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ shape.
“...oh,”
“Don’t think that’s what I want to teach young, impressionable pre-teens about love-”
“Daisy and Gatsby, then! He loved her so much he stood on that dock staring at the-the bright yellow light of a stoplight for her,”
“It was a green light and it was the dock light, first of all. I’m not even sure how you could be that off. Secondly, Gatsby is murdered at the end of the book and Daisy doesn’t even attend the funeral, she and Tom move away and pretend it never happened,”
Ryland’s eyes are shut at this point, his fingers massaging his temples and those glasses just barely hanging on from their place around his neck.
“...does anyone not die in these old books?”
The sound of your laughter permeates the room and you sweep over, collecting his trash and combining it with yours. You never even spared him a glance, though you could feel his eyes on you, as you swept the trash away with you to the other side of the room, his voice echoing across to you.
“I’m going to get lucky on one of these guesses!”
What Ryland Grace was really lucky about was how adorable you found him, and how head over heels you were for him, because his lack of literary knowledge was astounding.
❤︎
“I’m sorry, you’re trying to tell me that aren’t currently fucking the eye candy that is the science teacher in room 305?”
“Evelyn!”
Evelyn Doyle was in her late thirties, married since she was 18, and already had three kids with her high school sweetheart. Since you had transferred into Grover Cleveland Middle, you’d become fast friends and she had become a great mentor.
She had, sadly, caught onto your pathetic crush on Ryland Grace before you had even fully realized it, and was now ‘vicariously living through you’ as she always said.
“There’s not a single child left in this entire school right now,” she shot back, gesturing around her empty classroom, as she finished cleaning up anything her students had left around at the end of the day. You rolled your eyes at her excuse, perched on the edge of her desk. “Please, I’m tenured, what are they going to do?”
“I’m more so yelling at you for butting into my love life, once again,” was your reply through laughter. “Ryland and I are good friends, that’s it.”
It was her turn to laugh, finishing up her cleanup around the room before she joined you at her desk, packing her things away into her shoulder bag.
“Oh please, you keep denying that little crush of yours-”
“I never said I was denying that,” you cut her off. “Lord, you realized I liked him before I even did. But he and I aren’t anything besides friends. I’m not lying.”
Your pleas fell on deaf ears, like they typically did when you were around Evelyn. She simply waved your statement off, tossing her bag over her shoulder as you followed her out of her room and down through the quiet of the school hallway. The quietest the hallway ever was, in the hours right after students were sent home for the day. You’d rather be anywhere else, preferably at home, but these mandatory once-a-month staff meetings were unavoidable.
“Whether you’re telling me the truth or not, you have to understand why everyone thinks so–teachers AND students. I think even some parents think so!” The only response she got was an eyeroll, her shoulder bumping into your’s playfully. “He brings you lunch at least once a week, meaning he rides that dingy bike to get whatever you’re craving that day.”
“It’s usually just something random-”
“Constantly in your classroom, or vice versa,” she cut you off, and you quickly realized you weren’t getting a single word into this conversation. “I’m pretty sure Principal Marshall has considered, somehow, moving your classroom closer to his just so he’ll stop being late to classes because he’s busy talking to you.”
Okay…yeah, you didn’t have a retort for that one. Your classroom was on the opposite end of the school building from Ryland’s own, and yet every time he had even a split second he was somehow always leaning in your doorway. Even if it only resulted in a conversation that lasted all of a minute.
Many times those ended with your students having to remind him that the bell rang and he definitely had students in his own class unattended, waiting on their teacher. More than once he’d slipped as he tried to sprint back to his classroom from yours. It didn’t matter how short those little conversations were, though, because every second around him was precious to you.
“Awe, look at you blushing about it-”
You slapped Evelyn’s hand away, throwing her a look of disdain that didn’t really hold any true malice to it.
“Look, all I’m saying is the ball is in his court,” was the response you finally settled on as Evelyn propped the door of the small auditorium open for you to enter. “Ryland is nothing but friendly to me, so if he’s interested then he’s got to show me.”
“You’re acting as if you’ve made your own feelings clear, honey,”
“No, but I clearly don’t do a good enough job of hiding them,”
Speak of the devil: there he was. Ryland’s head shot up the moment the pair of you walked into the auditorium. Those damn glasses hanging down from one side of his face, framing his stubbled jawline perfectly. A smile lighting up his face the second those blue eyes found yours, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.
A packed auditorium, as you and Evelyn were the last ones there. Every seat up practically filled, and yet Ryland Grace sat among a crowd of people, eyes trained on you and a single seat saved for you amidst it all.
All you could feel was the heat in your cheeks, and the touch of Evelyn patting your back as she laughed, voice low but loud enough to hear as she shifted past you to find a seat of her own.
“Doesn’t have interest in you my ass,”
Her words swam through your head with every apology you muttered to the other teachers as you snuck past them in the cramped rows, happily taking the empty seat beside Ryland.
“You didn’t have to save me a seat, you know,” your voice held a hint of teasing to it, but it was soft. Filled with an adoration that you knew you were terrible at hiding. Luckily, Ryland was terrible at picking up on it.
“Wanted to sit next to you,” he whispered back as Principal Marshall began to drone on about updates neither of you particularly cared about. He leaned in close, a hint of his breath wafting over the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You make these slightly less boring.”
Close proximity to this man was your worst nightmare, and the cramped auditorium wasn’t helping. That single touch of his breath against your skin was enough to send a simultaneous shiver down your spine and another round of heat to your cheeks. His suit jacket covered arm rested on the shared armrest between your seats, the edge of his bicep ghosting against the bare skin of your arm with every little shift he made, tapping incessantly against the armrest.
The slight action made you smile. He never could sit still in these meetings, always hated them.
“Did anything fun happen in class today?” you kept your voice low, eyes trained on the principal, as your head tilted slightly over to Ryland so he could better hear you.
“Uh, if you count Madison telling me that she thinks the sun orbits the earth, then sure,” you had to stifle your laugh at that, casting Ryland a side glance as he grinned at you, doing a terrible job of whispering back at you as usual.
“How could she possibly think that?”
“You’d be surprised,” Ryland leaned just a tad bit closer, the side of his arm pushed up fully against your own. You could almost hear the smile in his voice without even having to look over at him. “The National Science Foundation estimates that 26% of Americans still think the sun orbits the earth.”
“Jesus, that many?”
“Well, 100% of them are stupid, so,”
Nasty looks from other faculty were shot your way that second you choked on your own breath, slapping a hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop yourself from breaking out into uncontrollable laughter. You gave them the most sympathetic look you possibly could, learning how to breathe normally again before mouthing sorry at them all.
Ryland didn’t care in the slightest for the warning look you shot him, a bright smile on his face as his eyes seemed to trail over every inch of your face.
“If you keep doing this in every faculty meeting, they’re going to separate us, Ry,”
“I met Madison’s parents for the first time last month for parent-teacher conferences,” he continued, ignoring your plea. Instead, he leaned in even closer, eyes locked on yours, and god it was impossible to look away. “They are, 100%, undeniably, part of the Flat Earth Truthers Club.”
You shook your head, a smile creeping back up on your lips. Ryland’s gaze could still be felt on the side of your face as you turned back to face the front, eyes focused back on the principal again in an attempt to pay attention to the meeting.
“Flat earthers are ridiculous. They’re just scared of science,”
“Well, you know what they say…the only thing they have to fear is sphere itself,”
There simply wasn’t enough time to clap your hand over your mouth and conceal your laughter, a split second of it breaking through the quiet of the auditorium. And Ryland? His smile was somehow even brighter than it was before, still locked onto your face, never having strayed once.
“Dr. Grace, is there something you feel needs to be shared with the rest of your fellow faculty?”
Principal Marshall’s voice was enough to knock Ryland out of whatever trance he seemed to have put himself in. Eyes wide as if he’d just seen a ghost, hands barely able to catch his glasses as they almost fell right off of his ear where they dangled, a burst of red spread through his cheeks instantly as his deer-like eyes locked onto the unamused principal.
“I-I uh, no. No, nothing, Principal Marshall,” he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling up his already messy hair, a nervous tick you’d picked up since the moment you’d met him. You simply buried your head in your head, eyes trained on your shoes and Ryland out of the corner of your gaze, terrified to look up at your fellow faculty that you’d already apologized to once. “Just getting super jazzed about faculty updates. Hard to keep it in here. I’m like a mushroom, getting all…hyphae…”
A collective groan sounded through the auditorium at the terrible biology pun that rolled off of him with ease. All you could do was smile into the palm of your hand.
“Please just…pay attention to the meeting, Dr. Grace, before I separate you and your other half,”
Other half. That’s not how she meant it, but it was impossible not to let your mind wander to the idea.
Early mornings. Coffee, the smell of eggs and toast burning in the kitchen. Ryland and his hair that was surely even more unkempt that early in the day. The guarantee that he definitely had about 120 science puns ready to go at any moment.
Late nights. Curled up on a couch. A movie, a shared blanket, warm in the embrace of his arms. The quiet of just being with someone that made you happy in ways you’d never felt before. The promise of another day with them on the horizon.
It was becoming increasingly harder not to think about Ryland Grace like that every day, of what a life with the awkward, endearing science teacher could be.
And as Principal Marshall continued her meeting, and your eyes met the blue ones that were already looking at you: soft, kind, a hint of something you couldn’t understand in them, you could only dream he thought the same thoughts when he looked at you.
❤︎
“Alright, who can tell me the day of the first human space flight?”
Not a single middle schooler, packed into the building’s planetarium, raised their hands at first. Many of them started whispering to each other, confused looks on their faces, but Ryland just waited with a smile on his face. A brave soldier from Mr. Harkin’s class, Damien, finally raised his hand.
“Uh, Mr. Grace? Wouldn’t that…be today?”
“Excatly!” Grace’s clap echoed through the room as he pointed toward the young kid sitting in the front row of seats. “International Day of Human Space Flight, commemorating the first human space flight by Yuri Gagarin. It was a trick question, and you passed my tiny friend.”
Were you excited about losing a chunk of your day to escorting your class to the planetarium, along with other classes in the building, for a special science presentation? Absolutely not, especially not with how terribly your class did on their last The Odyssey assignment.
When you found out that Ryland was giving the presentation during your allotted time? Suddenly, The Odyssey meant nothing to you. Not when you could watch Ryland teach, something he did so effortlessly.
The way he captured every single child’s attention with ease. That glowing smile on his face every time they answered a question right, and simply the way he seemed to love what he taught. You were captivated every time you got the chance to see him teaching the thing he loved so much.
“Yuri Gagarin was a Soviet cosmonaut who became the first person in space in 1961 aboard the Vostok 1,” the planetarium was lit up with the night sky, little stars reflecting down. You could almost see them in the students eyes, in their bright smiles as they looked up into the vastness of space. Your eyes trailed to Ryland, already looking at you with a soft smile of his own, before he cleared his throat and moved throughout the room, focusing back on the kids. “Over the course of 89 minutes, his ship traveled to a maximum altitude of 187 miles, as it orbited the Earth.”
“Wait, so we weren’t the first people in space?” one of your students, Lydia, called out. Ryland laughed, pointing over at her.
“No, we kind of sucked,” you rolled your eyes with a grin at Ryland’s statement, though it drew a laugh from all of the kids. “No, America had actually scheduled its first space flight for May 1961, so this was a huge blow to us. It really heated up the space race.”
“He really is good with them, isn’t he?”
Glancing over, Mr. Harkin had saddled up beside you on the edge of the room, head tilted toward you and voice low so as to not disrupt the lesson the kids were being taught. Your gaze drifted back to Ryland as he continued his lesson, eliciting more laughter from the kids. It only brought another soft smile to rest on your lips.
“He is, in a way that I just don’t understand,”
Those blue eyes you’d become so fond of met yours for a moment across the room, face illuminated by the light projecting onto the planetarium’s dome walls. The little grin he wore seemed to drop just slightly, gaze still locked on you but flickering every moment over to Mr. Harkin as he spoke to the students. Harkin’s elbow dug lightly into your side.
“Careful, you’re giving him major ‘heart eyes’ across the room right now,”
You did your best to conceal your laughter, shooting Harkin a look, Ryland’s gaze still felt on the side of your face even as you looked away.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to find out that every teacher in this school has a secret betting ring going on when it comes to Ryland and I?”
“I mean, it’s not a secret. Principal Marshall runs the damn thing,”
“Mr. Grace?” one of the youngest girls in the grade, Aurora, called out, raising her hand up to get Ryland’s attention. “My mom told me the other day that there’s 8 planets in our solar system. What happened to Pluto?”
Ryland went to answer when Mr. Harkin beside you laughed, capturing the attention of everyone in the room, as he shook his head at his young student.
“No, honey, scientists a couple years ago decided that Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore,”
Your eyes flickered to Ryland, who was already staring at Harkin from across the room as he tossed his little crochet earth back and forth in his hand. His response was a bit of a forced laugh.
“Well, your teacher isn’t wrong. Scientists classified Pluto as a dwarf planet a couple years ago,” he explained to the kids, eyes trained on the little crochet sphere in his hands. “But there’s 8 other very important, even closer planets that we should focus on. I mean, who really cares about a tiny, slow planet that takes 248 years to orbit the sun–honestly, he should just accept that he’s slowly falling into obscurity and stop trying to steal the spotlight.”
The room got quiet. Your eyebrow raised slightly, head tilted, as everyone just seemed to stare at Ryland, who had yet to look up.
“Uh, Mr. Grace?” some student in the back called out. “Why did you call Pluto ‘he’? Are the planets boys and girls like us, too?”
Ryland’s head shot up, as if he suddenly remembered he was in a room full of students. His eyes shot to you, his mouth opening, then closing, before he quickly looked away.
“I–well…planets don’t really…I’m not trying to misgender the planets, you know? That’s not for me to decide, that’s for them to–you know what, does anyone else have any other questions that aren’t related to Pluto?”
You really didn’t want to laugh at Ryland, but only he would be able to accidentally turn a lesson about space and planets into almost a lesson on bodily autonomy. He caught your eye, his widening just slightly and you could almost see his cry for help written across his face, but it only made your laughter worse.
It was little Madison that raised her hand next, speaking before she’d even been called upon.
“Are you sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe?”
Ryland hung his head in shame, the shaking of his head evident from across the room as a few of the kids around laughed at the young girl’s comment. You were quick to shoot them a warning look, not keen to hand out any detentions today.
By the time your gaze turned back to Ryland, he was already looking at you. His gaze flickered to Harkin, then back to you, and it was like a light bulb had just flickered on the way his eyes lit up.
“Yes, Madison, I’m sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe. And I can show you,” his long legs crossed the room in seconds, his body sliding between you and Mr. Harkin as his hands landed on your shoulders with a tiny little squeeze that sent your heart leaping through your chest. “But to do that, I’m going to need this volunteer that I’m not quite giving a choice.”
“It’s not volunteering if you didn’t ask, Ry!”
You exasperatedly tried to whisper to Ryland as he steered you across the room to stand before all the kids. He only shook his head as a bunch of your own students started cheering for you around the room, only worsening the red that coated your cheeks the second his hands had landed on your body.
“I need you for this,” he shot back hastily, positioning you in the middle of the room, standing in front of you. His body blocked the students from your vision, blue eyes boring down into yours, hands gently squeezing at your upper arms as you begged the blush in your skin to not be too obvious. “You trust me?”
A ridiculous question, because the only answer was yes. You gave him a nod, and Ryland’s smile only widened as he turned back to the kids in the room.
“Alright, kids. Your gorgeous teacher here is the Sun,”
Little oohs and awes sounded from the kids around the room at Ryland’s little slip in of the word ‘gorgeous.’ There was a sting in your bottom lip as you bit into it with your teeth, trying to contain your own smile. Marcus spoke up from across the room without raising his hand, as usual.
“Then what’s Mr. Harkin?”
“Oh, he’s Pluto,” Ryland shot back immediately, nodding his head. “Suits him.”
Laughter rang through the room, the young boys as rambunctious as ever. Ryland met your astonished look with a tiny wink of his own, one that forced a small laugh to tumble from your lips. Then, he began to slowly spin, walking around you in a circle.
“And I am the Earth,” he called out to the kids, and you could only hope he didn’t trip over his own two shoelaces. “The Sun holds 99.8% of the mass in our solar system, which means it’s packing some massive gravity.”
Ryland stopped spinning himself, still moving around you in a circle. He held his hand out toward you, and you slipped yours into it without hesitation, spinning in that circle slowly with him.
“Because the Sun holds such intense gravity, it’s actually pulling Earth into it. But, Earth has such high forward velocity that it actually keeps us moving sideways. Put these two together, and it keeps Earth moving in an almost perfect circle around the sun. Can anyone tell me another fun fact about our movement around the sun?”
The words went in one of your ears and straight out the other. There was no paying attention, not when Ryland’s hand held your own. Soft skin, just slightly rough around the edges, and those blue eyes were so soft, locked onto you as if there was nowhere else he wanted to look.
“Our speed changes!” Olivia called out from somewhere in the back, but you didn’t even try to look and find her. “When we’re closer to the sun in our orbit we move faster, and the further away we are, the slower we move.”
“Very good, Olivia!” Ryland called out, sparing just a quick glance over to the kids in the room as his hand held yours tighter, still spinning slowly together. “Madison, we also know this works because there’s other sun-like stars out there that are also orbited by planets. Like Tau Ceti, which has four Earth-like planets orbiting it.”
“Is the sun important for other things, besides just being the center?”
Ryland’s eyes flickered to you, and you watched as he paused. The slight hesitation on his face, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple for a moment, before those blue eyes locked onto yours and refused to look away.
“I-It is…for a lot of reasons. The Sun is the Earth’s entire reason for existing. The Sun gives the Earth life. The Sun is the reason the world is beautiful,”
Your breath hitched, eyes still trained on Ryland. There was something in his words, something in that earnest, raw look that he had written across his features as he looked at you that added a weight to his words. A weight that sent a tiny chill across your skin, raising the hair on your arms.
“Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing,”
There was quiet across the room. Then, a couple snickers, followed by Olivia’s smug little voice.
“The Sun sounds beautiful the way you talk about it,”
“She is,” his voice was lower, softer than it was before. Until, he seemed to realize what he said, the red on both of your faces spreading further than before as his eyes shot wide. “THE SUN I mean! I-I’m talking about the sun, obviously, b-because this is a science presentation!”
Laughter rang through the room, little chants of your names mashed together coming from some of the kids as the bell rang and saved either of you from further embarrassment.
Ryland, being Ryland, chose that moment to finally trip over his own two feet. You pulled on his hand as hard as you could, saving him from plummeting to the ground as he instead just landed on his one knee.
“Make good choices,” Ryland commented lowly as some of the kids walked past the two of you, still snickering and giggling to themselves. You let go of his hands finally, simply resting it on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Don’t uh, I don’t know, blow up the world during lunch or anything. Or pop those chip bags and give kids heart attacks, whatever you kids do these days.”
You laughed, stepping around Ryland as your kids lined up outside of the room, waiting for you. He shot you a sheepish smile from the floor, and your skin still burned with heat at the memory of his words as you looked at him.
“Every time I think you’re doing well with those kids, they manage to knock you down a peg,”
“Yeah, well, what’s new?”
When you met your class outside, you didn’t let them get a word in before you warned them not to say anything. You could still hear little comments talking about ‘shipping’ their English and Science teachers the entire way back to your classroom.
❤︎
Ryland Grace didn’t understand how he had ended up here.
Well, he did. Calling the leading scholar in his field a “staggering waste of carbon” at a UNESCO conference in Denmark was an easy way to get blacklisted from the field he’d studied in for many years in college. It was an easy explanation for how he ended up teaching middle school science at Grover Cleveland Middle in San Francisco.
Not that he had a problem with teaching! He actually loved it. Loved his kids, loved talking about science. He loved teaching the future little scientists of the world about why every facet of science was awesome. The pay wasn’t great, though.
Especially when it was the reason he rode a bike to school daily.
And there was currently the equivalent of a monsoon raining down from the sky onto the pavement, the reason he’d been standing at the front doors for the last 20 minutes hoping that the rain would simply let up. The heavens didn’t take pity on him, though, and it only rained harder and harder. His rain coat and bike were not meant to withstand heavy rain and damaging winds to this extent.
Best cast scenario? It takes him a little longer to get home on his usual 20 minute bike ride than normal. Worst case? He crashes and dies, dead in a ditch covered in mud.
“Ryland, please tell me you aren’t thinking of riding your bike home in this?”
Then there was you. You were probably the single greatest reason why he loved teaching at Grover Cleveland Middle. If he ever had the unfortunate chance to meet that scientist from the conference again, he’d thank him this time for being a staggering waste of carbon, because it led him down a path to you.
“I can’t be that bad,” he tried to joke, waving you off as a crack of thunder seemed to shake the entire building, and his fake confidence faltered for a second. He glanced back at you, coat wrapped around your bag instead of yourself in order to keep its contents dry. “Just, you know…the slight threat of bodily harm.”
He really wished the path that led to you was less bumpy and full of himself looking like an idiot, but at this rate he’d take what he could get from the universe.
“Yeah, absolutely not,” was your immediate reply, head shaking as she fished your car keys out of the bag still covered with your coat. “I’m giving you a ride home, can’t risk the best science teacher’s life over a dumb storm.”
Ryland immediately shook his head, turning to face you beside him. He was not letting you risk your own life in the storm for him. If it really came down to it, he’d sleep at his desk. There was a change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to do it.
“I can’t let you-”
“This isn’t up for discussion,” Ryland snapped his mouth shut as you cut in once again, dangling your car keys up in front of him with a little shake. “I…care about you, okay? I want to know you are home safe.”
There was no stopping the immediate heat that filled Ryland’s cheeks, and he knew it. There was red blooming across your own, but Ryland shook all wishful thinking from his mind. The AC unit in this school was unreliable, you were definitely just flushed from the heat. No other reason.
Ryland decided he wasn’t going to put up a fight at this point, but he wasn’t going to let you do this without anything in return. He shrugged the yellow raincoat hanging over his own shoulders off as he kicked the glass door in front of him open, the muffle sounds of the torrential downpour now louder as droplets of water splashed into the front door. He held the jacket out, hanging it above your head to protect you from the rain.
“At least let me save you from getting drenched,”
“You’re going to look like a dog that just had a bath by the time we reach my car,” Ryland only smiled at your joke, and the little giggle that fell through your lips. The close proximity didn’t help as he held the jacket up around you.
“Actually, it’s not windy today,” he shot back with a grin, nodding out the propped open door into the rain. “That means if we run, I’ll be drier than if we walked, because the rain that’s hitting us from above is proportional to time. Though, the rain hitting us from the front is proportional to distance, and when running-”
“Ryland Grace, you are adorable when you get all science-nerd, but if we’re going to run…we should run,”
Ryland was thankful that you couldn’t see the renewed heat flooding his cheeks, as you were both too busy sprinting through the torrential downpour to the staff parking lot.
Being a gentleman (who was head over heels in love with you and too terrified to say a damn thing) was thrown out the window with how fast you were booking it to your car, the idea of shielding you from the rain with his jacket abandoned after just a moment booking it across the lot. He could feel the coolness of the water settling against his skin as it soaked through every layer of clothing he had, every few seconds having to furiously wipe at his glasses in hopes of seeing through them.
None of it really mattered in the end, not when he heard your laugh. The little shrieks of laughter as a particularly big drop happened to fall right in your eyes. Or the laughter as Ryland managed–in his signature fashion–to slip on the final step into the parking lot, and you had to double back in laughter to help haul him to his feet.
He’s spring clumsily through the rain a thousand more times if he got to see you smile like that. And that is why his kids always told him that he was definitely ‘whipped’ for you. Whatever that meant.
The second you had both jumped into your respective seats of your vehicle, doors slamming shut, there was only a moment of silence between the both of you. Ryland felt like his chest was going to explode, remembering why he always hated gym class, his heavy breathing mixed with yours as you both caught your breath, before you locked eyes over the center console.
Then the laughter resumed.
He held his hand to his stomach, feeling an ache settling in as he couldn’t stop his own laughter. Your’s grew slightly louder in his ear as you leaned over, trying to help him wipe at his glasses that were still covered.
“I was right, you look like a wet dog,”
Ryland’s only response was to shake his soaking wet hair like one, a simple reaction that earned yet another shriek of laughter from you and a light slap to his shoulder. You muttered something unintelligible under your breath, but Ryland found himself unable to tear his gaze away from your lips as you started the car and began to pull out of the staff lot. How soft they looked, the way the little beads of water running down your cheeks fell over them.
Whipped. He still didn’t get it, but he agreed wholeheartedly with his kids at this point.
There was no driving fast in this rain, especially when the windshield wipers were moving at their highest programmed speed and it still wasn’t enough. It was quiet in the car for just a moment as you pulled out of the parking lot, but Ryland broke it the second your phone had connected to the car’s bluetooth, music filling the space between him and you.
Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.
“Frank Sinatra,” Ryland couldn’t help the growing smile on his lips as the familiar song flooded through the car speakers. He kept his eyes trained on the side of your face, watching the little smile grow on your own lips, eyes focused on the road conditions in front of you. “Old books and old music. Didn’t know you had such an old soul.”
“You calling me old, Ryland?”
“N-no!” Ryland immediately back track, hands flying up and shaking back and forth as his eyes went wide. “I might say some stupid stuff some–okay, most of the time–but I know better than to comment on a woman’s age.”
“I’m just teasing you,” he could thankfully hear the sincerity mixed in with the teasing lit to your voice. “But yes, I do enjoy some old music. Always been a big fan of Sinatra, especially this one.”
“It’s a nice song…just not scientifically accurate,” he caught the side eye that you threw his way for just a moment, another crack of thunder banging across the sky and almost shaking the car. Ryland couldn’t help but jump slightly. “Jupiter only has a 3.13° tilt to its axis, so it doesn’t experience seasons like we do. Mar’s would, though, because its axis is tilted at 25°, only 1.5° more than our own tilt…”
Ryland trailed off as the car rolled to a stop at a red light, and he caught you fully facing him this time with a bemused expression written across your face. His smile dropped just slightly as he let out a sheepish laugh, adjusting his glasses as they slid back down the wet bridge of his nose.
“...I went full science-nerd again, didn’t I?”
Your laughter drowned out the rain beating against the roof of the car as your attention returned to the road once more.
“You always do, but I happen to enjoy it very much,”
If only teaching paid more, because the commute to Ryland’s apartment was a lot shorter than his bike ride home every day from work.
Parked in an open space across the road from the dimly lit apartment building, Ryland Grace hesitated with his hand on the handle of the door. His eyes swept out over the area around the vehicle, still being hounded with rain. The top of his road looked like the beginning of a river, the way the water was rushing down the small incline to pool at the bottom.
“Thanks…for this,” he gestured toward the weather right outside the card.
You moved to respond to him, when the weather alert on your phone propped up on your dashboard sounded out. Ryland could just barely make out the headline: FLASH FLOOD WARNING.
The roads were far too dangerous, and Ryland already knew from various conversations that you lived on the opposite end of town from him.
He…could ask you to stay for the night. Just for safety reasons, obviously! He was quickly trying to work through the pros and cons list in his head.
Pros: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be safe and not driving in this storm.
Cons: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be inside his tiny little apartment that looked like it had been hit by a separate hurricane than the one it felt like they were currently suffering through.
“I should probably get home-”
“Stay,” Ryland cut in, quickly continuing his words after his vague statement. “I-It’s just, the roads are bad, and you live on the other side of town. This storm is just going to get worse, and I-I’d hate to know something happened to you.”
You hesitated, he could tell, shaking your head.
“Ryland, I couldn’t ask you to let me stay,”
He hesitated himself for a moment, every feeling he’d kept bottled up for a year now threatening to escape past his lips. Instead, he settled on echoing your own words.
“I…I care about you. I want to know you’re safe,”
Moments later, he had his rain coat draped over your head as he rushed you inside his apartment to shelter from the storm.
Ryland’s hands shook the entire time as he put his key into his front door’s lock. The last time he had guests over…was never. His apartment was built and designed for him and his brain, scattered with notes and books and piles of arts and crafts that he worked on in order to decorate his classroom. It was not meant for visitors, especially not ones as pretty as you.
“Don’t, uh, mind the mess,” he mumbled, holding the door open and motioning after you, allowing you to take a step inside his apartment as he let out the small breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
Chucking off his sneakers, little puddles of water forming below them on the ground, his jacket found its way into a pile with them. Ryland wiped his hands nervously against the thighs of his jeans, the action doing nothing against the soaking went material, as he watched you take in his apartment.
The apartment that looked like it had been ransacked, at least partially. Stacks of books relating to a thousand different topics were stacked on the ground by the tv stand, on top of the coffee table along with the coffee cup he’d abandoned there early in the morning in a haste to get to the school, and and by his desk that had a stack of papers scattered around it after her strewn them about in order to find one specific slip of paper at 11 p.m.
It was a mess, and Ryland regretted everything.
“It’s not messy, it’s homey,” your reply sent a burst of heat through his skin as you turned to him with a bright smile, leaving your own bag and coat by his pile of wet items before gesturing to your own soaking wet clothing. “Do you maybe have something a little less…wet?”
He scurried away into his bedroom, trying to ignore that little section of his brain that took your comment in a MUCH different way.
His bedroom was worse. Ryland wasn’t letting you sleep on the couch, but he surely wasn’t letting you see his room in a state like this.
Clothing was thrown across the room and Ryland quickly ran about, shoving piles of clothing away into corners where he was certain you wouldn’t be able to see any of it. Throwing it into his closet and slamming the door before it could fall out, pushing it down in his laundry basket, kicking it under his bed so it was out of sight and out of mind, whatever he could think of.
“Great idea, Ryland,” he muttered to himself, pulling on a dry pair of sweatpants and a tshirt for himself, trying to shake the remaining water out of his hair as he rummaged for something you could wear. “Almost get the woman you’re in love with killed by letting her drive you home in a monsoon. Invite her to stay the night in your apartment that makes you look like an even bigger loser than you are. Amazing idea. A doctorate in molecular biology and this is the best you can do.”
You were waiting by the couch in his living room, just glancing around at everything with a smile, when he reappeared. Sheepishly, he handed the folded clothing over to you, hand running through his soaking wet hair as he pointed down the hall.
“You can take my bed for the night. Uh, just leave your clothes in the bathroom, I can throw them in the dryer in a bit. I can scrounge up something to eat in the meantime,”
“Thanks, Ry,” your hand reached out, squeezing his upper arm lightly, and he felt the heat in his skin instantly bloom under your touch. “For all of this.”
If it wasn’t for the giant crack of thunder that flickered the lights of the building for a moment and made Ryland jump out of his skin, he would’ve forgotten how to breathe again.
He rummaged through every part of his kitchen, desperately trying to find something that he could make the two of you to eat that also wouldn’t make him seem pathetic. All he could come up with…was a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly.
Yesterday. He’d stayed late after the end of the day to help in tutoring. He forgot to go grocery shopping. Ryland let out a sigh at his realization, back to his fridge door and head banging back against the stainless steel, hand running down his face and dragging against his skin as his glasses were knocked off, hanging off of one ear.
“Great,” he muttered into his palm. “Just absolutely freaking great, Ryland.”
Ryland Grace desperately wished he had the guts, the bravery, to just simply tell you how he felt.
From the moment he met you, when you had arrived for your first day at Grover Cleveland Middle, he was a goner. It had been a long time since he’d had a partner, his last one certain that he was too busy with his head in the clouds to pay attention to her, and she wasn’t wrong. But from the moment he looked at you, waving and smiling as you introduced yourself to all of the teachers that had gathered to welcome you, you were suddenly the only thing his brain wanted to focus on.
He had been so focused on you, too busy admiring every inch of you in silence, that in his typical clumsy fashion he tripped over his own two feet and knocked Principal Marshall’s papers out of her hand, spreading them five feet across the floor. But you’d joined him on the ground, laughing lightly to yourself, as you helped him clean up the papers, and Ryland knew he was a goner for you.
It only continued every single day, getting worse, and you somehow became his friend. His only friend, if he was being quite frank. So he tried to hide the way he really felt, too scared to mess anything up. He’d rather have you in his life in any way he could, then mess this up and lose you forever.
Keeping those feelings in was getting increasingly harder in the last few months. Which explained why he’d traveled cross town just to get lunch from your favorite place, or compare you to the sun and basically called you his entire reasoning for living in front of a bunch of children-
Either Ryland was going to blurt it out at some point, or he was taking these feelings to the grave with him.
“Peanut butter and jelly? Sounds like we’re eating like royalty tonight,”
He shouldn’t have looked over at you. He really, really shouldn’t have. Leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, hair still damp and dripping onto the cheesy “I had potential” shirt he’d been gifted by one of his students the following year. Sweatpants that were bunched up around your ankles so that you didn’t trip over the length, waist tied in as tightly as possible so they didn’t just slide right off your hips.
Ryland Grace had never thought it possible that you could look more gorgeous than you did every day, but he stood corrected. He felt more in love than he ever had just looking at you right in this moment.
“Sorry, I don’t exactly…live a life of luxury,” Ryland awkwardly laughed as he spoke, pulling out two sad paper plates from the cabinet next to him and flashing them in your direction, shaking them lightly in the air. “Hope this doesn’t ruin my perfectly curated image.”
His eyes followed you as you brushed past him, humming to yourself with a little grin. You fumbled through every drawer in the kitchen, looking for something, when Ryland quickly popped open the one right next to him, showcasing his small selection of utensils. You flashed another heart-stopping grin at him before digging out two knives from the drawer.
“That image cracked a long time ago, Ry. Like that time you let Marcus perform some chemical reaction and got the fire department called to the school,”
The tall blonde groaned to himself, rubbing at his temple as you pushed past him to throw some of the bread down onto the plates and crack open the jars of peanut butter and jelly set out.
“That was one time!” he tried to defend himself, saddling up beside you as you passed him one of the knives. He almost completely missed the opening of the peanut butter jar, eyes too transfixed on the sight of you in his clothing. It was still up in the air if his heart was actually working correctly yet. “I learned my lesson very quickly not to let him handle any more chemicals.”
“Don’t worry. I made the mistake of doing popcorn reading when we were working on The Outsiders. Marcus seemed to end up with every single instance of profanity in the book, which he would yell at the top of his lungs,”
Ryland snapped his fingers, glancing down at you at his side with a teasing smile.
“You know what? That explains that really loud ‘HELL’ I heard across the school a couple months ago. I was so sure that it was going to shatter the windows of my classroom,”
“Oh, shut up! It wasn’t that bad!”
Your laughter permeated the air, elbow digging into his side as you spoke. And when your eyes locked with his, and Ryland got the perfect look at every square inch of your face, he could see it so clearly in his head.
Mornings just like this, where you’d both struggle to get out of the warmth of the blankets. The way he would surely annoy you with his very disorganized morning routine, but he’d make up for it with coffee already set out for you, just as you liked it. The lingering moments by the door, too wrapped up in each other because you didn’t want to leave the peace of this space, even though you were going to the same place.
Late nights, curled together on the couch with some movie playing on TV that neither of you were particularly paying attention to. Whispered words, laughter shared. Kisses that lingered, hands that trailed-
Thunder broke Ryland from his spell, thoughts gone in a flash. He was back in his dingy kitchen, with you just inches away, staring up at him as the picture of true beauty.
“T-This is nice,” he cleared his throat, turning back to his sandwich as he spread his toppings along the bread, heat blooming across his cheeks again. It always did around you. “Making dinner with someone…no matter how sad the dinner is. I haven’t done this in awhile.”
“Right,” your voice responded after a momentary pause. “Sarah, wasn’t it? You were dating her when we first met. What, uh…what ever happened to her?”
“Oh, we broke up a long time ago,” Ryland waved the comment off, shaking his head. “She just, uh, thought my head was too far in the clouds. Didn’t think I wanted to be down here on Earth. She wasn’t wrong. It was for the best, though. She hated…all of this. The rundown apartment, the lack of a car, my love of science. She just never understood it. I was just…too much for her. But she’s with Mark now, so I’m sure she’s happy.”
Ryland chose not to mention that his last relationship had been dead long before it officially ended, the pair not having seen each other in well over a month by that point. If his math was right, which it usually was, Sarah had started dating Mark before she’d even broken it off with him.
He also failed to mention the relief he felt inside when she had called it off, knowing his heart had belonged to you the moment your eyes had locked with his.
Fingertips just barely ghosted over Ryland’s cheek, and he froze in place. Eyes trained on the plate in front of him, he could feel the way your hand curled around his cheek. The way your thumb glossed over his skin, back and forth, and the way your other fingers barely grazed over the shell of his ear. He couldn’t help the way he instantly leaned into the touch, a touch he hadn’t felt in so long.
Ryland turned his head, still resting in the palm of your own, to look you in the eyes. You gave him the softest smile, hand trailing across his cheek and ghosting over his jawline. His eyes watched it move, the way your fingers gently curled around the frame of his glasses dangling precariously from his face, and placed them gingerly back where they belonged, resting on the bridge of his nose.
His breath caught, your body so close to his, as your hand trailed back down and rested on his chest for just a moment, your own gaze flickering to its resting spot while his gaze stayed on your face.
“You are never, and will never be, too much, Ryland. Not for the right person. They’ll love every part of you. The clumsy parts, the nerdy parts, every part that makes you…you,”
The Sun. That’s what you were to Ryland Grace. He meant every word he had said in that planetarium that day, driven by the rare jealousy of seeing Harkin that close to you.
The Sun was the reason Earth had life. Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing.
Without you…well, Ryland Grace had accepted long ago that he didn’t understand what it was like to truly live until he’d met you.
Your eyes flickered for just a second, and Ryland took in an audible breath, swearing they settled on his lips for just a second. The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the pattering of the rain against the living room windows.
The moment shattered with yet another terribly timed clap of thunder, your body jolting away from his, focus turned back to the counter in front of you, face hidden from his wide eyes.
“Y-you know…I can’t tell you the last time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,”
Ryland shook his head, smiling slightly to himself at the little stutter in your own words, turning back to finishing his own food as well. But the moment still lingered in his head, the heat that bloomed from where your skin touched him still lingering.
“Since peanut butter is banned in school for allergies, probably awhile,”
“I almost forgot that rule a couple weeks ago and almost packed peanut butter crackers,” you joked back, before Ryland heard you snap your fingers. “Oh! Speaking of work, did you put yourself down to volunteer for the school dance next week?”
Sandwiches finished off, Ryland packed the ingredients away and stashed them back in their appropriate spots, laughing awkwardly to himself.
“Hah, uh, no I didn’t. I chaperoned last year and kind of left covered in punch, became the kids’ favorite ‘meme’ for a week afterward since one of them got a picture of it,”
He turned back to you. Leaning against the island counter, holding your sad little sandwich in your hands, face still lit up red as you smiled toward him.
“I think so far it's me, Doyle, and Harki, plus Principal Marshal and I think Katie and Dawson from the front office. We could really use another teacher,” he swore the fluttering of your lashes was on purpose just to kill him and his resolve. “Sign-up? For me?”
Well, there was no universe in existence where Ryland said no to a request like that.
Rejoining you at the counter, he held his own sandwich in his hand, reaching out and tapping it against yours as if you were sharing a toast.
“For you? Totally,”
Even as you both took a bite of your sandwiches, eyes still locked together, Ryland felt as if something had shifted in the air. Your eyes were still as kind, your smile still bright, but it felt like there was a new weight to your gaze as you looked at him.
And he swore–and hoped–for just a split second, that your eyes had just flickered down to his lips again.
❤︎
The student council had outdone themselves with this end of the year dance.
As you stepped through the main doors of Grover Cleveland Middle’s building, the smile on your face grew immediately at the sight before you. The walls were lined with little fairy lights, little styrofoam planets hanging down from the ceiling at various lengths, glow in the dark stars right around them and glowing. Silver streamers hung around the fairy lights, with the check in desk decorated with tons and foam and lights behind them to look like twinkling lights in the clouds.
“A space theme?” you called out as the two kids in front of you ducked away from the registration desk. Evelyn Doyle finally looked up from the sign-in sheet, grin growing as she took in the sight of you and rounded the desk. “I hadn’t heard anything from the student council on the theme, but they did well.”
“Nevermind the theme, you’re finally here!” you laughed as you threw her arms around you, reciprocating the hug, before her hands landed on your shoulders in order to get a good look at you, eyes trailing you up and down. “And look at this dress, oh my god!”
The deep yellow dress fell right around your knees, the fabric light and airy as it swooshed through the air with every move you made. Buttons lined the front down to the tie around your waist, leaving just enough room for the little gold necklace resting against your collarbone. You thanked yourself for choosing a short sleeve option, already feeling the heat in the building from how many kids were all packed in and dancing together.
“Thank you,” was the sheepish reply you gave your friend as she let you go. “I’m sorry I’m late, I caught one of my student’s parents in the parking lot and they turned it into a mini parent-teacher conference, sadly.”
“Not a problem,” she waved the comment off, gesturing toward the doors of the gym just off to the left of you both. “Just get on in there, have some fun, and keep those slow dancers at least 12 inches apart at all times.”
If the hallways were gorgeous, the inside of the gym shone even brighter. Bathed in blue and purple, even more little lights twinkled around the room, hung off the walls, the ceilings, and on every surface they could possibly find. Moon and star decals, made by the art students, hung off the walls and from the ceiling, almost glowing under the lights.
Your eyes trailed over all of your children, scattered throughout the room, already having been dancing for at least thirty minutes. The smile on your face grew as you watched each one of them, gathered with their friends as they danced together in groups, or even stood off to the sides and just observed from beyond the dimly lit dance floor.
Mr. Harkin had been stationed at the punch table, and you could hear him from across the room warning these middle schoolers not to try and spike the punch. You could only giggle to yourself, shaking your head at his antics, before your eyes swept over the crowd once more-
The music seemed to stop in your ears, breath hitching, the second you laid eyes on him across the room. Ryland Grace.
He wasn’t in anything fancy. A nice pair of jeans, the worn pair of black dress shoes you’d seen by his apartment door that night. A dark green shirt was tucked into his jeans, adorned with a worn, navy blue suit jacket overtop, and those same glasses almost falling off the bridge of his nose as he spoke animatedly to Olivia.
Ryland looked good. Too good, in your eyes.
For just a second, he looked up, and his eyes happened to meet yours across the room. You thought for sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.
Whatever had happened that night, in the silence of his apartment with only the beating of the rain against the windows and the roof as a witness, had shifted something. From the moment your fingertips had ghosted along his skin, your hand had rested against his chest, and you’d been close enough to see the specs that danced in those ocean blue eyes of his up close, nothing had been the same.
Like the little bubble you had been existing in with your harbored crushed had finally popped. Like a toe had dipped just slightly over a line, and there was no going back from then on.
You always blushed around your friend, every time he’d manage to fumble his way through a comment that borderlined on a kind-of-not-just-friendly compliment. But since that day just a week or so ago, every time he has been within a few feet of you, your face lit up like a hot summer’s day.
Moments where he’d find a second to linger in your classroom door, held a new weight to them. Sharing lunch together, fingers just barely brushing for a second as you both reached for your food, to moments when you’d simply be walking together down hallways, back of hands brushing along each other’s but no one making any moves to stop it from happening.
Something was different, and you weren’t sure you wanted to go back to how things were before. Not after touching his skin, or existing in his orbit like that. Not when you’d seen the side of him beyond these school walls.
You were in love with Ryland Grace. You had been for a long time. And, finally, you were done trying to pretend that there wasn’t at least a small chance that he felt the same.
“I need your help,”
The heated staring contest between you two was broken by the sound to your right. You turned, just to see Marcus standing directly beside you and reaching up to pull on the sleeve of your dress. His hands wrung together, foot tapping incessantly on the ground, and you immediately knelt down in front of him to get a better look at his face that he was trying to hide from you.
“Marcus? Honey, what’s wrong?” you asked gently, hands coming to rest on his arms as you tried to get him to look at you.
“I…I like Olivia,”
Oh. It was one of those problems. The anxiety you felt in that moment finally washed away, an easy smile falling to your lips as you took a quick glance over in Ryland and Olivia’s direction, the former’s eyes still locked onto you from across the room.
“I did hear a rumor about that. Olivia is a great girl,”
“She is,” he said quickly, finally looking at you. His nerves were basically written across his face. “I-I’ve been really mean to her. I didn’t mean to be.”
“I know, honey. Sometimes feelings can be confusing,” you stood up, hands on your hips as you looked down at him with a smile. “Do you want to dance with her?”
“I do,”
You held your hand out toward him with a smile.
“Then why don’t we start by going and apologizing to her?”
With Marcus’s hand in yours, you confidently led him across the room, eyes locked back onto Ryland’s as you approached. He stood with Olivia at his side, who was talking his ear off, a dopey looking grin on his face as he nodded to whatever she said as he continued to watch as you approached him.
“Dr. Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt you and Olivia,” you announced yourself to the pair with a grin of your own, hands on Marcus’s shoulders and you lightly pushed him forward. “But Olivia, there’s something that Marcus here wants to say to you.”
The young boy shuffled awkwardly forward, hands wringing together again as he stood in front of his crush.
“I, uh, I wanted to say I was sorry. For being really mean to you. I didn’t mean it,”
Olivia’s eyes went wide, as she too shuffled uncomfortably for a second. Ryland saddled up to your side, the pair of you sharing a glance as you watched the interaction happen right before your eyes. His hand graced over yours lightly, and it took everything in you not to reach out and lock your fingers with his.
“Oh! It’s, um, it’s okay. Thank you,”
“Say, Marcus?” Ryland called out to them both, catching the boy’s eye and gesturing toward Olivia with a wink. “What do you think of Olivia’s dress?”
“I…I think she looks really beautiful,”
That comment finally seemed to catch Olivia off guard, her eyes wide in shock as she giggled nervously.
“Oh! I…thank you, Marcus. You look really nice too,”
“Thank you,” his posture seemed to straighten out at Olivia’s reaction, like seeing her accept his compliment gave him the confidence he needed. “Do you want to dance with me?”
Olivia shot you and Ryland a look, and you both immediately gave her a thumbs up. Then, your happy eyes could only watch the two pre-teens awkwardly shuffle away together to the dance floor, not daring to meet the eyes of the other.
“Look at us, playing matchmaker for middle schoolers,”
“I think they did that for themselves, we just helped,” you laughed, turning your head. The laughter died on your lips the second your eyes met with Ryland’s, voice low and breathy as you whispered to him through your smile. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he whispered back just as breathily. His hand came up to the back of his head, running through his hair for a moment, and you could see the red and pink hues that lit up his cheeks. “I got worried when I didn’t see you. I was ready to call you.”
“You could’ve,”
“I’ll remember for next time,” he shot back, hands finding their way to rest in the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes moved back over the crowd, finding your two young students once more. “I’m proud of him for that. That…must have taken a lot of guts to do.”
You followed his gaze, landing on the pair as they danced together, laughing and talking like old friends.
“Like you said before, it can be hard for boys to express their feelings. All he needed was to pull up his big boy pants and ask her,”
Ryland laughed beside you.
“Yeah…I should probably follow in his footsteps,”
You glanced back to him, seeing him already watching you. A single eyebrow raised toward him quizzically, even though your heart felt like it was ready to beat directly out of your chest.
Ryland’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were trying to force out words that he couldn’t quite seem to get right. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath, hoping inside that whatever he wanted to say would address the weight that seemed to be hanging between your gazes.
“Stay here,”
There wasn’t even time for you to respond before the tall blonde rushed away, almost tripping as he dashed over to the DJ booth across the way from the makeshift dance floor. He whispered something to the DJ, and you could see the thumbs up he got in return, before he rushed back over to you, panting slightly.
“Ryland?” you questioned softly, the man who held your entire heart without knowing it standing just a foot in front of you with a nervous grin on his face. “What did you just do?”
As if on cue, the song changed, and familiar lyrics floated through the room, bouncing off the walls.
Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars
“I’m pulling up my big boy pants,” he responded with a nervous laugh, his hand outstretched toward you. “And asking you to dance with me.”
Nothing else existed the second that you slid your hand into Ryland Grace’s without hesitation, letting him pull you in. You weren’t in the school, not in a room decorated for a middle school dance, and certainly not surrounded by middle schoolers and a bunch of faculty that had placed bets on you both.
It was just you and Ryland Grace. That’s all you wanted it to be.
Your arms found a place to rest around his shoulders, fingertips just barely brushing past the strands of hair that tickled the back of his neck. There was a fluttering in your chest the second that his hands made their way to your waist, curling around the divet just above your hip bone, pulling you into him just by another inch.
In other words, hold my hand. In other words, darling, kiss me. Fill my life with song, and let me sing for ever more.
"I didn't tell you yet…,” his voice was soft, words whispered just between the two of you in a crowded room. “But you look beautiful,"
"You don't have to flatter me, Ryland,"
"No, really, you look-"
"Like a banana in this yellow dress?"
He paused. His tongue poked out, running along his bottom lip, and you could see the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple before he spoke again.
"...like the sun,"
You are all I long for, all I worship and adore.
Oh. That fluttering in your chest was back, and suddenly, you weren’t at a middle school dance anymore. You were back in that planetarium, spinning in circles. And this time, there were no doubts in your mind. You were the Sun, and he was the Earth. And what was the Earth, without its Sun?
"Ryland-"
"I wasn't lying,"
You cocked your head.
"...about what?"
"That I knew Homer wrote The Odyssey,"
That drew a short laugh from you, but you could still see the nerves that were laced through Ryland’s smile.
"Right, you were just distracted,"
"I was. By you. I'm always distracted by you,"
In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.
You took a deep breath. He’d crossed the line for you, thrown himself onto the other side, and was waiting for you with open arms. It was just a leap of faith.
“I’m always distracted by you, too. Since the day we met,”
The song faded away, melting into the next. There could’ve been eyes on you both, either from students or from faculty, but nothing would break either of your gazes away from the other.
Ryland took a quick look around the room, before his hands took hold of your own, bringing them down between you both. He gave you a grin, one filled with more happiness than you had ever seen–and you knew your own matched his perfectly–before he tugged you toward the doors of the gym.
“Come with me,”
“Ry, we’re supposed to be chaperoning!”
“I don’t see Principal Marshall anywhere. What’s the worst she could do, fire us?”
“Quite literally, yes!” you shot back with a laugh.
Ryland only shrugged his shoulders, tugging you again, and you didn’t even try to fight back. Your feet simply moved with him.
“Worth it,”
Hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, your laughter echoed off the walls of the empty hallways as Ryland Grace ran you down them, a destination clear in his mind. Every few seconds he’d look back, just smiling at you as his eyes trailed over every single inch of you, before you’d yell at him to look at his own feet before you’d both be sprawled across the linoleum floors.
The door to his classroom was open as you flew inside, hand slipping from his as you caught yourself on the projector cart sitting in the middle of the room. Spinning on your heel, you caught his eye just as he shut the classroom door behind him, and the silence enveloped you both once more. Finally alone, no prying eyes to watch.
The momentarily confidence that seemed to seize hold of Ryland dissipated in that moment. He wiped his hands against the front of his jeans, chuckling awkwardly as he took a few steps toward you.
“What was your plan here, Dr. Grace?” you teased, taking a couple steps toward him as well, too high on the feeling of everything you’d just finally realized. High on the feeling of finally not denying what your heart knew long ago: you and Ryland Grace were never just friends.
“I’m not going to lie,” he shot back, coming to a stop just in front of you, barely an inch or two separating you. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead.”
“Then stop thinking,”
No one had leaned in first. It had been both of you, as if drawn together like two magnets, as your lips finally found one another's.
Goosebumps rose across your skin as Ryland Grace’s mouth moved against yours with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people that have never kissed before. It was like a perfect dance between two partners that knew each other better than anything.
Your lips never left his, moving against his as if you couldn’t believe you had deprived yourself of this for so long, as your hands wound around his shoulders. Fingers curled into his hair, finally carding themselves through the blonde strands that felt so soft between your fingers.
The slightest little moan, enough to send heat coursing through your body the second you heard it, slipping from Ryland’s mouth into your own. His hands grasped at your hips, winding around your back to press into your lower back and tug you as close as humanly possible, as if he was a starved man that craved to touch you in any way that he could.
His lips were soft, a feeling that you knew you were going to crave for the rest of your life now that you’d had a single taste of them. You pressed further into him, a small mewl tumbling from your own lips and swallowed by his mouth as you pressed every inch of yourself into him, desperate to hang onto the moment in case the world would be cruel and wake you from this dream moments later.
The need to breathe was what finally separated you, but not far. Ryland’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning out across your skin. His hands still gripped at your hips, holding him to you, as yours stayed carded through his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as you chest heaved as it tried to level your breathing back to normal.
“If I haven’t made it clear already, you’re my best friend,” his words were breathy, accented by the way he was still trying to catch his breath. But his smile was bright, his eyes almost shining, as he looked down at you. “And I’m completely in love with you. Literally, since the moment we met.”
You laughed, trapped in this little bubble with him, as your hands slid from his hair to instead cup his cheeks. The tip of your nose just barely brushed against his, and he bumped his right back against yours without hesitation.
“I’m completely in love with you too, Ryland Grace. Since the moment you tripped over your own two feet,”
The sound of your laughter filled the empty, dark science classroom again as Ryland’s hands came to scoop you up around your thighs, spinning you in relentless circles. All you could do was hang onto his broad shoulders and smile, his lips peppering a thousand kisses to every inch of skin he could possibly reach.
The Earth needed the Sun, like how Ryland said he needed you. The person that makes it all worth it, that makes the days brighter, that makes this short little life worth it.
summary: after re-acclimating to earth life for a whole year, grace comes to your museum on a random monday in the middle of april to view the "project hail mary" exhibit.
pairing: ryland grace x reader (— see tags!)
word count: 5.0k
tags: starts with grace's pov and then shifts to reader’s, timeskips, older!grace, fluff and angst, rocky and eva mentions, minor original characters, gn!reader — kept it largely platonic, attraction is still there if you squint
cross-posted to ao3
a/n: based on this ask from @lessthcn3 !! lowkey went off-track (#self-indulgent), but i hope this satisfies to grace-coming-back-to-earth itch !! <333
The second time Grace wakes up from the induced coma, he knows exactly where he is and exactly how he got there. He remembers the last morning in his foggy, coastal enclosure—throwing that ship-standard duvet over the top of the mattress, folding his cardigans into the packing cubes. He remembers the bittersweet goodbye to his class of younglings, who solemnly sat through that final science lesson. He remembers the team of Eridians who prepped him to go under with a masterful replication of Earth anesthesia.
Above all, Grace can recall the sight of Rocky looming over him as they hovered the silicone mask over his mouth—a melodic set of hums and thuds on the ground of the ship: Erid miss Grace. Rocky miss Grace. Grace, Rocky saved stars. Now, Grace go back. Try Earth again. It had taken Grace so long to think on it—going back to Earth, surrendering the life that he’d built for himself on Erid.
He wakes up on a regular old hospital bed, clinically white bedding tucked around his legs. Grace’s glasses are folded up on the bedside next to a large bouquet—lillies, he thinks—and a stack of books, none of which he knows the titles of. New releases. Grace has to remind himself that he’s skipped quite a few years. Beside the books, there’s a collection of cards, all themed with some variation of generic messaging. He can spot “Thank You,” “Get Well Soon,” and “Happy Birthday” on the table all at once.
Decoration aside, there are two very serious, clearly government agents, all suits, who are standing at the foot of Grace’s bed. Then, to his left, one nurse, checking his vitals on the analog screen. To his right, one doctor—pressing a cold, steel stethoscope to either side of his chest beneath the papery texture of his middle gown. It all seems so practiced. Grace squints. “Dr. Grace, do you know where you are?” Grace tilts his head in the direction of the voice beside him. It’s the doctor; she’s withdrawing her stethoscope from his chest, checking his eyes with the narrow beam of a handheld, pocket flashlight.
“Hospital?” he rasps out—vocal cords still not acclimated to speaking aloud. She pockets the flashlight. Grace can see swirling blues and greens over his vision in absence of the bright light, a film that fades very slowly as he settles into his consciousness.
“Pupils are responsive,” she affirms to the two agents, and the nurse—who rattles her fingers quickly at the keyboard at his bedside. Then, to Grace: “I’d recommend that you rub your hands together, Dr. Grace. It’ll help kick your blood flow back into action. Though, I’m sure you’re already very wise on the procedure.” Modestly, and almost apologetically, the doctor tells him, “I have to tell you regardless.” She hands him his glasses off the bedside table, and Grace slips them onto his face with a still stirring movement. His arms and legs still feel just as numb as they did the first time.
“You’re currently at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center,” the doctor tells him. “You’ve been here for about three weeks.”
“In Los Angeles,” one of the agents tells him, matter-of-factly. Scully, Grace labels.
“I’m in Los Angeles?” Grace almost chokes out a laugh. The last time Grace had been to L.A. was for an academic conference, and he’d been rather disillusioned by the morning traffic.
“Yes, right by UCLA,” the other agent confirms smoothly. And Mulder, Grace thinks. “They had you air-lifted from around Vancouver after your pod touched down.”
Cedars-Sinai, UCLA, Vancouver. Grace chants the three in sequence over and over in his head. They tell him with such ease. There’s no extra explanation about what’s where, no request for a further meaning. If there’s anything that Grace misses about being around people—human people—it’s the familiarity of living in around the same place. The ability to landmark. There’s nothing remotely confusing about “L.A.” or “freeway” or “smog.”
Scully bends over to open a leather satchel at the foot of Grace’s bed. She pulls out a hefty pile of newspaper clippings and she tosses it plainly onto his lap. At first, he only looks at the headliners, fold-by-fold:
Extraterrestrial Life Declassified by UN Task Force’s Eva Stratt
Sun’s Luminance Recovered By Grace’s Taumoeba
Dr. Ryland Grace To Be Inducted Into U.S. Astronaut Hall of Fame
“This is…” he rasps out. It’s not brain fog. He knows exactly what it is, and what it is is a little bit much. Even after spending all that time in an entirely different planetary system, it’s a little bit much. Grace can feel the tension setting between his brows, and he lets the papers sit heavily in his lap. “Stratt. Eva Stratt—is she around? Can I see her?”
“I’m not sure if there’s a good way to say this, but… Stratt has been MIA for the past couple of years. She got in a lot of trouble for the project, ethical-environmental reasons, nothing very surprising—”
Grace raises up his hand to interrupt Mulder, shocked that he’s even able to do so with the speed that he does. Grace echoes, with pure urgency, “But, she’s MIA. As in… nowhere to be found.”
“Yes, that’s correct, Dr. Grace.” The agents are somewhat despondent about the situation—neither here, nor there.
“Okay. Okay, I’ll take it.” A win: Stratt evades imprisonment indefinitely. She’s on one of the smaller newspaper spreads on Grace’s lap—a front-facing portrait, Stratt at the head of a speaker’s platform, looking as serious as ever. She’s grayer, too. Grace tries not to pay any mind to the thought of how young they were when they first met.
If there was anything that Grace had made peace with in all those years gone, it was with Stratt. How she’d dragged him around that carrier ship like a dog on a leash. How he’d settled into those small moments of respect for her; Stratt was as faithful to his intellect as she was headstrong. Grace had come to understand her, even after he remembered what she’d done. He has to trust that she’s well now, somewhere on the water near Greenland or somewhere colder.
He’s slow to flip through the flimsy pages, entranced by the number of times his name is written in each column. The newspapers in the pile are years apart from one another, the earliest dated only a month after his initial launch, and the latest just a week after the Mary’s recovery: Dr. Ryland Grace Recovered Off British Columbia Coast. The photograph of his landing pod and its parachute bobbing in the water makes the journey home appear so simple—so small.
In all of his contemplation, Grace pays very little mind to how the room shifts around him. Scully and Mulder—he should really ask for their real names soon—appear to tilt their heads to the doctor and the nurse. The nurse hurries to double check Grace’s IV lines before stepping outside. The doctor follows closely behind her. Scully clicks her tongue: “The Hail Mary was captured on satellite imaging at the start of last year. We’ve been anticipating your arrival for a while now—so we ask that you forgive us if we’re a little… antsy. There’s something else for you.”
Scully pulls a flatter box out of the satchel and comes closer to Grace’s side, while Mulder goes to sit in the visitor chair in the corner. As he sits down, semi-slouched in the seat, she opens the box. Black leather, Grace realizes. He sits up a little bit more in his hospital bed, gown shifting uncomfortably against the sheets. He makes sure to tidy the newspapers as best as he can, before placing them weakly onto the bedside table beside the books and the cards.
Scully opens the box gingerly, rotates it towards Grace, and gently hands it over to him. Grace blinks. “Wow. This is… a medal.”
“It’s a Nobel Prize, Dr. Grace.” It says it there, Alfr-Nobel, and has the profile of a gentleman's face across it. There’s Mr. Nobel, Grace thinks, Obviously. It’s real gold, heavy in Grace’s hands. He doesn’t know if he should say thank you or not; it seems as if it’s about to come out of his mouth—but he simply gulps it back down.
“You were awarded it a month after they photographed the Hail Mary on satellite,” Mulder explains—when they found out Grace wasn’t dead. “Word traveled fast, and the Committee was very intent on awarding it to you. For the longest time, they were storing it in the Kennedy Space Center, but they made sure to ship it out to Pasadena last week in preparation for your arrival.”
Scully clasps her hands together, “Every laureate also receives a cash award with it. Eleven million krona—that’s about a million U.S. dollars, and some change.”
“Oh.” Grace is baffled. In his head, he can picture himself being handed a giant check on a stage, with a handshake and the flutter of a bunch of camera flashes. He hadn’t really needed money on Erid. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with it all—besides, maybe squander a small amount on real food. No burgers. Maybe salmon?
Scully lays a soft hand on Grace’s left shoulder that startles him into attention. “You’re a historical figure, Dr. Grace. Congratulations.”
—
Grace finds out that Scully and Mulder are actually Agents Franklin and Lineham—though, in the end, the discovery is ultimately pointless. They seem to recede into the background within his first week of being back on Earth, replaced, to Grace’s disappointment, by a series of politicians, scientists, and journalists. Despite great promises to “take things slow,” Grace is launched—yes, launched—into a flurry of press conferences with a plethora of national governments.
Grace knows what it’s like to be the center of attention, to an extent. In his twenties, it was the bad sort of attention, the kind that made people flee from the sight of him in a Hyatt lobby during academic conferences. It’s a good thing in the classroom, because it means that he’s doing his job correctly—the sign of a good lesson plan. Attention now, in the celebrity sense, is a whole other beast—the kind that makes Grace want to shrink inside himself. He’s not sure whether it’s modesty or shyness. Both are likely. They have him holed up in a secured location, still, a nice studio flat in the middle of the hills—not so far from civilization that the conspiracy theorists can somehow reach him. He’s still around people, of course, but it’s not the most preferable thing, either. A year in, and Grace can hardly go to the grocery store without someone asking to have a picture with him. Or, to ask him some half-unique question about Eridian biology.
He’s maybe more charmed by the tributes to Rocky than he is the ones for himself. It’s not that Grace doesn’t like murals. Or statues. These things are all valid works of art; he can tell the amount of effort that’s been exerted into each of them, and he doesn’t discount the meaning that they hold for a surviving humanity. It’s more… strange than anything else to see a giant bronze version of himself presiding next to bridges and parks.
In an ideal world, he’d be able to send a transmission up to his old friend—Look, pal, Grace would write, Everybody loves you down here. Thought you should know. Is it weird for you, too?—and age for long enough to see a response.
—
Nobody tells you that Dr. Ryland Grace is coming to your museum on a random Monday in the middle of April. Usually, there’s some sort of warning about celebrity visits—non-disclosure agreements and photo release forms and security guards up and down the place. You hate it when they happen, and they happen at least once every exhibit rotation. But, when Grace comes, there’s a simplicity to his visit.
You’re in the middle of talking with your assistant curator when he comes in through the front entrance. He goes straight into the ticketing line, pays in full. Gives the appearance of really any usual guest. What really causes you to float out of your conversation is the sight of him dropping a folded-up $20 bill into the see-through donations box near the restroom. The assistant curator is talking logistics to you about the incoming dino fossils, and some suggestions about where to position stanchions. But, the sight of this generous and unsuspecting guest causes your attention to flee elsewhere. “It all sounds good,” you say blankly, “Just…”
The assistant curator doesn’t seem too phased—merely turning their head over their shoulder to trace your gaze. They spot it as quickly as you do, and jut their thumb out sideways: “Is that—?”
You nod briskly, “Yeah. That’s definitely a twenty. Would you mind if we finish later?” They nod. It doesn’t take much more for you to sidle away, in search of the mystery donor. You wonder only for a second if it’s weird to tail him. The other, more desperate side of you tells you that this is definitely a potential patron with a lot of money to hand over to your workplace. Local history museum meets funding—an unusual feat. So, you dedicate yourself toward trying to search for him. He seems to disappear a bit, shrouded by seniors and young couples wandering about the lobby. But, his trajectory is clear: the Hail Mary exhibit.
There’s a ton of goodies there—really, some of the museum’s best work. The last curator had worked immensely hard trying to acquire a set of items from a lot at an auction, including printed mission reports, photographs of the astronauts, and donated personal items. The real jewel of the exhibit is one of four “beetles” sent back down to Earth. It’s an empty shell now, though it once held a vat of taumoeba packed up straight from Tau Ceti. Across, a tape-label reads: Ringo. John, Paul, and George are all scattered across other larger institutions across the country. You’re very lucky to have Ringo. He’s a real crowd-pleaser.
There are various, different swaths of kids dividing you and your generous visitor, some from the local after-school program and some on family trips. A young boy skids on the floor right at his feet—can’t be older than eight. At once, he takes his hands out of his pockets and rushes to help the boy up onto his feet. Once he turns to guide the boy back towards his parents, you can get a better look at his face. A couple of initial thoughts: kind, handsome, and too familiar. You pretend to tidy up a stack of maps in a nearby information kiosk. But… you realize, eyes darting between Ringo and the generous guest, that there’s something particularly striking about the frames of his glasses. Thin, silver rectangles.
You know who he is. Even if he wears a black NY baseball cap and the plainest of windbreakers and he’s just a little bit grayer than the pictures, you know who he is. You try to suppress the memory of you unpacking the photos of him down in the archives when the museum first received them, fingers grasping the corners, a fluster on your face. From memory, you can recall that in half of the photos, Grace has a sideways grin and a dorky little thumbs-up.
Dr. Ryland Grace is standing in the middle of his own exhibit. There are things you should do—tell the museum director, for starters, that the world’s most known public figure is standing in the middle of your institution. At the least, you should introduce yourself, offer up a guided tour, make a good impression. But, seeing as Dr. Grace looks like he’s about to cry at the sight of his own photographs, you’re not at liberty to bother.
Instead, you watch as Grace walks into a partitioned room—a clean black box with a wide bench in the middle. On the projector, there’s a looped one-hour compilation of various different interviews related to the project. The one on now shows a Chinese man in his mid-forties, sitting on a high stool with one leg crossed over the other. He has a cool sort of look to him, comfortable—not averse to the camera. The speakers echo out: “Your name for the tape?” An interviewer.
The man responds: “Connor Yao.” From behind, you can see Grace’s posture straighten out. Recognition. Maybe you should walk away now, try to give him space. But, you don’t feel right in leaving him be, either. Perhaps, because you know the contents of the interviews, you feel a little guilty in leaving Grace to his own devices. You have a quiet, disconcerting need to watch over him, like some kind of guardian spirit. Half-guilty, you watch the video with him from the hall.
“And can you tell us about your father?” the interviewer asks.
“Sure,” Connor nods, “My father was Yao Li-Jie. He was the assigned commander of the Hail Mary. I was, think, three years old when the Petrova Line was discovered. Eight when the Hail Mary launched.”
“And what do you remember about him?”
“He liked to laugh. A lot. He liked to sing along to the radio when he drove—which my mom only pretended to hate. She was always telling me about how he’d always try to serenade her when they were first going out. I think it was more fun for him than it was for her.” Connor makes himself laugh, makes the interviewer laugh. And, somewhere in between them, you can hear Grace laughing, too. It’s a sweet anecdote. With it, you decide to leave him be.
—
When you return at the end of your shift, you find Grace on the opposite side of the exhibit at another video station. He has his windbreaker off now, revealing the navy-blue knit sweater underneath. Here, there’s an older woman on-camera, tucking her hair back behind her ears. The interviewer tells her: “You can ignore the lens. Treat this like it’s just you and me.” Sara seems to shrug the tension off her shoulders, trying to appear more relaxed. Only half of her nervousness is skimmed off. The interview continues. “Could you tell us a little bit about yourself—your name and why you’re here?”
She responds, “My name is Sara Carter-Yuito. Formerly just Sara Carter.”
“And, Sara, can you tell us what you recall about Dr. Ryland Grace?” You can see Grace straighten up as she speaks, head tilted at the mention of his own name.
On-screen, Sara smiles. “Right. Yeah. I went to Grover Cleveland Middle, so I took Mr. G—Mr. Grace—for Science in the eighth grade. He would do all these really great lesson plans about atoms, thermodynamics, plate tectonics. You know, eighth-grade material. But, he’d always do this really great job of making sure we weren’t zoning out. I’m pretty sure I owe him my PhDs.”
You’ve seen this interview as many times as you have the others. It’s probably one of the most charming of the bunch. Sara Carter-Yuito, Professor of Physics at Whitman College in Washington. Graduated from University of Washington with a B.S. in Biophysics. Then, two PhD’s in Biophysics and Biochemistry. She was born and raised in San Francisco, attended Grover Cleveland Middle and then the high school next door. You wonder if Grace remembers her face—or, at least the youthful, base features of her face that still remain.
Sara continues, “There was this thing he’d do with a hacky sack? Kind of like hot-potato—” Yes, you think, Grace must remember. While Yao had his son, Connor, Grace had a plethora of kids at Grover Cleveland. His kids—all grown up.
And you finally build up enough courage to knock on the pitch-black wall with a gently-spoken: “Sir?”
You can see him turn once, then twice, in a double take to look at you. It’s difficult not to feel too self-conscious, and it appears this sentiment rings strong for the both of you. “Uh… yeah,” Grace blinks in rapid succession, trying to suck a couple tears back into his eyes, "Yes?” He’s probably wondering if you’re going to berate him with a question, or ten, while you, seemingly in your natural habitat—at work, like usual—almost definitely feel like an intruder to his space.
“Dr. Grace?” Saying his name aloud is a regretful thing, and you feel it even more so seeing the way his eyes widen maximally in response to it. “The museum closed about fifteen minutes ago.” You give a quick point with your index finger to the museum ID-card hanging on your lanyard. Grace sighs in relief. Thank God you’re an employee, his polite smile screams.
“This thing’s useless,” Grace says, grabbing his NY cap off the top of his head, and inspecting it with a lightly aggravated eye. You have to stifle your laugh. In truth? It wasn’t very difficult for you to spot him out. But, you’re not in the particular mood to tell him that you think exactly that. Your eye catches on the tinges of silver hair amidst the dark blonde.
Shyly, you tell him, “You were also walking around throwing twenties into our donation boxes. Nobody does that.”
“Caught me.” He stands up, hands wringing against one another. He makes sure to swipe up his windbreaker off the bench and hold it to his waist. “I heard the announcement earlier. Sorry. I’m sure you probably want to go home.”
“No, that’s alright. I stay ‘till close regardless,” you say, “There’s a bit more of the exhibit in the archive not open to the public. If you’d like to see it…” Your voice shrivels into itself. You’re not even sure if it’s a good idea—but all things considered, global hero and all, it almost feels like you have a responsibility to offer this to him. He looks uncomfortable, shifting his weight to either foot, hand constricting around his windbreaker. So, you shoot out a: “You don’t have to—”
“No—I’d like to. I’d love to, actually,” Grace nods.
—
When you bring Grace down into the basement, it feels a lot smaller than you remember. The filing cabinets feel tight, and it’s dead quiet under the low-lights. Grace has his arms tucked behind his back as he watches you slide the metal drawer open and wedge gentle fingers in between the yellow folders. “Grover Cleveland and a couple other schools donated these to us about a decade ago to make room for, like, traffic guard uniforms or something. The museum’s committee had them up for the first couple of weeks of the Hail Mary exhibit, but they took it down to make room for the interviews.”
You pull the closest one out. The handwriting—your handwriting—on the lip of the folder reads: 2022, Grover Cleveland. You surrender it over to Grace in a hurry, fingertips brushing against his in a staggered, jumbling attempt to hand him the file. He opens it with raised eyebrows; there’s about fifty pieces of paper in this bunch, some letters, some art—all grades. Before, Grace might have been able to recognize certain students’ handwriting to a T; he can’t be sure now.
“Wow.” There are some good drawings and some bad; regardless, they seem to fill Grace’s chest with some kind of warmth. “Right. That’s me,” he points to the middle of a sheet. It is him, scribbled messily with splotches of beige and yellow. A formulation of misshapen rectangles that look like glasses. There’s plenty in the folder like that. He flips through a couple more. These are better than any sculpture that he’s ever seen.
You point: “I think that’s you in space. That’s Tau Ceti.” And, again: “There’s Rocky holding… a balloon?”
Grace makes sure to slide this particular pastel drawing out of the folder and tilt it right-side up. “Actually,” he hums, matter-of-factly, “I think that is actually supposed to be the Petrova Line. ‘Cause the red.” You look up at him, and back down at the drawing. Upon closer examination… you can only half-see it.
“You’re the expert,” you snort. Too loud. Grace tilts his head at you, hearing you laugh. Thus far, you’ve been sort of reserved. Lightly professional, and heavily timid. It seems like he’s almost pleased to see you so comfortable so easily. You have to focus with your greatest efforts not to look at him. Intently, you point at another one—a long, long-legged Rocky presiding over a very vibrant Earth, like some kind of triumphant god. Maybe symbolic enough for you to say, “That’s a really good one, actually,” though it’s very possibly a distraction on your part. Grace is too close and too observant.
He agrees, “It’s superb. Very… Dalí-esque.” Funny. Is he trying to get you to laugh again?
—
And somehow, within the hour, you find yourself eating dinner in the archives with Ryland Grace, takeout sushi delivered to the employee entrance of the museum. Rule bent, you aren’t supposed to even have food down in the basement—but the occasional exception has to be made. You’re cross-legged on your chair, now, table scattered with drawings, letters, and other collected ephemera—all on him. You’re chowing away at the sashimi, his treat, as he looks through all of the materials. Grace looks so amused, mouth tilting up into a small, contemplative smile, and you have to raise an eyebrow at him. What gives?
He shakes his head rapidly, rasping out a soft, “Sorry. It’s nothing.” He takes his glasses off his face and folds them up, before setting them on the table beside his tray of sushi. “It’s just not how anybody’d expect to spend a Monday night. We’re sitting and eating raw fish over the equivalent of a me-shrine. And you’re…” Grace sucks in a deep breath, before letting out a jumbled, “A very, very cool individual with a very big heart.” What? The compliment makes you smile, but it still feels like it’s only half of what Grace actually wanted to say.
The two of you continue sorting through the materials. Clearly, Grace has a preference towards the art; he seems to arrange them very closely to his right side—and leaves the pictures of himself to the sidelines. He slides one small 5x7” print across the table with a couple of taps. “You know, it seems like you would’ve gotten along with this guy.”
You stare at this photo of a pre-Erid Grace—a yearbook photo cutout. He’s young here, a bit out of his element being photographed. A suit jacket and tie over jeans, very pseudo-professorial. His glasses are close to glinting against the flash, and he has his hands shoved into his front pockets. He’d probably take his students to your museum in the fall on a field trip, and, admittedly, you’d probably find him pretty cute. The Grace before you only seems a little bit older, but when you look at him, there’s still the same quality about him that you’d come to pick up on in his photographs. Still boyish, despite time passing. But, you also know what Grace is trying to say: he’s older than you—technically, a lot older than you, with the time dilation taken into account.
Still, you persist: “I think I am getting along with him.”
It takes a moment for Grace to settle with your words. “Right. I guess you are.”
And, silence. He seems fixated on the photo still. “Do you still feel like you’re up there?” you ask him blankly. “I mean, obviously, you’re back on Earth. You’ve been back. But, I’ve always wondered if your head—and your heart, I guess—would still be…” you direct your index finger up above the two of you. In space.
“Well…? Yes and no. Since I’ve been back, I’ve been treated like the patron saint of space, which I don’t think I am. That title belongs to my Eridian friend here.” He points to a couple of stills from his video logs—Grace on his pilot’s chair, and Rocky with his jagged appendages waving right behind him. “Obvious reasons aside, I wanted to make sure I could know everything was okay here,” Grace explains, “I haven’t always been glad about that decision, but right now, it’s not so bad. Today’s been not so bad.” Though he’s shying away from saying it with words, Grace wants to say you’ve made it not so bad.
“You should take the ones you want. The drawings and the letters, I mean. They’re really yours, when you think about it. They belong to you,” you tell Grace.
He looks apprehensive. “Are you even allowed to give them to me?”
“I can figure something out.” Obviously, you aren’t supposed to just give away archival materials willy-nilly. “Maybe you could… volunteer here. Teach a couple science lessons to the students on weekends. I’m sure the director would consider it a fair trade—and we’d probably get more out of the exchange, qualitatively.” You stand up to gather everything together, hands reaching across the table to collect up the papers and stack them neatly into the closest open folder.
“I beg to differ,” Grace says, “These are priceless. And, teaching is like breathing for me. I’ve basically been hypoxic for the last year.” He huffs, realizing that he might have to cease speaking in code. He corrects, “I’m trying to say that I miss having students, and I think I might take you up on the offer.”
“Okay. Good,” you nod. Mission success.
“Great,” Grace echoes back to you. You come around the short table to hand them to Grace with both hands. His eyes soften as you surrender over the folder to him. You’re trying not to light up at the thought of him swinging by again. It’s not at all for the benefit of the museum programming, even if that is a big bonus. Selfishly, you want to see more of him. Even when gray, he has a sort of undeniable charm to him.
summary: ryland has always taken things slowly, but that changes the moment he realises his sweet girl isn’t nearly as innocent as she seems… and that he rather enjoys it
warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, graphic description of sex, submissive ryland supremacy!, begging, glasses stay on during sex, desperate ryland, kind of humiliation?? (forcing ryland to talk dirty), dom-ish reader?? creampie, porn with semi-plot
Ryland had always been an early riser.
It wasn’t down to a specific discipline; it was just how his brain was wired. He woke before alarms, before the sun had fully shown itself. He liked being up just that little bit before the world had fully begun.
Years of teaching only sharpened the habit. He allowed himself to enjoy his morning coffee on the balcony, relished in the quiet of the classroom before the chaos started, allowing himself to just sit in peace for a little while longer. Quiet, he decided, was a luxury he would welcome, even if it came intermittently.
And today was Sunday.
It was a soft morning, lacking lesson plans and half-marked papers, no rushing to beat traffic or coax half-awake teenagers into caring about cell structure. Gentle sunlight poured in through the gap in the curtains, having nowhere it needed to be, much like him for a change.
You were still curled up next to him, still asleep, your breathing slow and even. He daren’t move an inch.
His arm was starting to tingle slightly, and he was itching to reach for his glasses on the bedside table, but he remained still. He could see you well enough like this—soft around the edges, a tad blurry. It was almost like a photograph on film, one that had not quite come into focus. It was an image that would be burned into his brain for mornings to come, and afternoons, and evenings, for that matter.
He feared that if he moved to sharpen the image, it might break the moment entirely. He remained still.
You’d probably tell him off, catching him in the act. He would probably think it was odd if the roles were reversed, watching one sleep, but he couldn’t feel guilt if he tried.
His attention always seemed to bend toward you; the rest of the world would have to wait a while.
The sunlight caught your face just right, tracing along your cheekbone, softening at the curve of your mouth. You were wearing one of his old t-shirts, and it swallowed you slightly, slipping off one shoulder as he tried not to stare at the bare skin.
He thought, not for the first time, that you might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Which, scientifically speaking, was ridiculous. He could list a dozen scientific phenomena that objectively outclassed a sleepy human in borrowed clothing. Mitoses. Photosyntheses. The rings of Saturn.
But you being here was slowly dismantling his entire sense of scale on the matter.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, careful not to shift the mattress, as he recalled the previous night.
The previous night.
He had been so damn nervous.
Months of careful courting, getting to know you piece by piece and always eager for more. Shared dinners that stretched far too long because neither of you wanted to leave. Walking you home under streetlights, where conversations continued to flow so easily.
Sometimes you let him steal a kiss—or three—with him always pulling away at the last minute, insisting that he wanted to take his time. He wanted to do it right.
He was old-fashioned—not in the way people tend to mean now—but in that he believed in taking his time.
You just mattered to him. More than he cared to admit. That, tied with the fact that he was years out of practise, meant that this was even more rare.
He could not mess this up by rushing anything.
Not when the first girl he had the guts to ask out in years laughed at his terrible jokes, let him ramble through every scientific theory that caught his interest, not when your cheeks warmed at his soft compliments—especially not when his did the exact same.
He was a goner from day one. Every time he got home, he felt like he was floating. In high school all over again, with the pretty girl deciding to sit next to him in class for a change. You didn’t shy away from his personality, didn’t shrink. The knowledge that he had not ruined anything by just being himself.
He knew how easily it could happen. It had before—people brushing him off as distant, too lost in his own head to be taken seriously. He’d be damned if he let you slip through his fingers, not when you understood him so effortlessly.
So he hadn’t rushed, hadn’t pushed. There was no assumption of anything physical, no reaching for more than you were willing to give. But he couldn’t stop last night, not when you had been so certain, so soft.
It was natural with you, easy in ways intimacy never quite came to him.
All the nerves he had been holding in his stomach seemed to quiet. How could he be nervous when your legs pulled him deeper? Looking up at him with those eyes of yours as you asked him so nicely?
He knew he would give you anything you asked for in that moment—everything, actually. He’d be a fool not to.
You shifted then, barely more than a breath, but it pulled his attention back instantly. Your hand slid across his chest, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of his shirt as you turned, instinctively, toward him.
He froze, every muscle going still on instinct, like any movement might break whatever delicate, unconscious decision you were making. He could feel your weight against him, solid and comfortable. Like this wasn’t new for you, even if it was for him.
He hoped that, in time, it would no longer feel so novel to him. The fact that you were still here come morning was all the reassurance he’d done his job right.
You moved slightly against his arm again. Though it wasn’t like before, your unconscious shift still shrouded in sleep. Now you move with purpose, slowly stretching your limbs as you surface, waking in layers. Your hand slid across, your body pressing a little closer as you relaxed, settling into him once more.
He was perfectly still, not wanting to disturb you further.
Your eyes blinked open, still heavy with sleep. It only took you a few seconds of looking at him before your expression softened.
There you are.
“Hi,” you murmured, almost shy, not fully awake just yet.
“Hi,” he echoed, just as soft.
His eyes traced your face again, before he finally moved his hand. His fingers traced gently along your shoulder as you began to focus on him. Your gaze sharpened slightly as you assessed him. He seemed far more cognizant, and your lips curved into a gentle smile.
“...were you watching me sleep?”
The question, entirely fair and completely reasonable. The answer, however, deeply incriminating.
“…no?” he tried, failing miserably.
You uhuffed out a sleepy laugh, barely more than a breath as you nudged him with your foot, your smile widening. “Liar.”
You got him there.
He offered you a helpless shrug before leaning over, trying to salvage his dignity. He reached blindly for the bedside table before his fingers found his glasses. He slipped them on, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, the soft image of you coming in a little clearer. Both were equally lovely to wake to.
“Well,” he said, “in my defence—you weren’t exactly in focus.”
You laughed properly at that, your nose scrunching as you gave up on berating him. You curled yourself into his collarbone, forehead brushing lightly against his skin as you nuzzled closer to him, still amused. His arms enveloped you as they were itching to do all morning.
“Did you sleep okay?” you asked, voice slightly muffled.
“Perfectly,” he replied, although to him, it was a silly question. Even if he’d barely slept, the simple act of you being right beside him would have been perfection.
“Good,” you hummed.
Your body pressed more firmly against his, your leg sliding up just enough to tangle with his, your hand tracing absently along his chest in the soft morning glow
His breath hitched.
The warm feel of you, the way your soft thighs slide higher between his, the press of your breasts against his ribs under that oversized t-shirt…
His mind was already dipping into the memories of last night.
Images flickered behind his eyes in vivid flashes: the way you’d pulled him in with your legs wrapped tight around his hips, the breathy little sound you’d made when he finally sank into you, the way you’d looked up at him with those same sleepy, trusting eyes.
He’d tried so hard to be gentle, to take his time as he’d promised himself, but you’d been so warm and wet and eager, rocking up to meet every careful thrust until his control had frayed at the edges.
He needed to get his mind out the gutter—fast. There was no way you’d be up for that so early, but his mind circled back to your skin in the pale moonlight.
Your draping over him was not helping the situation; his body was reacting faster than his brain could. His cock stiffened fast, thickening against the soft give of your thigh, the thin fabric of his boxers doing nothing to hide how quickly he was hardening for you.
Oh, come on—seriously?
He tried to distract himself, but you felt it immediately. He knew you did, because the corner of your mouth curved against his skin in the tiniest, most wicked little smirk.
Whatever he was in for, he didn’t know, but that expression didn’t put him at ease at all.
Your lips brushed his jaw first—deliberate kisses that trailed down to the sensitive spot just under his ear. Then lower, along the line of his collarbone, slow and open-mouthed, like you were tasting the morning on him. When you pushed your knee up even higher, pressing right against the hard line of his cock, he twitched visibly beneath you.
A helpless sound slipped out of his throat before he could stop it.
You breathed a quiet laugh against the side of his neck, warm air ghosting over skin, and it did terrible, wonderful things to him. His hips jerked once, involuntarily, chasing the pressure of your thigh; he couldn’t help himself.
“Excited this morning, hm?” you teased, voice still husky with sleep but laced with mischief.
This was cruel.
He huffed, but it melted straight into a groan when your mouth found the side of his neck again—this time harder, lips and teeth and tongue working over the same spot until his toes curled against the sheets.
“I—it’s biology,” he managed, voice rough, “waking up in bed next to a pretty girl, it’s not—”
Your teeth sank gently into his neck, right where his pulse hammered, and the rest of the sentence shattered. His arm shot out across your back, hand gripping your shoulder hard.
In one smooth movement, you swung a leg over and straddled him, settling your weight right over the aching ridge of him. The thin layers between you doing absolutely nothing to dull the sensation.
You looked down at him, all doe-eyed and teasing and absolutely loving how flustered he was getting. You were still laced with sleep, but your lips curled as you knew exactly what your were doing to him.
“You think I’m pretty?”
God, you were gonna be the death of him.
His head was so foggy as you grinned down at him, loving the reaction he was giving you. Last night was all chaste kisses and whispered words.
Now, you were looking at him like you wanted to devour him.
All he could do was nod up at you, glasses slightly crooked, hair a mess against the pillow.
“Sweetheart,” he breathed, voice wrecked already, “like you—like you even have to ask.”
The flush that bloomed across his cheeks was beautiful and your grin grew even wider. You wasted no time in rewarding him with a slow drag of your hips against his, rubbing along his full length through the fabric, the friction pulled a sharp groan out of his chest.
You took the opportunity to lean down, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“Ry…” you teased as you rocked against him again.
His hips bucked up into you, trying to chase the heat and pressure like his body had a mind of its own.
He could barely think when your thighs pressed against his hips so deliciously. He didn’t trust himself to speak clearly, worried his voice would crack further.
“T—top drawer,” he managed, his words stumbling out between quick breaths.
You pulled back with the proudest smile, clearly pleased with yourself. You pressed a gentle kiss against his lips as you leaned over to grab your reward. You stretched toward the bedside table, letting the hem of his t-shirt ride up your thighs, allowing him the devastating view of your bare skin.
You chuckled when his breath hitched at the display. He was far too easy to rile up—you loved it.
The drawer slid open with a quiet rattle. You reached in, fingers closing around the familiar box of condoms before giving it a small shake.
His stomach dropped.
Goddamn it.
He groaned, cursing himself repeatedly in his head. This was mortifying. One hand dragged down his face as reality hit him.
After so long without anyone, he barely touched the damn things. Not like he was getting anything close to action these days.
He should have remembered—there had only been two left yesterday, and you’d made such sweet, perfect use of both of them last night. You’d asked so sweetly if you could say, if that was alright, and then one thing led to another in the glow of the bedside lamp.
He should have been better prepared—god, if only—but he had been selfish last night. He gave in. He wanted to memorise every sound you made, every way your body fit against his, every breathless call of his name that was suddenly flashing through his mind once more.
Now, he would be facing the consequences.
“I–I’m sorry,” he started immediately, voice thick with apology, eyes wide behind his glasses. “I should have—I wasn’t expecting—I’m an idiot, I—”
You shushed him gently, stopping his rambling. You leaned down close again, forehead almost resting against his.
You didn’t look upset, which was a good thing?
With a gentle voice, so filled with affection despite its teasing edge, so much so that he never would have guessed the filthy words that left your mouth.
“I’m protected, Ry,” you placed one hand on his jaw, keeping your lips to his ear. “If you want… we can still…”
Surely you didn’t mean….
It took every single scrap of willpower not to combust right then and there. His brain scrambled as he caught your insinuation.
He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about it—of course he had.
He was a man, and he was stupidly, helplessly in love with you. And, at the end of the day, biology was biology. Late at night after those long dinners, goodnight kisses that left him aching in his car, his mind wandered to the most primal thought: what it would be like to feel you. All of you.
No barriers—nothing. Just the soft and slick feeling of your skin against his.
He’d always shoved the thought away, called himself delusional, told himself it was far too big of an ask to impose on anyone, let alone you.
He’d never done that before. Not once. Not with the handful of careful, cautious flings he’d had years ago. Nothing this intimate. Nothing that held like handing you every last piece of him.
But you were offering it so willingly. Sitting all pretty on his lap like it would be a pleasure for not just him. His cock gave a helpless throb against you at the mere idea.
You chuckled at his reaction, you knew the effect you had on him.
He was nodding before he could stop himself—quick, frantic bobs of his head, glasses struggling to stay still, mouth dry.
You smiled that little smile and placed two fingers under his chin, tilting his head and forcing his dazed eyes to meet yours.
“I need words, Ry,” you whispered as your thumb brushed his bottom lip. “Can’t do it unless you tell me yes.”
You were going to be the absolute death of him.
“Yes,” he rasped, voice cracking. “Yes, I want—but only if you do. Please don’t feel as though—I would never—”
You quieted him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, cutting off the rambling before it could spiral.
“I want to,” you murmured against his lips. “Wanna feel you everywhere.”
The groan that tore out of him was completely broken and involuntary. If that’s what you wanted, that’s what he’ll give you. Gladly.
“I’m gonna be on top, okay?” you ask, but it isn’t really a question.
He forces himself back to reality, to the fact that you are going to be on top of him. That the fantasy of you riding him is unfolding right in front of his eyes. You give him a second, a small window to object as you pull your underwear down slowly—like you think he might. Like that’s even remotely a possibility right now.
You smiled down at him as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, eyes locked on his, a knowing smile playing on your lips that made his stomach flip.
He watched, utterly transfixed, as you tugged the fabric down his hips with aching slowness. His cock sprang free, painfully hard and already leaking at the tip. The cool morning air hit his overheated skin, he hissed through his teeth.
“Eager, hm?” you murmured as your fingers brushed against his thigh.
He opened his mouth, some half-formed protest already forming, but your hand wrapped around him before he could get a single syllable out. The sudden pressure of your palm stole every thought. His hips jerked up into your grip on instinct, and all that came out was a broken, breathless babble.
“Never—never done it like this before,” he managed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Not—not bare, I mean—”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your expression softening in a heartbeat.
Your hand stayed right where it was, stroking him, thumb circling the slick head in a way that made his vision blur at the edges. For one terrifying second he thought you were going to stop, that the weight of being someone’s first for something this intimate might be too much.
That maybe you’d decide he was too much.
But your cheeks flushed darker, your eyes gleaming with something possessive, and your fingers tightened just a fraction around his shaft.
“Does this mean… I’m the first?”
The thought was dizzying. You were going to be the first one to give this to him, the ultimate trust. The idea sent a jolt down to your lower belly, your breath getting heavier in your lungs as you looked at his dishevelled expression.
You stroked him again, base to tip, torturously unhurried.
“Y–yes,” he nodded. “You’re the first.”
He could barely get the words out, your hand distracting him from anything coherent.
“Hm,” you hummed, low and fond. You leaned over him until your breath ghosted over his lips. Your hand never stopped its slow, devastating rhythm on his cock.
“Better make it worth it then, don’t I?”
He was gone.
Helplessly gone.
A wrecked sound tore out of his throat and his hands flew up to grip your thighs, fingers digging. His cock throbbed hard in your fist at the words, another bead of pre-cum sliding over your knuckles. He couldn’t even form a reply—just nodded frantically, cheeks burning crimson.
You sat up and peeled his old t-shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. It dropped somewhere off the side of the bed. Ryland’s eyes went wide, pupils blown behind the lenses as he drank in the sight of you—bare, soft, perfect—straddling his hips. His mouth went dry. He stared at the swell of your breasts, the way your nipples had already tightened in the cool air, the gentle curve of your stomach, the place where your thighs pressed warm against his.
You caught the way he hesitated, his hands hovering like he was afraid to ruin the view, and you laughed again.
“You can touch me,” you said, voice warm. “I want you to touch me.”
Gladly.
His hands found you instantly, reverent and greedy. Palms sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, then cupping them, feeling the goosebumps rise across your skin.
He leaned up on his elbows, mouth following the path of his hands—open-mouthed kisses pressed to your sternum, your ribs, the soft underside of one breast before he dragged his tongue over your nipple and sucked gently.
It was clumsy with his adrenaline, but you still sighed, arching into him. Your hand threading into his messy hair and scratching at his scalp in that way that made his eyes flutter shut.
He kept going, lost in the taste of your skin, the little sounds you made, even as his cock ached and leaked against you.
He could have stayed there forever, worshipping every inch of you, but you gently tugged his head back by the hair. He hissed at the sting, glasses fogged and crooked, eyes dazed and glassy as he stared up at you.
Please, do that again.
You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs stroking his flushed cheeks.
“Lie back.”
He obeyed quickly, falling back against the pillows, hands still locked on your hips.
He almost felt bad, the way you took over so easily. Surely he could be doing more, giving you more. But the thought faltered under the weight of the look in your eyes.
There was something in your expression that made his stomach flip, something that felt almost dangerous in the gentlest way. Like you were about to take him apart piece by piece.
The moment he was flat, you wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock again and gave him one long, torturously slow stroke.
“Please—” he squirmed beneath you, hips twitching.
You smiled down at him, wicked and sweet.
“If I’m the first one to have you like this, Ry,” you purred, stroking him again, even slower, “I gotta take my time.”
The look on his face must have been devastating, because your eyes darkened with pure satisfaction. He whined when you kept teasing him, thumb pressing right under the head on every upstroke, spreading the slickness until his cock glistened.
“This is cruel,” he gasped, voice cracking, head tipping back against the pillow. His thighs trembled under you. “Sweetheart, please—I can’t—”
He needed to feel you—now.
You took pity on him then, because he looked so desperate, so beautifully wrecked beneath you.
“Only because you asked so nicely.”
Thank God.
You shifted your weight, guiding the flushed, angry tip of his cock to your entrance. The first brush of wet heat against him made his breath stutter.
“Oh—God—” he choked out as you started to sink down.
The slide was slow, deliberate, and devastating. Nothing between you. Just slick, perfect heat enveloping him inch by inch until you were seated fully on his cock, your ass flush against his hips, nothing separating you at all.
“Baby—I—”
He could feel everything. Every flutter of your walls, every tiny twitch and clench as you adjusted around him. The way your body welcomed him completely, hot and wet and so tight it made his head spin. His hands spasmed at your sides, fingers digging into the soft give of your hips. He watched, transfixed, as your eyes fluttered and rolled back for a second when you rocked your hips experimentally, your walls rippling around his bare cock.
“You feel that?” you asked, voice husky, one hand braced on his chest as you rolled your hips again, taking him even deeper.
“Yes—yes, I feel it,” he gritted out, the words ragged. “I feel all of you—it’s—”
Every nerve in his body was lit up, oversensitive and raw. Nothing could have prepared him for this.
All those nights he was alone, his cock in his hand as he felt guilty about what he was doing. Images racing through his head of you like this, raw, so beautiful on top of him.
All those half-hearted imitations didn’t come close to this bliss.
“I need you to move,” he begged. “Need you to move, sweetheart, please—”
He sounded almost pathetic as he pleaded with you.
You began to ride him, rising up until just the head of his cock kissed your entrance before sinking back down, taking every thick inch again. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the quiet room. His head fell back, a moan tearing from his throat as pleasure exploded behind his eyes like fireworks. Sparks shot down his spine, pooling hot and heavy in his gut.
He watched you through half-lidded eyes, completely blissed out—your head tipped back, lips parted on soft little gasps and moans that made his cock throb inside you, the way your breasts bounced with every roll of your hips, the way your thighs flexed as you rode him like you owned him.
And you did. In that moment, you absolutely did.
“Fuck, Ry,” you breathed, leaning forward so your hands braced on his chest, nails digging in just enough to sting. “You’re so deep—”
Fuck, he knew. He could feel it.
Every thick inch of him buried to the hilt inside you, the slick, velvety drag of your walls hugging him so perfectly with nothing between you. It was overwhelming, obscene, the wet heat of your pussy swallowing him whole and clenching like it never wanted to let go. His hips snapped up on pure instinct, chasing that devastating friction, but you were the one in control, grinding down slow, making sure he felt every single flutter.
You picked up the pace then, rising and sinking with purpose. He whimpered, the sound punched out of his chest as pleasure coiled tighter in his gut. His glasses were completely fogged now, the lenses useless, but he didn’t care. He could barely see straight anyway, too lost in the sight of you above him: flushed cheeks, lips parted.
You looked like sin in the morning sunlight, and he was helpless beneath you.
“Does it feel good?” you teased, voice breathy but dripping with satisfaction as you clenched around him on purpose, a rippling squeeze that made his cock throb hard inside you. “Can you feel it?”
Can he feel it?
You were killing him.
He didn’t know where this new, wicked confidence had come from—last night you’d been soft and sweet and letting him set the pace, but now you were riding him like you owned every inch of his body.
He wasn’t complaining. Not even a little. If anything, the contrast made his head spin faster.
“Yes—yes, god, yes,” he babbled, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “Feels so good—been thinking about it for weeks—”
The confession slipped out before he could stop it. Your movements slowed instantly, dragging to an aching crawl until you were barely rocking on his cock, just enough to keep him throbbing and leaking inside you but nowhere near enough to satisfy.
You looked down at him, one hand sliding up to cup his jaw, fingers firm as you forced his blue, glassy eyes to meet yours.
“Weeks?” you echoed, voice soft but edged with pure delight.
He was panting, chest heaving, sweat already beading at his temples. He nodded frantically, too far gone to lie. His cock gave a helpless twitch inside you at the way you were looking at him—like you wanted to devour every filthy secret he’d ever had.
You leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you rolled your hips with excruciating slowness.
“Come on, don’t be shy now,” you whispered, voice dripping honey and sin. “How much have you thought about this? Be honest.”
This was mortifying.
He groaned, cheeks burning hotter than he thought possible. This wasn’t fair. This was cruel. You were sitting so pretty on his cock, pussy wrapped tight around him, and now you were pulling dirty confessions out of him like it was nothing.
He wasn’t good at this—words always tangled on his tongue around you at the best of times, and now, with you clenching around him on every slow drag, it was torture. Pure torture.
“I—I don’t know, I just—ugh, please move faster,” he begged, voice cracking, hips twitching uselessly beneath you in a desperate attempt to get more friction.
You stopped moving completely. Just sat there, warm and full of him, smiling down at him with that innocent little tilt of your head that did not match the filthy way you were keeping him buried inside you.
“I’m not moving until you tell me,” you said sweetly, like you were asking him about the weather instead of demanding he spill every desperate fantasy he’d had about filling you up bare. "
His brain short-circuited. The contrast—your soft, almost shy tone against the way your pussy was still fluttering around his aching cock—was going to end him. He was so sensitive, every tiny shift of your body sending sparks shooting up his spine, his body drawing tight with the need to cum.
“Ah—okay—since the second date,” he gasped in a humiliated rush. “Just—please, honey—don’t stop—you’re killing me here—”
You had the nerve to giggle, the sound vibrating through your body and straight into his length. For a second, he thought you were going to lean back and finally ride him properly, but you just stayed there, smiling down at him like he was the most adorable thing you’d ever seen.
Just take pity on him already.
“Long time, huh?” you murmured, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, now we can do this whenever you want, Ry. Just gotta ask.”
Whenever he wants?
Christ.
He swore he was going to die. The casual promise in your voice sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through him.
You owned him. Completely.
You finally took mercy and started moving again, you rode him with purpose. You moaned his name, and he could barely contain himself.
He was so sensitive, every drag of your pussy around his bare cock sending him spiralling higher, the heat of you with nothing between you driving him out of his mind. He could feel everything—the way your walls squeezed, the slick slide of your arousal mixing with his, the way your thighs trembled against his hips.
“Fuck—” you groaned, voice so gone it broke him. You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, eyes locked on his as you kept riding him deep and perfect. “Please, Ry?—Wanna feel you.”
The polite little plea combined with the filthy request shattered what was left of his control. He came with a shattered cry of your name, hips jerking up hard as he gripped your waist.
“Baby, I'm—”
The words tumbled out, even as his cock pulsed and throbbed, spilling thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside you. Wave after wave, more than he thought he had in him, flooding you until he could feel the slick mess of it already starting to leak out around where you were joined.
His whole body shook with it, oversensitive and wrecked, glasses slipping down his nose as his head tipped back against the pillow.
You kept moving through every pulse, milking him for everything he had, whispering soft praises against his mouth until the last weak spurt finally faded and he was left trembling beneath you, spent and panting and so full of love and lust he couldn’t even form words.
Slowly, the world came back into focus. His heartbeat thundered in his ears while the rest of him felt loose and heavy. You were still straddling him, full of him, but your movements had gentled into lazy little rocks that sent aftershocks rippling through his oversensitive cock. He was still buried deep inside you, the mess of his release already starting to leak out around where your bodies were joined, warm and obscene and impossibly intimate.
Your lips were on him, sweet kisses scattered across his flushed face. One to the corner of his eye where his glasses had slipped, one to the bridge of his nose, one to the corner of his mouth that was still parted on a shaky exhale. You kissed his forehead, his temple, the flushed shell of his ear, murmuring little nothings between each press of your lips.
He was still floating somewhere outside his own body, chest heaving, but the sweetness of it pulled him back down gently. His hands, which had been locked in a death grip on your hips, loosened and slid up your back in a dazed caress.
When his eyes finally fluttered open, hair a complete disaster against the pillow, he looked up at you with pure, raw apology written all over his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he rasped. “I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t mean to—”
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.
“What?” you asked, genuinely confused, one hand brushing damp strands of hair off his forehead. “Ry, I asked for this. I wanted it. There’s no need to apologise.”
He huffed out a half-frustrated groan, and let his head fall back against the pillow. His cheeks burned hotter.
Of course you’d say that. Of course you’d be sweet about it. But the guilt still twisted in his gut like a live wire.
He’d come so fast. Like a damn teenager who’d never touched a girl before. He hadn’t even lasted long enough to get you off, and that was the part that stung the worst.
He was supposed to take care of you—had promised himself he would, after all the careful, patient months of waiting. He was the one who was supposed to make you fall apart, not the other way around.
He’d spilled inside you like he had zero control, like the bare feel of you around him had short-circuited every rational thought he’d ever had.
Pathetic.
He could already feel the scientific part of his brain cataloguing the humiliation: refractory period probably shot, ego thoroughly demolished.
“What about you?” His voice was still shaky, but the concern was there.
You blinked down at him, all innocent again, like you hadn’t just ridden him into oblivion.
“What about me?”
“You didn’t even—” He gestured vaguely between you, cheeks flaming. “I didn’t get you there. I couldn’t even last long enough to—”
You chuckled, as you slowly lifted yourself off his cock. The wet drag pulling off him made him twitch hard, a broken sound escaping his throat as the air hit his oversensitive length. You flopped down beside him on the mattress, curling into his side, one leg sliding over his thigh.
“Well,” you said, propping your chin on his chest and looking up at him with sparkling eyes, “we have the rest of the day. I’m sure you can make it up to me later.” Your smile turned just a little wicked. “Or maybe in the shower?”
He groaned, already turned on again, and pulled you closer, arms wrapping around you.
You were unbelievable.
The way you could go from filthy and commanding to soft and playful in the space of a heartbeat left him dizzy.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” he muttered against your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head even as his body still hummed with aftershocks.
You laughed softly and tilted your face up, catching his mouth in a deep kiss that tasted like morning and sex and everything he’d been dreaming about for months. When you pulled back, your lips brushed his one last time.
“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” you whispered, voice warm against his mouth. “You’re more than welcome to join me.”
You slipped out of bed and he watched as you padded toward the bathroom. His eyes dropped to your thighs, where the evidence of what you’d just done together glistened in the sunlight: a slow, shiny trail down your skin. The sight hit him like a punch to the chest, possessive and so fucking beautiful it short-circuited whatever was left of his brain.
He was out of bed in an instant, nearly tangling himself in the sheets in his rush, cock already half-hard again just from the sight of you. You glanced over your shoulder and giggled and he followed without a second thought, trailing after you like a man who had already accepted his fate.
Yeah. He was definitely going to make it up to you in the shower.
a/n: im ovulating idk i think i blacked out when writing this. two people have asked me about creampies and this is where my mind immediately went
also sub ryland is real to me and i'll do anything to write about him being pathetic <3
hopefully you enjoyed and i will hopefully have something else written by next week so keep a lookout ;))))
content: 18+ mdni, widow!jack abbot, fake dating, sexually explicit content, age gap, discussions of miscarriage, discussions of surgical miscarriage, discussions of infidelity, dysfunctional family, discussions of divorce, wedding, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, mild violence, some named family members and ex significant other
words: 26.7k
synopsis: when the wedding invitation arrives for your ex husband's marriage to your little sister, you're tempted to set fire to your entire life. your attending, jack abbot, has other ideas.
a/n: i had a blast writing this all the drama all the love all the hurt all the pining!! it's been a while since i wrote something for jack and i'm really happy to be putting this out just in time for dr abbot to be back on our tv screens!! title is based on the song me before you by bleachers. i hope you love it <3 syd (also i know i did not edit this well so i apologize in advance for the typos)
The night had already started off badly enough before you checked the mail. You'd slept through three alarms, stubbed your toe on the dresser in your rush to get dressed, and burnt your coffee all before leaving your apartment. In hindsight, you should have left the overflowing mailbox alone on your way out. You wished you could have foreseen how yanking all the pieces of mail out of the small black box that hung by the door would ruin your whole shift. Would ruin your whole week, really.
Getting into your car, you had tossed the mail into the passenger seat. It wasn't until you were stopped at a light about five minutes away from the hospital that you caught sight of the envelope. Pastel pink bows and your name etched in cursive.
Your heart dropped, eyes glued to the envelope, the rest of your body locking up, "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."
A horn split the air from behind you and you jerked your head back to the front and saw the green light, "Fuck—Alright, alright!"
Your knee shook the entire rest of the way to the hospital and once you were parked, your hands were so shaky as you tried to open the envelope you immediately received a paper cut. But the pain was nothing compared to the agony that you felt ripple through your chest as your eyes traveled over the invitation, gold and pink glitter floating around the car onto your scrubs.
After staring at the piece of cardstock in your hand for too long, you felt your phone vibrate. Blinking rapidly you pulled it out to see a text from Jack Abbot: You good?
Your eyes traveled to the time at the top of your screen to see you were nearly five minutes late to the start of shift. Normally you walked through those doors at least fifteen minutes early. He was clearly showing heroic levels of restraint by waiting until you were several minutes late to contact you.
Sorry, running late. Be there in 5. You texted back hurriedly and were rewarded five seconds later with a thumbs up reaction.
Taking in a shaky breath, you closed out of your messages app to dial your mom.
She picked up after the second ring, "Hey, honey, everything okay? Thought you worked tonight."
"Has Maya lost her fucking mind?"
Your mom was quiet for a few moments, "…So you got the wedding invitation then?"
"I'm not going," You said, angry tears already burning the backs of your eyes, "and to top it all off, she's getting married at the exact fucking venue I wanted to get married at but David and I couldn't afford it at the time. She knew that, she fucking knew it was my dream wedding—"
"I know, baby," your mom said sympathetically, "I don't expect you to come."
"Why would she do this?" You asked, and finally, the anger evaporated from your voice, replaced with the pure devastation, "I mean, she already fucking won, what else does she want? Having my husband and my dream wedding isn't enough for her? She needs to humiliate me in front of everyone we know as well?"
"I don't think she's doing it to hurt you," your mom said quietly, "believe it or not, I think she just wants her big sister at her wedding. She misses you."
You laughed humorlessly, straightening your shoulders in an attempt to rid your body of the despair that now saturated it, "She should have thought about that before she fucked my husband."
Your mother sighed on the other line, "I told her that you'd react like this, but she wouldn't listen to me."
"You think I'm being unreasonable?" You snapped.
"Of course I don't," She said firmly, "and you know that. You know exactly how I feel about this whole thing and so does she. It's a goddamn shame. And if she ever wants to fix things with you she'll probably have to wait until she's divorced or that son of a bitch is dead."
You snorted at that and your mother, normally a perfectly poised saint, rushed in to damage control, "Sorry, I didn't mean that, I actually think his mother's a sweet lady."
You swiped at a tear and sniffled, "Yeah, she is. Thank you for listening to me scream and cry again, but I have to go to work now, I'm late."
"Anytime, kiddo. I love you."
As you hung up, you saw another text from Abbot come in: Come find me when you get here.
You sighed, "shit."
As senior resident, you had a pretty close relationship with your attending. Professionally, anyway. But you being late was out of character for you and Jack Abbot was perceptive. He'd want to get to the bottom of whatever was wrong and no matter how you tried to deflect, you knew he'd persist.
But that wouldn't stop you from trying.
"Hey hun," Lena peered at you over the rim of her glasses as you approached the hub, "you alright?"
"Yeah, just overslept." You forced a smile, "You know where I can find Abbot?"
She directed you over towards the beds in north where you found Abbot discussing a treatment plan with Ellis outside a patient's room. When he saw you, he gestured for you wait a second while he finished up with Ellis. Once she walked off, he gestured for you to follow him.
You fell into step beside him as you walked around the ER, "Everything okay with you?" he asked.
"Yes."
You'd arrived back at the hub and Jack turned fully to you, hazel eyes laser focused on you. You hated this about him, how he demanded your eyes on his at all times so he could properly assess you, as if you were a patient in need of fixing.
"That's it?"
You shrugged, "Yes."
He tilted his head slightly, "In the entire time you've been on my shift, you've never been late. Not even once."
"Yeah," You said, annoyance coating your tone, "which is why you should cut me some slack."
"You're not in trouble," he said mildly, "I'm just checking in. You sure everything's fine?"
You sighed, "Yes."
He stared at you a moment longer before taking an iPad from the docking station, "Okay, fine. Grab a med student and handle chairs."
"Chairs?" Your eyebrows shot up your forehead, "You are pissed at me."
"No," Abbot said shaking his head, eyebrows raised as he looked up from his iPad into your face, "You were late and I need someone to triage and who better than my senior resident?"
You scoffed, and pivoted on your foot, "Unbelievable."
"Call me if you need me," he shouted after you.
"I won't," you called back.
Jack watched you go, wrangling a student by the arm as you went, and then turned back to Lena, "She tell you what her problem is?"
Lena shook her head, "No, she even fake smiled at me when she got here."
He shook his head, "There's definitely a problem though, right? I'm not imagining things?"
"She's been off for weeks now," Lena looked over her glasses at him conspiratorially, "I know you hate the rumor mill, but there is one going around that she got divorced recently. And it wasn't mutual."
He looked up at Lena, incredulous look on his face, "That's ridiculous. She would've told me."
Lena shrugged, "Look, I'm just telling you what I've heard."
Jack turned towards the door to chairs where you had disappeared and frowned. You would have told him, right? The two of you had always been professional, but he did consider you something like a friend after you had been here for nearly four years. When there were social events after work or on days off, you had always gravitated towards him and Robby. A bit older than most of the other residents and students, it was easier to find common ground with them. Things had never gotten overtly personal, but there had always been some level of sharing about personal lives. And he really thought the two of you were close enough that you would have told him. Especially if you were struggling.
"When did that start swirling around?" He asked, turning back to Lena.
"Few months ago, I think," she said, "Jesse said he overheard her take a call with a divorce attorney when he was heading out one day."
Jack ran a hand through his curls and sighed. Jesse wasn't the gossiping type and if he did, that usually meant it was true.
"Okay," he said finally, "you'll come find me if things go to shit?"
"You got it."
***
You could feel yourself slipping as the shift went on, beginning to snap at patients and beginning to snap at the med student you'd pulled, Whitaker, who wasn't even really supposed to be here. He was usually on the day shift, but the usual single med student allotted to the night shift was out on bereavement and Whitaker had volunteered to fill the gap. You liked him, honestly, even if he was a bit spacey at times, he was earnest and never made the same mistake twice.
Except today, when he got you the wrong antibiotics, not once, but twice.
"Whitaker," You said slowly, "am I not speaking clearly?"
"Wha—? I—No—I mean, yes. You are."
"Then why are these still the wrong meds?"
Whitaker was starting to get flustered and you were getting more and more annoyed— "Because I changed the order."
It was Abbot's voice that came behind you and you turned to see him standing there, arms crossed with that disappointed look on his face you had had the displeasure of encountering just one other time while working on his shift. When you had tried handling an aggressive patient on your own without calling him or security and ended up with a black eye.
"Whitaker, you can finish up here?" Abbot asked, eyes never leaving yours. When Whitaker agreed, Abbot steered you out of the waiting room by your arm back into central.
You wrenched your arm away from him, "You don't need to drag me, I can walk."
"What is going on with you?"
"Nothing," You threw your hands up in exasperation, "I'm irritated that I'm out in triage—"
"You're too good for triage?"
"I know you're doing it to punish me—"
"When have you ever known me to punish anyone?"
"You changed my order, why? You don't even trust me to prescribe simple antibiotics?"
He sighed, "We didn't have the dosage you were looking for up here, it would've taken longer to call the pharmacy and Whitaker was too scared to come back to you empty handed, so I told him to get something else. It had nothing to do with your decision making, though the way you've been treating Whitaker all shift is absolutely unacceptable for a senior resident and you know that."
You never cried at work. It was your one rule. Even crying in the parking lot felt like sacrilege. No matter how fucked up things got, and they'd gotten well and truly fucked, you tucked it away until you got home.
But with Abbot looking at you like this, his judgment heavy as stone, on top of the invitation… It was too much. PTMC had always been your one safe haven from everything, but you had managed to ruin that, too.
Abbot looked at you with alarm when he saw your eyes water and your chin wobble, "Hey, what the hell?" he said softly and then quickly ushered you out to the ambulance bay, shielding you from anyone else's prying eyes.
"I'm sorry," you blubbered after you'd gone through the double doors, "I have to apologize to Whitaker."
"Not now, later."
You leaned against the wall of the hospital and scrubbed your hands over your face, "I was so mean to him all shift."
"I know, he told me," At the look you gave him through your hands Abbot shook his head, "Not to get you in trouble, he was worried about you. Said you weren't acting like yourself. And I have to agree, you're normally a very kind and patient teacher."
His praise—which you felt was undeserved—made you want to cry all over again, but you managed to swallow past the lump in your throat. Abbot leaned up against the wall next to you and pushed his hands into his pants pockets, "So, I'll ask you again: What is going on with you?"
You sighed and crossed your arms over your chest, fought the urge to self soothe by wrapping your arms entirely around yourself, "You won't let it go unless I tell you, right?"
"Damn straight," He said immediately, "We can keep it between us, but it's starting to effect your work now, so I'd like to know what's going on. And maybe I can help."
You scoffed and looked down at your feet, "No one knows besides my family and that's only because I had no choice," You swallowed, "It's humiliating. You might look at me differently."
He narrowed his eyes at you, "If you really don't want to tell me I won't force you. But I promise there's very little you could say that would make me think less of you."
You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall. You weren't sure why it even mattered to you what your attending thought of your personal life. Despite your borderline friendly relationship with Abbot, there had still always been the irrepressible urge to impress him, to make sure he both liked and respected you. Probably had something to do with your absent father, but that was something to unpack in therapy.
"I got my baby sister's wedding invitation in the mail today," You said slowly, could already feel the heat bubbling beneath your skin, "And the man she's marrying is my… ex husband."
You felt the double take that came from his direction, but you couldn't find it in yourself to meet his eyes.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he cleared his throat, "I—I didn't know you got divorced."
You nodded, "Finding out they were having a year long affair was a hell of a motivator to get it done quickly and quietly."
"Fuck," he murmured under his breath, "When did all this happen?"
You chewed the inside of your cheek, "They started sleeping together while I was recovering from the miscarriage."
You thought you heard his sharp intake of breath at that, but you still couldn't look over at him. The miscarriage had happened almost two years ago now and marked the beginning of your life turning upside down.
You had lost a pregnancy you didn't even know had been in your womb. Fighting with David as he drove you home in stony silence while you cried about how you couldn't understand why he was acting this way, you'd always said you didn't want kids.
How when the bleeding didn't stop, didn't slow the way it was supposed to, and you told David you needed to go back to the hospital he—the lawyer—somehow convinced you—the doctor—that you weren't bleeding that much. You thought about this moment almost daily, now. You felt so stupid for letting him debate his way out of taking you to PTMC. It had taken you hours to finally text Abbot, feeling lightheaded from the blood loss, if he thought you should come in.
He had left the hospital to come get you and you remembered his quiet anger as he condescended to David while carrying you to his truck.
In the end, surgical intervention had been required to stop the bleeding and when you woke up to David beside himself with remorse beside you, you'd forgiven him.
And yet, you'd find out much later that while you recovered from surgery, he began sleeping with Maya.
"Well," Abbot said after a few moments of shocked silence, "Knowing that you've been holding all that in for… months now, I'd say you've actually shown remarkable restraint."
You huffed a laugh through your nose, "You think so?"
"Yeah, I do. If I were you they'd probably both be six feet under by now."
You hummed, "I considered it when I opened the invitation today."
"Why don't you go home?" He said quietly and you finally turned to look at him, his hazel eyes glinting in the moonlight, "We can handle the rest of the shift without you."
You shook your head, "I feel worse when I'm not working. I'm still not used to going home to an empty apartment."
At that moment Lena poked her head out into the ambulance bay, charge phone pressed to her ear, "Incoming MVA, five minutes out."
You both pushed yourselves off the wall to head back inside, "Hey," he said, fingertips ghosting over your wrist as you walked ahead of him, "if you won't go home, will you get breakfast with me after shift?"
You bit your lip as you looked back at him, "I'm okay. Really. You don't have to babysit me."
He shook his head, "No, I'm asking for me. You wouldn't make an old man eat by himself, would you?"
He had that easy smirk on his face as he followed you inside, helped tie your trauma gown at the base of your neck. Your stomach flipped the way it sometimes did when he showed you too much attention. You had always dismissed it as a silly crush, the cliche daddy issues you couldn't quite shake even in adulthood.
"Okay," you said finally, turning back to face him as sirens called in the distance, "fine, I'll get breakfast with you."
His grin widened, "Atta girl."
And then he was darting back outside to meet the ambulance, oblivious to the way your cheeks heated and your heart fluttered in response.
***
The only thought in your head as you sat across the diner table from Jack Abbot and the waitress poured you a cup of coffee was that your lips were chapped and you'd been picking at them all shift.
After the waitress took your order and walked off, Jack's eyes traced your face and watched as you chewed on your lower lip, "Stop that," he said softly, "You've been tearing your lips up all day."
Embarrassed, you pressed your lips together and clasped your hands in your lap, "Sorry."
He frowned, "What was that?"
"What?"
"Did you just apologize to me?"
The corner of your mouth tugged up just slightly, "Don't act like you've never heard an apology before."
"I have," he smirked, "just not from you. Now I've heard you say it twice in one day."
You rolled your eyes, "Oh, that is not true."
The waitress returned with your food and after thanking her, Jack speared a homefry into his mouth before turning his attention back to you, "So," he said, "What're you gonna do?"
You frowned, swallowing the eggs you'd spooned into your mouth, "About what?"
"Your sister's wedding."
You shrugged, "Nothing. She knows how I feel, it was fucked up of her to even invite me. I'm not even gonna RSVP."
His eyebrows knitted together, "What d'you mean? You're not gonna go?"
You snorted, "A weekend full of watching my baby sister and ex husband celebrate their love and solidify their union in the place I dreamed and gushed about getting married at myself to my sister for years?" You shook your head, "No thank you. I'm not a masochist. I'll probably spend the weekend with several bottles of wine on my couch watching Vanderpump Rules."
Jack balked, his head pulling back in that way it did sometimes when he was passing judgment on someone. You'd seen him direct it at patients, other students, occasionally Robby, but never you.
"If you don't go, they win."
You sighed, "Oh, come on, Abbot. They already won."
He shook his head, "No. They're shackling themselves in a relationship built on lies and betrayal. They've lost. And seeing you happier than ever at their wedding would be great revenge."
"Yeah, well there's only one problem with that," You stole a homefry from his plate and stuffed it in your mouth, "I'm miserable."
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes assessing you, "Do you have a plus one on your invitation?"
You blinked, "Why are you asking me that?"
He cleared his throat and rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward you conspiratorially, "I just think that even if you don't feel it, think about how much it would bother them to see you show up with someone else. Happy."
Was he delusional? You narrowed your eyes at him, and in turn leaned forward towards him, "My dating life is abysmal right now. So, pray tell, who is this imaginary knight in shining armor who's going to accompany me?"
Still smirking, he leaned back in his seat and shrugged, "I'd do it."
You nearly choked on your coffee. Once you'd caught your breath, you felt your eyes nearly bulging out of your head, "What, pretend to be my boyfriend for the weekend? Make them think we're in love? Why would you agree to that?"
He shrugged, "You're my best resident and I'm tired of seeing you off your game. And I already told you, I want to help."
You hummed, "By forcing me into my worst nightmare?" You nodded, "Yeah, solid plan. What could possibly go wrong?"
He sighed, "Look, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, but I think you should consider that this might… Give you closure. And it won't hurt to get in a few shots yourself by bringing me along."
You narrowed your eyes at him for a few moments before laughing quietly, "This is insane."
"Well just…Just think about it before you say no, okay?"
You raised your eyebrows at him skeptically, but he was still smirking, "Okay. But don't hold your breath."
After you'd both finished your food, Jack paid despite your insistent attempts to slip your card to the waitress and drove you home.
"I left my car at the hospital."
He shrugged, "I can give you a ride in tonight."
As he pulled up to your house and put his car in park, he leaned over and squeezed your knee lightly, prompting you to look at him, "You'll get some sleep, right?"
Doubtful, you thought, but you nodded, "Yeah, of course."
His eyes narrowed and he held out a clenched hand, pinky outstretched towards you, "Promise?"
You snorted, "Seriously?"
He raised his eyebrows, pinky still held out insistently. So, sighing, you wrapped your pinky around his, "Promise."
Jack smiled and released your finger, "Get out of here then. I'll be back here at 6:30."
"Yes sir," You mocked, and jumped out of the car before he could give a snarky reply.
You wouldn't tell him, but spending time with him had done wonders for your mood. You were even considering taking him up on his offer to come with you to the wedding.
But surely, that was a disaster waiting to happen.
"I think that's a great idea!" Your mom said enthusiastically over the phone an hour later.
Your black out curtains were pulled down tight over the windows, shuttering your bedroom in darkness. You likely wouldn't sleep much, but you would still try. The only light a dim glow from your phone.
You scoffed, "You think it's a great idea to pretend to be in love with my boss at my ex's wedding?"
"I've been saying for months that you let them off too easy. And David's always asking me if you're seeing anyone. Possessive little fuck."
"Mom—"
"—Sorry, sorry. He really gets under my skin. I met Dr. Abbot, didn't I?"
"Yeah," You said, rubbing a hand over your eyes, "When I miscarried."
"He seemed nice. Handsome."
You sighed, "He's just being nice. And also, I've apparently been doing a really shitty job at work and he thinks this'll help."
Your mom hummed, "Sure, sweetie."
Already once before at your bedside after your miscarriage, your mom had implied that she believed Dr. Abbot looked at you as more than just a resident, "I'm not saying it's romantic," She had said at the time, when you had still been married to David, "I just think… He sees you as a person outside of all this." She had gestured around the emergency room.
Now, it seemed, she had changed her tune.
You looked at the watch on your wrist, illuminated in the dark to see that it was nearly noon. If you had any hope of sleep, you'd have to try soon. You said your goodbyes to your mom, and to your surprise, sleep came easy… along with dreams of freckled arms and a face with gray stubble, smirking at you slow and sweet like molasses.
***
You climbed into Jack's truck that evening, immediately engulfed by the hum of his heater, the warmth cocooning you away from the harsh winter air. You let him drive in silence, his radio quietly playing, tuned to the classic rock station.
When you pulled up to the hospital, the two of you walking side by side inside and then by the lockers, "Steak, chicken, or fish?"
You felt it when his head slowly turned towards you, eyes assessing as he draped his stethoscope over his neck, "Steak," he said finally and you could hear the smile in his voice.
You chewed the inside of your cheek as you closed the locker and turned to face him, "You understand that this is a whole weekend affair, right? It's in upstate New York. If you come you have to stick it out the whole weekend. We'll have to share a room—maybe even a bed—"
"You think I didn't already think of all this?"
He was so…unbothered. It didn't make any sense to you. That he would do all of this for you.
You ignored his question—Of course you knew he had, you knew how over prepared Abbot was for every scenario no matter how unlikely—But you thought at the very least you'd detect some discomfort, some acknowledgement that it might not be so easy. "What about the fact that I'm your resident? You're not worried about how this could effect our professional relationship?"
He shrugged, "You only have a few months left and it's not like we've ever had a normal working relationship."
You were reminded of your miscarriage. You couldn't remember everything, the blood loss had muddled some things, but you did recall the way his voice rose when speaking to David, insisting he wouldn't leave until he saw you. The way he'd so easily slipped his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then last year when you had noticed Abbot limping around the ED and trying to hide grimaces a bit too much, you were the only one he'd admit to that he was in pain. The only one he'd listen to when you demanded to take a look at his prothestic. You didn't scold him when you saw the blood and pressure sores. Just gently cleaned and bandaged them, asked him if he'd been fitted for a new socket yet since this one was obviously causing problems. It was you who gently followed up with him day after day until it healed. You were the only one he allowed that close.
He was your teacher, your boss, but the two of you had always had something a bit deeper, a bit more intimate, that you each always tried to brush off. But now, here Jack was, declaring it openly.
You swallowed and broke eye contact, "You should know that after I found out he was having an affair and with who… He tried to deflect. He brought you up, accused me of sleeping with you—"
"That's ridiculous," Jack said, sounding irritated.
"I know," You said quickly, "I'm just telling you because… If you show up to this wedding as my date, if we're pretending that we're in love, he'll probably see it as vindication that he was right. He'll probably act like it absolves him of any wrong doing."
He nodded, "Will that be a problem for you?"
You raised your eyebrows, "For me? No. Personally, I hope it eats him alive thinking I cheated on him." You shook your head, "No, I just want you to understand what it is you're signing up for. It might… put a target on your back."
The two of you were at the hub now and Jack chuckled as he picked up an iPad, "I'm not afraid of David. He's a fucking coward and he's always punched down," He raised his eyes to you and added quickly, "no offense."
You dismissed him with a shake of your head, "None taken. So it's settled then. We're going."
He nodded, a smile on his face, and reached out his pinky towards you again, "It's a date."
You tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped and your heart rate likely doubled when you wrapped your pinky around his, hazel eyes soft and gentle on yours. The moment passed quickly and then he released you, off to find Robby to start hand offs.
***
As the weeks passed and the snow thawed you were beginning to wonder what you had gotten yourself into. Your sister had texted you when you RSVP'd as if everything was fine now, saying she was so excited to see you and who were you bringing she wanted to see pics was he hot how long had you been seeing each other? She wanted to gossip with you as if nothing had transpired since the last time you talked to her, probably a year ago now. As if the last time you saw her you hadn't told her that she was no longer your sister as far as you were concerned.
You had ignored each text, telling your mom everytime you spoke to her to ask Maya to stop texting you. That just because you were coming to the wedding didn't mean all was forgiven.
"It doesn't matter what I say to her baby, she has her heart set on the fact that you coming means you're ready to be her big sister again. She won't stop talking about it."
It made you both angry and incredibly sad that Maya was naive enough to believe that you could just forgive and forget like that. You had meant what you said about her no longer being your sister. Truthfully, you still felt like you never wanted to speak to her ever again.
"And what does your husband think?" You asked as carefully as you could. It was something you had wanted to ask for a long while, what your stepfather thought of the whole thing. He had been the only father you'd ever really known after your biological father cheated on your mother and skipped town. He was Maya's biological father, but he had always treated you as his own—granted, you knew your mother wouldn't have accepted anything else. But when all this happened, you had assumed you'd lose him. After all, Maya was his real daughter.
"He understands why you need your distance, even though he hates seeing you girls fight. I've caught him more than once digging up old home videos of the two of you playing dress up or putting on plays. He misses you."
Your eyes had watered and you made a mental note to text him after, "I wish it didn't have to be like this." You'd said softly, and meant it.
But you didn't know how to be in the same room with Maya and David and not have a world ending meltdown. And you were realizing as the wedding drew closer and closer that maybe you were making a colossal mistake.
Which was how you ended up paralyzed staring at your half packed suitcase the day you were set to leave while Abbot repeatedly beeped from his truck outside.
You had left the door unlocked, so eventually after you ignored phone call after phone call and didn't come to the door, he made his way inside, calling your name.
When he walked in your bedroom and saw you, he breathed a sigh of relief, "Christ, I thought I was gonna walk in here to see you fuckin' passed out or something. What's going on?"
You chewed on your thumbnail and then shook your head frantically, "I—I can't do this. I'm not going."
"Yes you can and yes you are."
"Abbot—"
"I think it's time you start calling me Jack if you want to convince people we're dating."
You sighed and looked up at him, panic fluttering around in your chest like a trapped bird, "This is a bad idea," You whispered.
He shook his head, "If nothing else you and I are gonna have a really fun weekend away from the ER, alright? When was the last time you skipped town?"
You rolled your eyes, "This isn't exactly my idea of a vacation."
He feigned offense with a hand to his chest, "You're not excited to spend a whole weekend with me upstate?"
Despite the impending panic attack you felt brewing, you tried to banter back, "Bringing you to my ex husband's wedding wasn't exactly how I envisioned our first date, no."
You were pleased to see his grin widen, "So you've been dreaming about our first date, then?"
You rolled your eyes again and started throwing more clothes haphazardly into your suitcase, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. Ignoring how easy it was to play with him, how quickly it soothed you. With his voice in your ear, you thought maybe it'd be almost tolerable getting through this weekend. Almost.
"Shut up and help me close my suitcase."
***
As Jack pulled away from your apartment, you turned around to look in the back seat. It was filled nearly to the brim with duffel bags, first aid kits, bandages, emergency food kits, warming blankets—
"Do you know something about this weekend that I don't?" You asked as you took in all the supplies.
He shrugged, "It's always good to be prepared. Besides, do you know how many weddings I've been to where at least one drunk idiot injured themselves or someone else and needed a doctor?"
You would not admit to him how endearing—or sexy—you found it that he had overprepared like this. You turned back towards the front, "Fair enough."
After a few minutes of riding in silence, he cleared his throat, "So, what should I know? About fake dating you?"
You fought a smirk, "I don't think there's much to know. You know me already. Besides, I doubt we'll be spending much time with anyone who'd be able to spot it since I'll be avoiding Maya and David like the plague."
He frowned, "What about your parents?"
"Oh, my mom and step dad know we're not actually dating."
His head turned towards you, "So they know this is actually just a revenge tour?"
You nodded, "Yep."
"And they're… Fine with that?"
You chewed the inside of your cheek, "I think secretly they're hoping being in the same room with Maya will… help repair our relationship. Or something."
Jack scoffed, "They don't honestly expect you to forgive her, do they?"
"I don't think my mom does, no. My father cheated on her when I was really little and left us. So she… Knows how I'm feeling."
He paused, "I'm sorry, that must've been really hard on you as a kid."
You stared out the window, chewed on your thumbnail as trees blurred past your window, "I used to think, when I was a kid, that I'd never be like my mom. I saw how… hurt she was and I promised myself I'd never pick a man like my father. And David wasn't anything like my father. He was ambitious, kind, funny, romantic…" Your eyes watered, "He took care of me until he didn't. So maybe it's me, maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I was just doomed to repeat generational patterns by virtue of being my mother's daughter."
After a moment, Jack gave what sounded like an almost pained groan, "Don't do that."
"What?"
"Let him off the hook like that and put the blame back on yourself. He fucked up. Not you."
You knew there was no sense in arguing with him, convincing him that you must've done something to cause him to stray. To look to someone who was so much like you, but younger and less damaged. He could've picked anyone to cheat with, but he fell in love with your baby sister. The same sister you had cared for so vigilantly to make sure she avoided the missteps you took. So that she wouldn't have twin scars to match yours. Practically made in your image, except she was less damaged. How could you get Jack to understand what that felt like? How could you not blame yourself?
So you didn't say anything. You let the silence fall instead and tried your best to keep your sniffling to a minimum. After a few minutes Jack reached across the cabin and gently took your hand in his own.
***
A few hours and many gas station stops later, Jack pulled into the parking lot of the hotel you were staying at. You hopped out of the car first and he watched you from the rearview mirror for a few minutes before following suit.
You were so sad and quiet on the ride up he was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake, convincing you to come here. But he couldn't stand the thought of you moping at home, building this wedding up in your head to be more than it was. Obviously, you had every right to be upset. Frankly, if you came to him and said you wanted to burn the whole place to the ground, he'd start googling where he could find kerosene nearby.
What he didn't want was you deciding that this wedding marked the end of your life when really, he thought it was probably liberating you. He wished he had known when you were getting divorced because he would've thrown you a party. He would never suggest that you were lucky for the way things had played out, but he was relieved on your behalf that it had all happened so early in your marriage, in your life. You had so much left of it. He wanted you to see that, that it was possible to be happy again even after your whole world had imploded as violently as it did.
He hated that you had so much shame wrapped up in the dissolution of your marriage when that fucker was the one the blame. It was horrible enough he had chosen your little sister, but the timing of it, right after your miscarriage, made his fucking blood boil. When you needed him the most he was busy warming your sister's bed. It made him sick with rage. And then to hear you blame yourself on top of it all? It was too much. Jack thought it would be a miracle if he made it through this weekend without punching the coward's lights out.
And then, to top it all off, he wondered if he had an ulterior motive for all this. That maybe he was so eager to play the part of your boyfriend because he really did want to be your boyfriend. It wasn't a novel thought, he had wondered to himself many times before if the reason he allowed you to get so close when he had historically pushed everyone else away, especially after his wife, was because he was harboring feelings for you. He had never been able to answer the question. Or maybe he was just too afraid to be honest with himself about it. For a while he had told himself it didn't matter how he felt about it because you were married. But now…Well, things had changed.
He settled his hands on your hips when he came up behind you as you were beginning to unpack the bags from the back seat, "We should probably set some ground rules before this goes any further."
You spun around, his hands still on your hips. You didn't seem bothered by his closeness, "What d'you mean?"
"Well," Jack started, feeling the heat begin to crawl up his neck at having this conversation while standing this close to you. His leg was beginning to ache from driving with the prosthetic all day and he leaned into the pain in an attempt to ground himself, "I'm a very physically affectionate man when I'm in a relationship. So, if you're uncomfortable with that, we should talk about it."
He watched the bob of your throat as you swallowed, "That's fine."
Jack hummed and looped his fingers through the belt loops of your jeans and gently pulled until your hips were pushed up against his, "Maybe we should have a safe word."
"A safe word?" Was it his imagination that you sounded a bit breathless? You had only been here a few minutes and he was already in danger of crossing the line.
He nodded and bit his lip, "Yeah, so I know if I need to back off."
"That sounds… Like a good idea. Very mature."
"You pick, what's our safe word?" While walking around to you at the side of the truck, he had noticed what looked like a couple standing by the entrance of the hotel, watching. It could have been Maya and David, it could have been anyone. But on the off chance it was someone you knew, he wanted to make sure he was playing his part well. At least, that's what he told himself he was doing when he nudged his nose gently against yours.
He thought he felt you gasp against his mouth and it was taking almost everything he had not to kiss you.
"Troponin." You said, and he blinked. Confusion clouding his features.
"Troponin?" He repeated, eyebrows knitting together. He wondered if he had heard you correctly. He was this close to you, close enough to devour you, and you were thinking about a STEMI?
"Our safe word," You said and licked your lips. His eyes trailed the path of your tongue hungrily.
"You want our safe word to be troponin?" When you nodded he smiled, "Okay, troponin it is," he pressed a kiss to the bridge of your nose and then backed away slightly, "In the spirit of total transparency, I do think we have an audience."
He almost wished he hadn't told you. You had relaxed so much under his touch and he watched the tension return to your shoulders as you peered around, trying to locate the possible enemy.
But then when you saw them, beginning to walk towards you, your shoulders drooped, "It's just my mom and stepdad."
Jack watched a few steps away as your mother pulled you into a tight hug, your step dad watching with a bemused smile on his face and hands in his pockets. You looked so much like your mother. He remembered thinking it the first time he'd met her after your miscarriage and it still held true. She talked like you too, or rather, you talked like her. The same mannerisms and same lilt to your voices, the same warm laugh. If he closed his eyes, he might have a hard time telling you apart.
"Mom, you remember Jack."
He shook your mother's hand in both of his, murmured that it was good to see her again.
"And you, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for looking out for her, even outside of the emergency room."
"My pleasure, but call me Jack, please."
You introduced him to your step dad who seemed to be a reserved man of few words, but friendly enough.
"Well the two of you must've had a long drive so I'll let you get settled, but—" Your mom turned to look at you pointedly, "—We knew you were here because Maya knew you were here so I wouldn't be surprised if she shows up at your hotel room unannounced."
You frowned, "How did she know I was here?"
"Well," Your mom sighed, "It would seem that you never stopped sharing your location with her on your phone."
You groaned and clawed your phone from your pocket, "Oh, Jesus fuck—"
Your stepdad winced, "Language, please."
"I don't want to see her." You said, hands shaking as you unlocked your phone, undoubtedly trying to quickly stop sharing your location, "Can you please tell her I don't want to see her right now? I'm not—" Your voice sounded close to breaking, "Please, I'm not ready to see her."
Jack's hands itched to reach for you, but he clasped them behind his back instead. As far as your parents were concerned the two of you were not really dating, he was just here as a friend. He didn't want to make anything more complicated for you. But still, he felt like you were still in the ED, and thus his responsibility. He wanted to fix it.
"We'll tell her," your stepdad said softly, "But it's her wedding, you'll have to talk to her eventually—"
"I know that," you snapped, then immediately softened, "Sorry, I—It's been a long day. I'll talk to her, I promise. Just not today."
The three of them began hushed conversations that were becoming more and more strained. You had downplayed to him what your stepdad was hoping for, he thought now. You had been here only a few minutes and he was already laying into you about how "that's your sister" and "you're her big sister you should be the bigger person" and "you can't ignore her forever."
You absolutely could, if that was what you wanted. And Jack understood the man's stake in it. It had to hurt watching the girls you raised become estranged. But had he sat his other daughter down and explained to her the consequences of breaking your trust like that? Of betraying you like that? It sounded like the two of you had been close, best friends. Not only did she sleep with your husband, but her actions had resulted in you losing your best friend. You had a traumatic surgery and you ended up cheated on and divorced within a year and you hadn't been able to talk to your best friend about it. It was cruel to now ask you to be the bigger person.
Jack began walking back towards the back of the truck so he could continue unloading your baggage, heavily favoring his right leg. He was in a decent amount of pain, but he may have been playing it up so—
"Jack, is your leg bothering you?"
You were by his side in a moment, taking bags he had unloaded and carrying them on your shoulder.
"I'm fine," he said, "Just a little sore from driving all day." You started rummaging through his back seat, "What're you looking for?"
"Your cane or crutches or something—"
He scoffed and gently pulled you from the car, "They're in my duffel, I don't need them right now."
"But—"
"Sweetheart—" Your mother interrupted, "Your dad and I are gonna go, we'll see you at breakfast?"
You nodded and quickly hugged them goodbye and Jack felt immediate relief at their absence. They were nice enough people, especially your mother who he could tell was more on your side about the whole thing, but they were still being too hard on you in his opinion.
Once inside the room, Jack sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic with a soft groan. He didn't look up, but he felt you watching him, knew you were trying to think of some way to help.
"Can I get you anything?" You asked finally.
He shook his head, massaging his limb gently, "No, I'll be fine after a hot shower and working some lotion into my leg."
"Oh, that reminds me—" You walked off towards the bathroom and then returned a few seconds later, "—Good, they remembered. I called a few days ago to ask them to put a shower chair in here. Just wanted to check so I could call down if they forgot."
Jack blinked, "Well, that was… Very thoughtful of you, thank you."
"Least I can do," You sighed, "After the ledges you're sure to talk me down from this weekend."
Digging into your pocket, you pulled out an unopened pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter.
"What the fuck?" Jack laughed, "You don't smoke."
"I know, I thought it was a great weekend to start—Hey!"
Jack had snatched them from you before you had the chance to unwrap them, "Do you know how fuckin' hard it is to kick a nicotine addiction? Do you?"
You sighed, "You're really gonna lecture me about this?"
"Yeah, I absolutely am. I'm not gonna watch you be self destructive all weekend. That's not why we're here. It's so you can see how better off you are."
You pushed your lower lip out into a pout, "You don't think I deserve a cigarette in this situation?"
Fuck, why'd you have to go and do that? It was unfair. Now all he could think about was your lower lip between his teeth— He could not let you know how easily you could wrap him around your finger. Clearing his throat, he pushed the packet of cigarettes into his pocket, "You take the shower first, you'll feel better after. I'm going to hide these while you're in the bathroom."
You looked for a moment like you might argue, but then your eye caught on what looked like a welcome basket on the dresser, filled with snacks and—wine, "Fine. Have the cigarettes. But I will be opening the wine after I get out of the shower."
Jack fought a smirk, "Only if you let me order us some room service. You've eaten nothing but jerky and Red Bull all day."
You glared at him from where you stood, arms crossed over your chest before turning on your heel towards the bathroom, "Fine, fine. Whatever. But only because I'm starving, not because I think you're right."
He watched as you sauntered into the bathroom, holding your bag of toiletries and a change of clothes. Then, with a sigh, he laid down flat on the bed.
"Abbot, you are so fucked," he murmured to himself. Then he propped himself up and reached for the phone on the nightstand.
***
Troponin. Troponin. It was so stupid, that that had been the only word you could think of.
A safe word. The very implication meaning that there could be a scenario where Jack Abbot could touch you and you wouldn't like it. Absolutely absurd.
No, the only real, looming danger of this weekend was that Jack Abbot would touch you and you would like it too much. You didn't think he knew it yet, but Jack had the power to break your heart even more than it already had been. You were afraid of him, but not for reasons he'd understand.
Jack was sound asleep next to you, snoring softly. The moonlight that spilled through the balcony doors lit up his watch enough that you could see it was a bit past 3:20 AM.
There hadn't been much back and forth about sharing the bed. Jack had said when you got out of the shower that he didn't mind calling and asking for a cot, but you had waved him off. Besides which, if you were going to be convincing that you were actually a couple, on the chance that your sister stopped by unnanounced you didn't want her seeing you were sleeping separately.
So you had each climbed into opposite sides of the bed, bid each other goodnight, and that was that.
Between being a night owl by default and the number of Red Bulls you'd had that day, sleep wasn't an option for you. You would've been surprised that Jack was able to sleep at all, both of you accustomed to working through the night, if you didn't also know he had a prescription for his insomnia.
So it was just you wide awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about troponin. A protein used to detect heart damage. Faced with the impossibility of the weekend, seeing both your ex and your little sister for the first time since you found out about their affair, all with your attending by your side, pretending to be in love with you, you thought it likely you might end this weekend with an abnormal troponin reading.
That's ridiculous, he had said when you told him David had accused you of sleeping with him. And while it may have seemed ridiculous to him, you understood why David had thought it. The hero worship was likely blatant in your voice and on your face whenever you talked about him.
You turned your head to the side and looked at Jack's sleeping face. Peaceful, wrinkles smoothed out. His silver stubble glinted in the moonlight. You liked when he grew it out like this, just a little bit.
You would never admit you were in love with him, but weren't you, just a little bit?
You blew out a long breath and turned your face back towards the ceiling. It was going to be a long weekend.
***
"I feel like I'm gonna be sick."
Jack turned to look at you as you said it. You were walking to the welcome breakfast, which was being held at the venue. It was a winery draped in greenery and curtained by trees. The couple would be married in the garden that overlooked the pond outside.
"Do you need to sit down?"
You shook your head and stopped walking, "I feel like there's a boulder on my chest," your breathing quickened and you brought your fist to your sternum, rubbing clockwise, as if it would free the pressure.
Jack stepped in fromt of you and brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, left hand sliding below your jaw to your neck so he could feel your carotid. Your pulse jackhammered against his fingers and sweat glistened on your forehead and upper lip.
"Panic attack?" He asked softly and you nodded, "We don't have to go in right away, we can be late. Take a lap around the pond."
You shook your head, "No, no Maya's in the door she's watching us. I don't want—Ah, fuck David's there too."
"Hey, look at me," Your eyes darted to his and he shook his head, "Don't look at him. What d'you wanna do?"
"Well I want to go home, but that's not happening."
Jack smiled, "Okay, let me rephrase that, what do you need to get yourself in there?"
Your chin was wobbling as you looked at him and you shook your head slightly, "I don't know, I don't—" Your eyes trailed over his shoulder.
Jack angled himself in order to block your view, "Hey—" Your eyes met his again, wet and frantic, "It's just you and me right now. They're not as scary as you think they are. You've built them up to be these scary monsters in your head and what they did to you was monstrous, but they're still just people. They should be afraid of you. Do you want to piss them off?"
Finally, your lip curled up the tiniest bit, "Yeah."
"Great. What should we do then? What would piss them off?"
You bit down on your lip gently and tilted your head. You seemed a bit shy, a feeling he wasn't used to seeing on you.
"Could you kiss me, you think?"
Immediately, Jack felt heat spread through his chest. He smirked, hoping he looked more nonchalant than he felt, "Are they watching still?"
Your eyes darted over his shoulder and then you nodded.
Hands still on your cheeks, he moved one hand to cup the back of your neck and gently pull you to him. His heart raced as he tasted you, slowly explored your mouth, relished in the way it felt for your lips to move against his.
It took enormous effort for him to pull away from you, but he managed it. Your pupils were blown out and you seemed a bit breathless, but he wasn't sure if he was just seeing what he wanted to see. You had only asked him to kiss you to make your ex jealous, he reminded himself.
"What do you think? Did it work?"
You peered over Jack's shoulder and nodded, "David stormed off. Maya's still there."
Jack hummed, running his fingers over your cheeks one last time before dropping them, "She probably wants to talk to you. Are you ready?"
You inhaled, slow and deep, "Will you hold my hand?"
Jack felt himself melt. He thought there was little he wouldn't do for you, "Of course," he slipped his hand into yours, ran his thumb over the soft skin on the back of your hand, "Remember, you've done nothing wrong. They should be afraid of you."
You kept pace with him, the venue looming ever closer in front of you, "Right."
Jack squeezed your hand reassuringly as you approached your sister, and shit, did your mother have strong genes. Even only being half sisters, the two of you were nearly identical, though there were obvious differences to Jack. Your sister was perfectly manicured, nails done, lips glossed. She obviously had some sort of workout regimen if her toned arms and legs were any indication. Likely pilates, he thought.
Obviously, Jack found you gorgeous. He knew your bitten down nails and often chapped lips were a symptom of the job—Long, manicured nails often led to broken gloves and who had time to constantly reapply chapstick in the ER?—But there was something to the two sisters standing side by side. He could see the stress and heartbreak of the last year on you whereas your sister looked nonplussed. Whether that was just an image she wished to project on her wedding weekend or if she really felt no remorse, he wasn't sure.
But he wasn't in the mood to give her the benefit of the doubt. He disliked her instantly on principal.
Her throat bobbed as you approached. You came to a stop, a roughly three foot buffer between you. The two of you seemed unsure what to do next, staring at each other, both of you glassy eyed.
And then, without warning, Maya threw her arms around your neck. For a moment, you froze, and then you released Jack's hand, slowly easing your arms around her. He watched your face crumple just slightly, half hidden by Maya's shoulder.
"I'm so happy you came," Maya said, and Jack had to strain to hear it, her voice muffled by your shoulder, "I couldn't imagine getting married without you here."
You didn't say anything at all, but you kept holding her, that bereft look in your eyes.
Maya pulled away, a smile on her face, though tears began to cascade over her lash line. Then she turned to Jack, "And Dr. Abbot, I'm glad you're here too. You know, I always said there was something more between the two of you, the way she always talked about you."
You were despondent, eyes aimless as you stared at nothing. Jack turned his attention to Maya and he didn't smile, "It wasn't like that."
Her mouth fell open, maybe realizing her mistake, the implication, "Oh—Oh n—no, of course not—"
"Jack," you said softly, "save me a seat inside?"
He knew he had just got done telling you they weren't monsters, but he was ready to take it back. He didn't want to leave you alone with her. He had encouraged you to come here and now he thought maybe he'd been wrong.
But he nodded anyway, walked into the venue with his hands clasped behind his back. You weren't his. He kept forgetting that. He was acting like a fucking guard dog and you weren't even his to defend.
It was barely 10 AM and Jack strode over to the bar.
***
"I really am so happy you're here. Mom said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would— And this place! Isn't it gorgeous?"
Maya babbled on and on while you felt… Empty. She was discussing wedding planning with you as if nothing had changed. You remembered sitting with her on your living room floor after you'd gotten engaged, scrap booking your dream wedding.
You wished you could dig up that scrap book now because while you had had to settle and compromise on most things, it seemed that she had gotten everything.
The venue, the welcome breakfast in the tearoom, the open bar— You bet from the floral centerpieces on each table that she'd even gotten the same florist.
You had ended up getting married in a courthouse with a small dinner party afterwards. It was all you'd been able to afford between law school and med school.
Still, it had been the happiest day of your life because you loved him. You would have done anything for him.
And now you saw that same pure giddiness on your sister's face.
"Look, Maya, I don't—The last time we talked, I'm sorry I was so harsh, but I meant what I said. I'm not here to make amends."
She stared at you, almost disbelieving as the happiness began the melt off her face. You almost felt guilty, "Then why are you here?" She asked, bitterness slipping into her voice.
"I don't know. To get closure." You shook your head, "Maybe there's also a small part of me that thinks I can convince you not to go through with it."
Without hesitation, Maya stepped away from you, "I've had this conversation with mom already several times. Just because he wasn't good for you doesn't mean he's not good for me."
You tilted your head slightly and felt the tears burn the backs of your eyes, "You think you're the exception to how he treated me? Did you know you weren't the first woman he stepped out on me with? You were just the final straw."
She was shaking her head rapidly, "No, no, that's not true. He left you. He said—He said you wanted to make things work after… After you found out, but he wanted to be with me."
Your breath shook, "Well he lied to you. I told him that same day I found out that I was calling an attorney and he got down on hands and knees and begged me to stay—"
"You're lying!"
"—Ask mom! I stayed with her and dad that night, she sat next to me when I called the lawyer."
Maya shook her head, "Mom has not been subtle about how she feels about everything. She's just as bad as you, trying to convince me to leave him—"
"That's because we both know how it feels to love a man like David and we're trying to spare you from that—"
"I'm not a fucking child!" Her voice came out shrill and startled the couple that happened to be walking by at the time. But Maya, always perfect, flashed a perfect smile at them and recomposed herself before turning back to you, "I know it's difficult for both you and Mom to believe but I'm happy. And I'm sorry for how things played out, really and truly, I can't apologize enough and I feel sick about how I hurt you, but I don't regret it. He's the love of my life."
There was a pit in your stomach, but you knew when a battle was a lost cause. She really and truly believed he was it for her. And maybe he was, maybe she was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. But you had a difficult time believing that your sister was capable of reforming a man so quickly. Once a cheater, always a cheater. There was a reason that was the saying.
You swallowed and looked down at your feet, "Did you at least get a good lawyer for the prenup?"
"The… prenup?" The uncertainty in her voice made you look up. Her eyebrows were knitted together and she shook her head, "What're you talking about?"
You blinked for a moment, sure you must've misheard, or maybe she had misheard you, "The prenup. He made us do a prenup before we got married, said it was only practical. It was why the divorce was finalized so quickly."
You watched as her face transformed, defensiveness replaced with something that looked a lot like pity, "We don't have one," she said softly.
Confused and a bit nauseous now, you shook your head, "That… That doesn't make any sense. He was so insistent on it when we—Are you sure?"
She nodded slowly, "I'm sorry. But it really is different between us. I'm sure of it."
The room was spinning and you felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you. You were freefalling.
"That makes sense, actually," you said eventually, beginning to step away from her to go inside, "I've always been the person people use for a trial run. Just didn't realize my husband was rehearsing marriage on me."
Maya called after you, but you had heard enough. You needed to get away from her. To get away from David. You didn't hear Jack when he called after you and you didn't notice him trailing behind you while you looked for somewhere to hide. Somewhere safe to fall apart.
But when you found an empty room, likely the bridal suite that Maya would get ready in tomorrow, you moved to close the door— But found Jack's foot shoved between the door and the frame.
"Hey—what's going on? Can I come in?"
Immediately, you felt yourself soften at his voice. You felt nearly conditioned at this point to feel relief and comfort at his presence. There were many times during your residency where that voice had calmly talked you through a very scary case or his warm hand had guided you through an intense procedure. He was like a balm to your nervous system.
So after just a moment, you pulled the door back and let him in.
"What happened?" He asked as he closed the door behind you.
You shrugged helplessly and felt the tears begin to fall, an unstoppable wave behind your eyes, "They—they didn't get a prenup."
Jack frowned, "Okay…I don't understand."
You looked up at the ceiling, a halfhearted attempt to stem the flow of tears. All of this had been a terrible, awful idea, only spurned on by your schoolgirl crush on your attending. And now he was seeing you like this, humiliated. It seemed every time you thought you'd hit rock bottom, the ledge would collapse beneath you, revealing several more stories to go.
"Before we got married he insisted on a prenup. I didn't really mind it, I thought it was pragmatic at the time. Very modern," You sniffed, "and in the end it made the divorce a lot easier. But he didn't make Maya sign one." You scrunched your mouth to the side in an attempt to stop your lip from wobbling, "I don't know why it hurts so much. Of all the things he's done to me, I don't know why it bothers me so much that he didn't have her sign one—That he must think she's it for him and he didn't think that when he married me.
"And if that wasn't bad enough," You continued after a moment, pushing your palms into your eyes, "He lied to her. Told her he was the one who ended it between us because he wanted to be with her." The memories flashed behind your eyes as you spoke, finding them in bed together, David chasing after you when you fled, tears streaming down his face as he got down on his knees and swore it was a mistake, "He begged me to take him back. Not even just that once, but for a while afterwards. He stalled on signing the papers for weeks. But he somehow convinced her that it was him who asked for the divorce so he could be with her."
When you were brave enough to look up at Jack, he was just watching you quietly, arms crossed, "It just feels like…" You said slowly, "It would be so much easier if she was just the other woman, but he did give her the wedding I always wanted and he didn't make her sign the prenup and it feels like maybe he did just upgrade to a newer model—"
"That's not true—"
"—And then I feel awful for not wanting that because that means in a few years he'll probably hurt my sister the way he hurt me. But the alternative is that I just wasn't enough for him, I wasn't a good enough wife and she is. And either way I'm still the one alone and heartbroken and miserable."
The more you spoke, the more frantic and rushed your speech became and you couldn't catch your breath.
"Okay—Can I—? Is it okay if I hold you for a minute?" Jack asked, arms already outstretched.
In the back of your head, you knew it was dangerous to keep seeking out his touch for comfort. But here he was offering and you were at risk of falling apart. So you nodded, let yourself fall into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You allowed yourself to wrap your arms around his waist in turn, further closing any distance between you.
"We knew this was going to be difficult no matter what," He said softly, running a soothing hand from your neck down your back, "But you need to remember that the decisions they made don't reflect back on you."
You scoffed, "Oh, they don't?"
"No!" Keeping his arms around you, he pulled back from you so he could see your face, "Fuck them. I don't care if they're fucking soulmates, it doesn't justify what they did to you."
You rolled your eyes and shook your head and Jack gently grasped your chin, pulling your face just slightly down so your eyes met his. His eyebrows were raised and the way he was looking at you so intently, his face so close to yours had your heart in your throat, "Maybe you don't believe me right now, but I'm gonna do my damnedest to get it through that pretty head of yours this weekend that you deserved better. You deserve the world. Nobody deserves what they did, but especially not you."
His closeness was so soothing to you, you rested your forehead against his, "Why're you so nice to me?"
He hummed, "Because you're one of my favorite people in the world and it makes me… fucking irate to think that you don't know how incredible you are."
Suddenly embarrassed by the way his words made your stomach flip, you buried your face in the crook of his neck instead, "You're one of my favorite people, too."
His arms tightened around you and he kissed your head, "You ready to go get a drink?"
You sighed and pulled away from him, "God knows I need one."
With that smirk on his face that made your knees weak, he led you back out by the hand, turning his head back over his shoulder to give you a quick wink. With him by your side, real date or fake date, you thought maybe people would see you as worthy. If someone like Jack Abbot could love you then maybe you weren't the pathetic mess that they all thought you were.
***
"You doing okay, baby?" Your mom asked immediately as Jack led you over to her table, "I saw you rush by after talking to Maya, you seemed upset."
Jack pulled your chair out for you and as you sat down he gently squeezed your shoulders, "Better now," you said honestly as Jack sat down next to you.
"You wanna talk about it?" Your mom reached to squeeze your hand.
You shook your head, "No, I'm good. I promise."
Jack leaned over to you, lips brushing against your ear in a way that sent chills down your spine, "David just walked back in the room. He can't keep his eyes off you."
You turned your head so you were nose to nose with Jack. You expected him to put space between you, but he remained there. You were both surprised and pleased to see his pupils dilate in front of you.
"Well," You reached out and ran your fingers through his silver curls, "We should make sure we give him a show then, yeah?"
A wolfish grin spread across his face and he took your hand, pressing your fingers to his mouth before curling his pinky around yours, "Let's make it one to remember."
For the rest of the breakfast, Jack hand fed you cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto, kissed on your shoulders and neck, and kept a firm hand on your thigh, a hand that steadily wandered higher as the morning waned into afternoon.
"I'm gonna go get us another round of drinks," You said quietly in his ear.
"Okay," His eyes trailed down your face until they landed on your mouth. You watched, arousal spreading like fire through your veins as he bit his lower lip, "Gimme a kiss first?"
You were pleasantly buzzed, but not drunk enough to not feel the fear of your own desire. Things were getting precarious. You wanted him too much. You had had just a taste of him earlier and you were greedy for more.
But you knew, somewhere, David was watching. Maya was watching. You could worry about your feelings for Jack later. When you kissed him this time it felt full to the brim with tension, Jack moving his hand to the back of your neck so you couldn't move. It sent all your neurons firing, the smell of his aftershave and the taste of wine on his breath.
You felt almost dizzy by the time you pulled away from him and headed to the bar.
***
Jack was in his own head as he watched you walk off to the bar. It was a good thing you weren't looking at him because he was sure there were hearts in his eyes right now after getting to kiss you twice this morning. He was aware that he was toeing a line with you, that you were likely only humoring him to make your ex husband jealous.
But he couldn't help it. Especially after you'd been crying to him just a bit before. He wanted to make you feel loved and wanted, it was the least he could do for you this weekend.
"So, when're you gonna tell her?"
Jack turned to look at your mother who was now leaning across your empty seat to talk to him, a knowing smile on her face.
"Sorry?"
"When are you gonna tell her that you're not pretending?"
Well, shit. He thought maybe he was just coming across as a very convincing actor, but your mother had seen right through him already. Jack laughed nervously and shook his head, "I just… I just want her to feel good, that's all. She deserves better."
Your mother hummed, "No, I think you're exactly what she deserves. Handsome, intelligent, and most importantly, you've always looked out for her. I think you'd find she feels the same."
Jack shook his head as his eyes wandered back to you, "She's still in love with David."
"She's in love with the future she almost had with him. But I think a future with you would be even brighter."
He ran a hand along his jaw, "She doesn't need me or anyone else for that, she's created a bright future for herself all on her own."
Your mom's grin widened, "The fact that you know that just reinforces how good for her you'd be."
Jack was smiling, but he sighed. Your mother meant well and he knew the two of you were very close, but nothing was going to happen between you beyond the show you were putting on this weekend.
He was old, sad, widowed, an amputee. He wasn't even close to the man you deserved.
He wouldn't sit and explain all that to your mother. Besides, you were on your way back to the table now. He surprised himself with the force of his own grin when he met your eyes as you walked back over.
You were too good for him, but that wouldn't stop him from savoring every second pretending you were his.
***
After breakfast had morphed into lunch, everyone broke off to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.
Still buzzing, you and Jack stumbled arm and arm back to your hotel room. Immediately, Jack sat at the edge of the bed and pulled off his prosthetic and liner, groaning with relief as he did.
You bit your lip, "Can I help?"
He looked up at you and shook his head, "You don't have to—"
"I want to. Please."
He must have been more innebriated than he thought because eventually, he gave in, watching you intently as you wiped down his leg and then his prosthetic. All he could think as he watched you was that no one had taken care of him like this since his wife.
You warmed lotion in your hands before gently massaging it into his leg and he couldn't hold in the groan that clawed up his throat.
He heard a chuckle from you and finally had the good sense to be embarrassed, "Sorry," he said quickly, "I'm just—I'm not used to anyone else—"
"It's okay, Jack. You don't have to explain." You finished massaging the rest of lotion into his skin and then leaned back on your heels, "Is that better?"
He nodded, "Much."
You sat on the bed next to him and without thinking much about it he slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you back until you were both laying flat against the mattress.
You burrowed closer to him, head on his chest, "Thank you for everything this morning. I don't know how I would've gotten through any of it without you."
He pressed his cheek into your forehead, "It's me and you this weekend. I'm here for whatever you need."
You propped yourself up to see his face, "I don't know of anyone else in my life who would've volunteered to come do this with me."
"Why not?" He smirked, "It's a pretty good gig. Paid for hotel and food and drink. I get to kiss a girl way out of my league all weekend long."
You tilted your head a bit to the side, a look on your face he usually associated with when you ran a list of differential diagnoses in your head. You were focused, assessing—On him, it seemed.
"I won't forget it," You said finally, "What you've done, what you're trying to do for me."
"Sweetheart, I'd do a hell of a lot more to make you see how wonderful you are. And I mean that."
He watched your eyes grow wet and then you sniffed and looked away from him, "Um, I'm gonna jump in the shower now, if that's alright with you?"
He nodded slowly, "'Course."
As soon as you removed yourself from his arms, he missed you. If things were different, if you were actually a couple, he likely would have followed you into the shower. As he listened to the spray of the shower against the walls and your soft humming, he closed his eyes and imagined himself in his shower chair, you stradling his lap.
When you walked back into the room with nothing but a towel wrapped around your still wet body, Jack had to wave you off when you rushed to help with his crutches so that you wouldn't notice the tent in his pants.
He felt ashamed of himself when he finally did get in the shower and continued with the fantasy, grunting softly as he came down the drain, wondering what it would have felt like to spill inside you instead.
***
Your breathing was still erratic as you arrived to the rehearsal dinner, but knowing Jack would be next to you the whole time was a relief.
When your knee began jumping under the table as speeches were beginning to start, a warm hand engulfed your leg and squeezed gently.
"I think maybe I should step out," You whispered when your ex father in law began to stand, headed for the microphone. You felt nauseous. You hadn't prepared for the fact that people who used to be your family and friends, who had made speeches at your wedding would now be making speeches about your sister.
Before you could high tail it out of there, your ex father in law was speaking and though Jack was in your ear asking if you needed some air, you were transfixed. Unable to stop listening. He talked of the last year as if it was a revelation for his son. There was no direct mention of you, but instead a "black spot" in David's life for more than a decade. His father watched him wither under your love like a neglected house plant. It was only when your sister entered his life—conveniently no mention of how they had met—that he began to really flourish. That David grew to be a man his father was proud of.
You were gonna be sick. You were hurt, but mostly angry. You had thought your relationship with David's family had been good. But clearly, they had fallen in love with Maya and become disillusioned with you. Just like David.
In your cloud of rage, you pushed back from the table, chair scraping loudly against the wood floor and stood. You realized heads had turned to you at this point, but you didn't care about that much right now. You needed to get out.
As you spun on your heel to flee, you heard your father in law make a stupid joke to redirect everyone's attention away from you. You thought maybe you heard Jack call after you, but you kept walking, blood pounding in your ears.
The late spring evening air had a chill to it now that the sun had set. You walked some distance away from the building, still shaking, before reaching into the pocket of your dress and pulling out your pack of cigarettes and lighter. Jack hadn't put much effort into hiding them and you'd found them earlier in his nightstand while he was in the shower.
You weren't a smoker, but during med school you had been known to smoke the occasional cigarette while drunk. You thought as you went to take a pull that your lungs might forget the habit, force you to choke the smoke back up, but it went down smooth. Like riding a bike.
"I thought you'd quit those once you started your residency," The sound of David's voice behind you had your shoulders tensing.
"I'm having a mid life crisis," you managed to deadpan and brought the cigarette back to your lips.
"Well," He stepped next to you, but you avoided looking at him. It would be the first time you saw him up close like this in a little more than a year, "Maybe with it you'll finally grow out of making everything about you."
He wanted a fight. You wouldn't rise to the occasion. It was amazing, really, that after everything he had come out here to fight. You wouldn't give it to him.
"You've really upset Maya today. I thought you were here to support your sister, but it seems like you're just hell bent on ruining her day."
"Yeah, well, she ruined my life so the least she can do is give me a day."
He scoffed, "You love to make yourself the victim, but you cheated too. And you had the audacity to fucking bring him here to rub it in my face."
You hummed, "We only started seeing each other six months ago. I never cheated on you," Finally, you turned to look at him and it hurt as spectacularly as you thought it would. It felt like fireworks erupted in your chest. There was the tiny mole on his jaw that you used to kiss every morning. There was the curl on his forehead you used to brush out of his eyes when he went too long without a haircut. "But if I had cheated on you, would it really bother you? Or would it just be a weight off your conscience to think maybe you didn't hurt me as badly as you did?"
He shook his head, "I'm not blind, the way he came in our house that day—That wasn't the way a leader treats their subordinate. Not unless they're fucking."
"He was trying to save my life," You ground out, and with it, your cigarette, "something you should have been just as concerned about, you know, as my husband."
As you turned to leave, you felt his hand circle your wrist and you snapped back towards him like a rubber band. You were briefly shocked at his touch, not afraid necessarily, just surprised that he was trying to prevent you from leaving.
"You had a miscarriage," he said, and you felt his hot breath fan your face, the sickly sweet smell of bourbon flooding your nostrils, "you weren't fucking stabbed."
For a moment, his words took you back two years ago, to texting Jack, alone in your bed. How even to him you tried to sound dismissive. It's probably nothing but… Tell me if I'm overreacting… I feel a little lightheaded, but I can probably sleep it off. How much of a burden David had made you feel like, that you felt you should downplay everything to Jack. The pain you were in, both physically and emotionally. How excruciating the loneliness was, how clearly repulsive David had found you.
You thought maybe you would've preferred being stabbed. Maybe it would have come with less complicated emotions. Maybe your husband would have taken your pain seriously. Maybe he would have laid in bed with you and comforted you instead of sexting your sister.
"Hey sweetheart," Jack's voice floats through the air before you can say anything else to David and he drops your wrist, "Everything okay?"
You took a step back from David, into the warmth of Jack's chest, "Fine, I was just taking a smoke break."
That earned you a double take, but he must have decided it wasn't worth scolding you over in front of David because he turned his attention back to the man in front of him, "Your mother's looking for you, why don't you head back inside? I'll be right behind you."
You frowned and turned back to him, but he just winked at you in the moonlight and then nodded his head back towards the building.
***
Jack had been watching you and David from a distance as soon as you'd left. Frankly, he hadn't wanted David to speak to you alone at all, especially after the speech his father had made, but you didn't run away when David approached you. And he knew you could handle yourself, had watched you do it with difficult patients. You would even hold your own around him on the rare occasion the two of you butted heads in the ER.
But there was something about the way your body language shifted when he was around. You tensed and then seemed to curl inward on yourself. Like you were afraid of taking up too much space around him. He'd never seen you like that around anyone. It was what made him stay, watching you both carefully, just in case.
He waited patiently. Until you turned to leave and David stopped you.
You weren't helpless. Jack knew you knew how to get out of a hold like that. You had told him once before you took self defense classes pretty regularly and you tried to convince the nurses to go with you when you could. You could've thrown David on his ass easily.
But you didn't, you just wilted further. It infuriated him, just like it infuriated him when you had the miscarriage. There was something about David that turned you into someone he didn't recognize. He wondered if David knew it, if he realized how vibrant you became when you pushed yourself out from underneath his thumb.
When you let him keep you there, keep you from leaving, Jack couldn't watch it anymore. He knew you didnt need rescuing, but the blood was roaring in his ears and suddenly his legs were moving of their own volition and then— Hey sweetheart.
You seemed relieved by his intervention, and that bothered him even more. Because you could have left at any time, but David made you feel trapped.
He watched you walk away after he'd told you your mom was looking for you—a lie—and then turned back to David, "You touch her again," he said quietly, "and I'll break your fucking neck."
David laughed and ran a hand along his jaw, "Threatening a man on his wedding weekend. Very classy, Dr. Abbot. And bold considering you had an affair with my first wife."
Jack shook his head, "I never touched your wife inappropriately while you were still together. Unlike you, I greatly respect the sanctity of marriage."
For the first time, David's projected mask of casual indifference slipped. It bothered him immensely to be accused of anything immoral and it seemed no one in his life, except you, had pointed out to his face that he had. It didn't bother him that he had hurt you, Jack realized, it bothered him that anyone else thought less of his values. Or worse, thought he had none at all.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jack smirked as he backed away, "That was your one and only warning. Congratulations, man. I hope the second marriage sticks better than the first."
When he found you back inside, you were sitting with your mother, heads huddled together as you drank a dirty martini. He sat in the empty seat next to you and reached for the pack of cigarettes you'd left on the table.
"Hey—" You said indignantly, but Jack pocketed them before you could reach for them.
"You weren't supposed to have those." He said, eyebrows raised.
You pushed your lip out in an exaggerated pout, "But they made me feel so much better."
"Hm," Unable to resist, Jack ran a thumb over your lower lip, "so much better that you forgot your self defense training when he grabbed you?"
He had said it softly enough that only you could have heard, but you still found yourself glancing around, "He wouldn't have hurt me."
"That's not really the point though, is it? Why do you still let him make you feel small?"
Your eyebrows knit together and you shook your head, "I—I don't do that."
He nodded, "Yes, you do. I don't see you behave like this around anyone else—you shrink."
You pulled back in surprise and scoffed, "He was my husband." You said simply. As if it explained everything.
"So you just roll over and submit to him because he was your husband?"
Too far. He had pushed too far. He watched the wall go up behind your eyes, your features turned stony, "I need another drink." You said coldly and jumped up before he could say anything else.
"Fuck," Jack murmured, hesitating for only a second before jumping up to follow after you, "I'm sorry," he said sidling up next to you, "I didn't mean to upset you."
You were eating the olives from your empty martini glass as you waited for another, "Everyone is watching me today and will be watching me tomorrow. Picking apart my every move, foaming at the mouth hoping that I implode."
Jack glanced around and for the first time saw what you saw. At any given time there were at least four sets of eyes on you, whispers behind hands.
"I don't need you picking me apart as well."
He turned back towards you, "I didn't mean it like that. I just… feel very protective of you and I don't like the idea of anyone making you feel less than. Even if they were your husband."
You nodded and then thanked the bartender when he handed you another martini. With your free hand, you held out your pinky to Jack, "It's me and you, right?"
Jack smiled and nodded, wrapping his pinky around yours, "You and me."
There was a vulnerability in your eyes as you looked at him, a fragility you hadn't yet shown him until now. He was just now realizing how much of a show you must be putting on for everyone—for him. He didn't want you to hide from him.
Maybe you initiated it because you were drunk, but Jack didn't stop you when you slowly inched your face close to his. Mouths centimeters apart, he cupped your cheek with his hand, felt it when you leaned into his palm.
"Jack?"
"Hm?"
"I really like kissing you," you said softly, "probably more than I should."
His stomach flipped and he wet his lips with his tongue, "I really like kissing you, too. Definitely more than I should."
He felt it when your breath stuttered against his mouth, "Good."
It felt like a relief, admitting that. He had his suspicions you weren't kissing him back just for show, but to hear you say it outright electrified him. With your mouth on his, warm and tasting of olives and vodka, he didn't notice the likely dozens of eyes that must've been on you.
Jack hadn't dated since he lost his wife. He'd maybe shared a drunken kiss with a couple of women at a bar, but nothing beyond that. He hadn't wanted to. There had never been anyone else that he wanted to get lost in like that.
But kissing you now, his longing burst from him. Tongue sliding into your mouth, his heart felt like an open wound. Would you help him suture it closed? Or would you rip him open and dig deeper?
Tearing himself from you, he pulled back enough to look into your face, "Do you want to… Go somewhere else? Alone?"
Your fingers raised to your swollen lips, you looked around at all the people who were now acting like they hadn't been watching. Your eyes stopped on David for a moment as he brushed Maya's hair off her shoulder and kissed her bare skin.
You cleared your throat and turned back to Jack, "Yes."
***
Your heart was racing as Jack led you by the hand down the hall until you were in the bridal suite again, Jack pushing you against the door to close it.
His mouth was hot and insistent on yours, low groans deep in his throat stirring the fire in your belly.
It felt euphoric, being able to touch him and taste him like this. Though, every second, was the gnawing thought in the back of your head that this was only situational.
He didn't want you, not really, not fully. He just was caught up in the moment. You knew you weren't a bad kisser and you suspected Jack's private life was fairly nonexistent since his wife passed. He had only taken off his wedding band a couple months ago. Taking all that into consideration, he was just having some fun.
The problem, of course, being that you wanted more than that. Being newly divorced you guessed you should have wanted something uncomplicated, but you knew if it was Jack who was involved, you'd only want unfettered devotion. You cared for him far too much, there was no world where your heart was capable of being casual about him.
But fuck, you wished you could turn your brain off and just focus on the way it felt to kiss him, the way his hands on your body felt like heaven. He hitched your hip up to meet his, one hand roaming up your dress, your head falling back while he kissed your neck.
When he pulled back from you, you chased his mouth and he smirked. Repeating the movement, he leaned back into you before pulling away while you chased him.
You couldn't help the whine that slipped from you, "Fucking tease." You grumbled.
Jack brought his fingers up to his mouth and you watched, jaw going slack as he sucked two fingers in his mouth.
When he brought them back out, they glistened with saliva and you swallowed, eyes following as they went down—
"Eyes on me, sweetheart." Jack said softly and your eyes snapped back to his, even as you felt his hand beneath your dress. His deft fingers shifted your panties to the side and your eyes stayed locked on his as he gently slipped a finger inside you.
Your eyelids fluttered at the pleasure and Jack's sigh fanned your face, "That feel good, baby?"
You nodded, barely able to keep your head on straight. He was so close to you, you could smell the liquor on his breath, heady and intoxicating. You wanted him so badly, you ached, it wasn't enough with his fingers inside you. You felt greedy, you wanted to feel him wholly.
Your hands twitched, wanting to unbuckle his belt, see how hard you had made him. But along with the desire, panic was brewing. Through your haze as his fingers slowly thrust in and out of you, a thumb lazily circling your clit, you were panicking.
There had only been one serious relationship in your life and it had been David. Before David, you had done the hooking up while in college, the one night stands and friends with benefits. But it had never been enjoyable, you had never been able to come. For a while you thought maybe there was something wrong with you. Maybe you just didn't like sex.
But as you began dating David and then sleeping with him, you realized that wasn't it at all. It was just that you needed an emotional connection to get off. You needed to be attracted to someone's heart, you needed to trust them to get there.
And now with Jack's fingers inside you, it fucking terrified you how quickly your peak was approaching.
He was more than likely just trying to get his rocks off and you were falling in love with him, you could feel it. You were in danger of getting broken if you didn't find an escape hatch soon.
"Fuck—" Your walls were beginning to flutter around his fingers—It was becoming hard to breathe—
"There you go, sweetheart, I can feel you, go on—"
Swallowing, you put a hand on his wrist and pushed lightly, "Troponin," you gasped.
Immediately, Jack froze. Embarrassed, you avoided looking at him as he pulled his fingers from you and stepped back. You mourned the loss of his touch immediately.
"Sorry, did I—Did I hurt you?"
"No," you shook your head quickly, "No, you did nothing wrong. I just, um—" You grasped at nothing for the words, for what to say, heat spreading up your neck to your cheeks.
"It's okay, you don't have to explain," He said quickly, but you heard the disappointment in his voice, "I'm gonna step outside so you can straighten yourself out."
He was gone before you could say anything else and you were alone. Straighten myself out, you thought as you pulled at your panties and dress, putting everything back the way it should be. If only it were that simple to straighten out your head, your heart.
This whole thing, coming to the wedding, bringing Jack here, had been stupid. Reckless.
At this point, there was no way you left this wedding better off than when you came. Your eyes burned as you braced yourself to go back out there.
Jack had said you didn't have to explain, but didn't you? Didn't you have to give him some excuse after the confusion you'd certainly just caused?
But when you came back out, he was waiting with a smile. The only way to tell something had changed was just his subtle check in with you to see if he could put a hand on your back or hold your hand.
After another couple of hours of socializing and another drink or two, you were leaning your back against his chest. He kissed the side of your face and then leaned into your ear, "Time to get you to bed?"
When you nodded, he gently led you around to your parents so you could say goodnight before beginning to walk you towards your hotel.
"Jack, I'm really sorry about earlier—" You started when you were outside, the only sound was of the cicadas chirping and the muffled music and talking from the rehearsal dinner behind you.
"You have nothing to apologize for, I moved too quickly. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable."
You bit your lip. You wanted to tell him that he hadn't moved too quickly, that actually you wanted him so badly he hadn't moved quickly enough.
"You didn't make me uncomfortable," You said slowly, "What you said earlier, when you said you didn't understand why I let David make me feel small—"
He sighed, "That was out of line—"
You moved in front of him and shook your head, "It wasn't. You were right, that's how our relationship always was. I let him… Tell me what to do, when to do it, I let him talk down to me, I let him do anything. He was the only relationship I ever knew," You blinked, tears blurring your vision, "I thought that was being loved. I still think that, sometimes. He wrapped his hand around my wrist and I know it's fucked up, but I thought to myself 'He still cares. He still loves me.' Sometimes I think maybe I should have forgiven him when he cheated on me. At least then I'd still have just that little bit of love." Your face crumpled, the emotion swelling even as you tried to stop it, "I'm just so fucking lonely. But I don't know how to be with anyone who's not him."
Jack's face softened and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his chest, "It's okay, baby, I've got you," As you cried into him, he kissed the top of your head, "It's gonna be okay."
When you got back to the hotel room, it was Jack who sat you at the edge of the bed and took a facecloth and your micellar water and gently removed your makeup while you cried, the most tender look on his face. He got your toothbrush for you, a cup to rinse and spit in after. And then with the softest voice, asked you if it was okay if he helped you out of your dress.
He tucked you in, following on his side a few minutes later.
You were still crying silently when you felt him next to you, careful to keep his distance. After the gentleness he'd shown you all night, even after your blatant rejection, your restraint was frayed.
"Jack?" You said after a few minutes.
"Yeah?"
"Do you think…Could you hold me?"
Without hesitation, you already felt him shifting on the bed, "Of course," He slung an arm around your middle and tugged you to his chest.
You closed your eyes and focused on the warmth of his body behind yours. Without meaning to, your hand grabbed ahold of his and you tucked his arm even tighter around you. You brought his hand to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his calloused palm.
He sighed in what sounded like contentment into your neck and pressed a kiss just below your ear.
When you were about to drift off to sleep, comforted by the warmth and solidness of Jack behind you, his scent enveloping you, you thought you heard a muffled, rough "love you."
He was likely already half asleep, maybe thinking of his wife. But for just a moment, as you slipped further into sleep, you allowed yourself to believe he was talking to you. That you got to fall asleep like this every night, wrapped in his arms, safe and loved.
***
Jack wasn't sure what he should be feeling when he woke up the next morning, still wrapped around you. You were still sleeping when he woke, the sun streaming in from the windows haloing around your head.
As his eyes carved paths down your face, the curve of your neck and shoulders, he felt overwhelmed with adoration. He wanted to stay like this forever, transfixed by the peaceful expression on your face. Unable to resist, he gently stroked a knuckle against your cheek. You didn't wake, but you hummed softly at his touch.
Man, was he in love with you. He knew especially after last night that you'd likely never return those feelings. You were still hung up on David and even if you weren't, you deserved something that was uncomplicated. Not a traumatized, widowed, amputee, vet who was pushing fifty. He was grateful just to be your friend and to have this weekend with you to play pretend. He'd lock the memories carefully away when you returned to Pittsburgh, only to revisit when he was alone and wistful.
You interrupted his thoughts with a heavy sigh, blinking slowly until you woke fully. You shifted in his arms until you saw him, awake next to you, and smiled.
"Good morning," you murmured, voice raspy from sleep. He wished it didn't, but the sound of your voice the first thing in the morning had him wanting to do unspeakable things with you in this bed.
"Morning," he said softly, smothering his desire as he pulled his arm away from you, "How'd you sleep?"
"Good," You said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and then stretching your arms over your head. He pretended not to notice the way your nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton of your shirt, "You?"
He nodded, "Good. How're you feeling about today?"
You inhaled and exhaled slowly and then shook your head, "I don't know. I'm not looking forward to it."
He nodded, "Do you wanna go home?"
You frowned, "After all this, you would drive me home right now?"
He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair, "I think maybe I was wrong about this whole thing. You've been hurting the entire time."
You shook your head, "Not the entire time," you said softly and squeezed his hand, "Anyway, I spent a fortune on a dress and I look hot as fuck in it so I can't let it go to waste."
Jack smiled slowly, "You're sure?"
You nodded, "I don't want to give them the satisfaction of leaving early."
He nodded, "Alright, let's get ready then."
You weren't kidding about looking hot in the dress. It was black and clung to your every curve, flowing out just below your knees.
"What do you think?" You asked, moving to bend down to put your shoes on.
Jack was faster though, sinking to a knee at your feet with a heel in his hand and gesturing for you to lift your foot into it, "I think," He said, buckling the strap around your ankle, "You look breathtaking."
Having helped you into your shoes, he straightened to standing, letting his fingers trail against your calf as he did. Face to face with you, you reached out to straighten his tie, which he thought was mostly just an excuse to step closer to him. His tie was already straight.
"You look good in a suit, Abbot." You said, smoothing your hands across his shoulders before meeting his eyes.
Pleased, he smiled and ran a hand along his jaw, "I was thinking about shaving—"
"No, don't—" You said quickly, causing him to meet your eyes in question. You bit your lip and looked away, "I just, um, I like the… scruff."
You were a tough puzzle to crack. Clearly, you were into him, physically anyway. Yet you had cut it off when you got too close to the edge. He knew he hadn't imagined your moans and the contracting of your walls around his fingers. You had been close and something about that had spooked you. Your explanation had been David, and he believed that for the most part, but he couldn't stop noticing the way you reached for him when you were scared or uncomfortable. How you had asked him to hold you the previous night. The physical intimacy between the two of you that had grown over the last two days seemed to soothe you.
And maybe that was all there was to it. That you were lonely and you trusted him and his touch made you feel safe. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see when he thought there was a bit more to the way you looked at him.
His mouth twitched, "Alright, no shaving, then."
***
The ceremony was difficult to sit through. You and Jack had done a shot of tequila before walking over, which had been helpful in loosening you up, but still. You looked almost anywhere else the entire time. Tried to ignore the nearby gushing of guests of how beautiful Maya was and how great they looked together and David tearing up when she walked down the aisle.
The vows were the most difficult to sit through and thankfully, you couldn't recall what had been said. The entire time, Jack's hand had been on your knee. But when that hadn't proved to be enough of a distraction, he had taken your hand and started thumb wrestling you. By the end of the ceremony you were having such a difficult time not laughing, people's heads were beginning to turn towards the two of you.
Once you'd made it to the reception, Jack had immediately tugged you to the bar— and was promptly disappointed when the bartender refused to serve you shots.
"Really, man? This is the bride's sister—"
"Jack—"
"I'll tell you what," Jack fished out his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, sliding it across the bartop, "Can we have those shots now?"
Your head swiveled as you watched the bartender pocket the hundred to see if anyone else was watching. Jack turned back to you, "What kind of bar doesn't serve shots at a wedding?"
You scoffed, "Have you been to a wedding in the last ten years?"
He turned to you, frowning, "Are you implying that I'm old?"
You smirked, "I didn't say that. Every wedding I've been to in the last decade that had an open bar refused to serve shots."
He narrowed his eyes, "That's insanity."
You shrugged, "As an emergency physician I would think you could understand why that may be the case."
"Eh," he shrugged, "Weddings should be a little messy. What's a wedding if your uncle doesn't get a little too drunk and start a fist fight with your third cousin?"
You laughed as the bartender slid you each a tequila shot, lime wedges on the rims. You took the lime off and turned to Jack, "Cheers," you said, clinking your shot glass against his.
After you both had slammed empty shot glasses back on the bartop, you were wincing as the tequila burned a path down your throat.
Jack winced too and then gestured yuou over with his hands, "C'mere."
You frowned, but stepped to him nonetheless, "What—?"
His hand cupped the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a bruising kiss. At first, the surprise of it had you tensing, but then you went molten in his arms, his tongue licking languid strokes in your mouth.
As quickly as it started it was over and you felt dizzy as you pulled away, clearing your throat, "What was that for?" You asked, conscious of the heat in your cheeks.
"Needed a stronger chaser," He said and winked at you, "lime wasn't enough."
Smirking, you let him lead you away from the bar and to your table. What the fuck were the two of you doing?
***
You probably should have been more careful about your drinking. Drinking when feeling vulnerable and sad and also wistful had never ended well for you. You were staring at Jack for too long, which for his part, he seemed to find amusing.
"I look that good, huh?" He leaned in and joked, nudging his nose against yours.
You had nodded, biting down on your lip, "You look sinful."
And it was true. As the night progressed, he had removed his jacket and tie, unbuttoned a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt and you could see some of his chest hair peeking out. You had an idea of what he was working with, broad chest and muscled arms that you had long admired in t-shirts and scrub tops, but tonight you felt like ripping his shirt off entirely. You wanted the buttons to pop and you wanted to ravage him.
You were drunk enough that the fear had seemed to leave you and Jack was a welcome distraction from everything else. But when the home videos started playing after they had cut the cake it was difficult to keep a smile on your face.
"You were adorable," He whispered in your ear, arm resting on the back of your seat. A video was playing of you helping your dad teach Maya how to ride a bike, "And a great big sister," You were about seven years older than Maya and had taken a lot of pride in being a big sister.
You inhaled slowly through your nose and pushed the ice in your glass around with your straw, "Yeah, and look where that got me."
Jack tilted his head, "Come on, don't do that."
You shrugged, "It's the truth." You felt the tears pinpricking the back of your eyes. This was what the alcohol did to you, brought everything you tried to bury to the surface. "I did everything for her and she stabbed me in the back. Sorry," You said immediately shaking your head, "I just need a second."
You pushed away from the table and went to collect yourself outside. Your hands shook and you cursed lowly under your breath. When you heard heels clicking behind you, you expected to see your mother, but when you turned it was your sister following you outside, white dress billowing behind her like an angel.
"Hey, are you okay? I saw you run out—Oh, you're crying."
You knew immediately that Maya had no idea how to comfort you. It was always you comforting Maya. And even after everything had imploded with you and David, you had never cried in front of her.
Awkward and stilted, she tried to wrap her arms around you, but you shrugged her off, "Please don't touch me."
"I'm just trying to help—"
"Don't you think you've done enough?" You snapped.
She scoffed and took a step back, "God, can't you just for one fucking day get over yourself? Today is supposed to be about me."
You laughed and shook your head, "Every day of my fucking life from the day you were born has been about you!"
"Oh, God, I'm so fucking sorry for the crime of being born—"
"That's not what this is about and you know it. Even my marriage ended up being about you—"
"I'm sorry he wanted me and not you! But that's not my fucking fault! Get over it!"
You scoffed, "Me? You want me to get over it? You stole my fucking husband—"
"You can't steal someone who doesn't want to be stolen!"
"Oh my fucking God," Your rage felt like a living thing in your chest. For a moment, you forgot where you were and it was just you and Maya. "Are you ever going to take accountability for what you did to me? Don't you think it's time you finally grow the fuck up?!"
"That's enough!" David swept in and placed himself between the two of you, Maya behind you, and lowered his voice to a hiss, "People are fucking staring, could you shut the fuck up?"
It was the alcohol, it had to have been. You never would have been behaving this way if you hadn't been innebriated to the level you were. But the rage you had suppressed for months and months was finally bubbling to the surface and the alcohol was like gasoline on the fire.
"Go fuck yourself," You said to David before you spat on his shoes.
Turning, you intended to leave and go back inside, but then your arm was being grabbed and pulled so aggressively, you thought your shoulder might pop out of your socket.
"Did you just fucking spit on me?" You were face to face with David again, his hand still gripping your arm no matter how you tugged.
"You're hurting me." You said calmly. If you were less drunk you might've been able to use those self defense classes Jack had mentioned last night to get out of his hold. But your brain was muddled and all you could focus on was your anger.
"Dave, let her go." Maya was saying in the background, but David wasn't listening.
"Hey!" That voice, you would recognize anywhere. But you were only used to hearing it that angry in the emergency department. With an unruly patient or fighting with admin. But Jack was pissed now as he stormed outside, laser focused on David and where his hand gripped you tight enough to bruise.
Upon seeing Jack, for his part, David immediately dropped you. But that did nothing to deter Jack, who although a couple of inches shorter than David, had no problem getting right in his face, "What did I fucking say to you last night, huh? You think this is a game?"
"Jack—" You said gently in warning, but he was lost to you.
David smirked down at Jack, "You gonna throw fists at my wedding, old man?"
You hadn't ever seen Jack this angry before and you were worried that he would start throwing punches. He fisted the lapels of David's suit in his hands and spun until he slammed David's back into a wall.
"Jack—" You said more insistently, a little more desperate since you heard Maya getting hysterical behind you, "It's fine he didn't hurt me—"
"You are so fucking lucky she's here—" He jerked his head in your direction, "—And I don't wanna embarrass her because I would take such fucking pleasure from ramming my knee into your groin if we were anywhere else. I may be an old man, but all that means is I've won way more bar fights than you have. And you're a fucking coward if your baby soft hands are any indication."
David set his jaw and looked around Jack to you, "Could you get your fucking meathead boyfriend off of me?"
Jack rammed David against the wall one more time for good measure before dropping him. Grabbing your hand, scowl still on his face, he dragged you back inside, "Jack—"
"I know, I'm sorry," He said finally, dropping your hand and running it over his face, "I know you can handle it yourself, but he just makes me wanna fuckin'—"
"Hey, it's fine," You said quickly, ignoring everyone else who was whispering about the scene you'd just made, "It was my fault anyway, I—" You bit your lip and looked down at the floor, embarrassed, "I spit on his shoes."
"I know, I saw," Jack said, sounding amused. And then his finger curled under your chin, pullng your face up gently so you could see the shit eating grin on his face, "It was kinda hot."
You snorted and rolled your eyes, "Shut up."
"No, I'm serious. It was nice to see you stand up for yourself with him for once. And your sister too. Did it feel good?"
Shyly, you nodded, "It feels awful to admit it, but yeah it did feel kinda good."
"'Atta girl," He said softly and your stomach did a somersault. You weren't sure what was going on between the two of you anymore. The line had blurred so much between what was being done for show and what was real that it was impossible to find anymore.
You weren't blind, you knew he wanted you physically and clearly he cared about you, but neither of those things necessarily combined to I'm in love with you.
And even if he were in love with you, that didn't mean he wanted to be with you. Love wasn't always enough, you knew that more than anybody. There was work to be done in a relationship and not everybody was willing to put in the work.
You were drunk enough that you were thinking of articulating all this to Jack, though a small part of you knew that was a mistake, but the second you opened your mouth someone was tapping you on the shoulder.
You turned to see Brandon, David's best man, glaring at you with a beer in hand, "Can I talk to you alone for a second?"
Brandon was known to be an explosive drunk. There were several times when out with a group of friends at the bar that David had had to carefully remove him from situations that would have gotten him arrested for assault. In fact, when David wasn't there, it wasn't unheard of for him to get a call in the middle of the night from Brandon saying that he needed to be bailed out of jail.
You didn't like Brandon, never had, and you certainly did not want to be alone with him when he'd been drinking.
"You can talk to me right here."
Brandon shook his head, then shrugged, "Fine. I think it was disrespectful of you to show up here with him and now you've made your own sister cry, saying her wedding's ruined—"
"Oh, give me a break, no one's gonna remember our little spat by the end of the night," You said rolling your eyes, "And if David and Maya wanted a perfect wedding they probably should have married different people. I'm so sick of everyone acting like what they did to me was fucking normal!"
"Stop acting like the victim when you cheated with him first!"
You blinked, "I never cheated and frankly I'm tired of everyone saying I did. I was recovering from surgery after miscarrying his fucking baby and he was busy sleeping with my sister! It's sociopathic behavior and I'm so tired of all of you making excuses for him!" You were shouting again, angry tears streaming down your cheeks, all the people around you were quiet and staring.
Brandon stepped closer to you and you stepped back—into Jack's broad chest behind you. Immediately comforted, you softened, until Brandon was wagging a finger in your face, "If you had any fuckin' decency you wouldn't have come here."
You rolled your eyes, "Oh, go kick rocks, Brandon. You're a drunk loser who's been riding David's coattails for the last decade. You don't know anything about decency."
You turned on your heel and grabbed Jack's hand as you tried to lead him away from the growing wildfire—When there was a sound like shattering glass and then a scream.
You and Jack both turned towards the commotion on instinct—And found that Brandon had gotten so angry, he'd thrown his beer bottle in your direction, but his piss poor aim meant it had shattered about three feet to your right—Right where Maya was standing with David—And there was blood on the floor.
It wasn't immediately clear where the blood was coming from because of Maya's billowing wedding gown, but judging by her tears it was definitely her who was injured.
Without thinking about it all that much, you and Jack both began walking towards her—
"Both of you, get away from her," David said, "I think you've done enough."
Jack's hands were raised in surrender, "We're probably the only doctors here, I just wanna make sure she doesn't need stitches, that's all." You noted his immediate shift in tone and posture: this was emergency medicine physician Dr. Abbot in front of you. All traces of Jack were gone.
"It's okay, David," Maya said softly, "Let them take a look."
Reulctantly and with his jaw set, David stepped aside. As you both moved to Maya, turned and pressed his car keys into your palm, "Why don't you go grab some supplies from my truck? And a suture kit just in case?"
You frowned, "But I—"
"Don't take this personally, but I think Maya's still upset with you and would be more comfortable with… someone else assessing her injuries."
You looked from Maya, who was carefully avoiding eye contact with you, back to Jack. He really had shifted into supervising attending mode. You were his senior resident again and he had just given you an order. You were annoyed, but shrugged and backed away, "Fine."
***
Jack trailed behind as David carried Maya off into another room. As he did, he couldn't help but think how David had downplayed you almost bleeding out from a miscarriage, but was now babying his new wife over a cut on the foot. He wasn't sure what that said about the man. If maybe he was truly better off with Maya or that maybe he was like this with you in the beginning as well. Maybe that was why you seemed to have such a hard time letting him go.
When David set Maya down on a chair in the bridal suite, Jack took a step toward Maya, but she stopped him with a raised hand and turned to David, "Davey baby, why don't you go check in with my parents? I'm sure they're wondering what all the commotion was about, they'll be looking for me."
David frowned, "No, I—" He glanced at Jack, "I don't want to leave you alone with him."
Maya gave him a skeptical look, "Whatever beef you guys have, I don't think Dr. Abbot would do anything to hurt me," she turned to look at Jack, "Right?"
Jack shook his head, "I just wanna check on that laceration."
Maya turned back to David as if to say see? And eventually, he folded, sighing, "Fine. I'll be right back."
With David gone, Jack lowered himself to the floor to get a look at Maya's ankle. She had pulled the skirts of her dress up so he could access it more easily. His limb was beginning to ache where it sat in his socket, and the lowering of himself to the ground wasn't helping, but the alcohol was doing a pretty good job at masking the discomfort.
There was one lac, about three inches long on her ankle and it seemed to already be clotting. He turned her ankle this way and that to see if there was anything else, but it seemed to be just the one. He'd have to flush it out with saline to make sure there was no glass in the wound, but she'd just need a bandage. He told her as much and she sighed in relief.
"Look, um—" She sighed, "You seem like a loyal man who really cares about my sister so I understand if you probably don't like me, but I just wanted to say that I am really happy for you both. You seem really good together." At the look on Jack's face she added quickly, "And I'm not just saying that to relieve my own conscience, I—" She sighed, "I know what I did, what I allowed to happen, I know why she can't forgive me, I just—" She blinked, eyes going glassy, "I just really miss her, you know?"
She looked a lot like you when she cried and it softened Jack to her immediately, "I think that in your rush to be forgiven and not lose her, she feels like you keep trying to dismiss why she feels so hurt."
Maya sniffed and nodded, "Is she really still that devastated? Now that she has you?"
God, she was so young. You and Jack weren't together, but he thought even if you were this would still be a sore spot for you. Did she really not get it? "Two of the people she loved and trusted most in her life lied to her and snuck around behind her back for almost a year. That's not something that heals that easily, and not without a scar."
Maya was silent for a moment and then her voice came out small, almost childish, "Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"
Jack sighed and shrugged, "I can't answer that, kid. I know she really misses you, but I think she's just as angry."
She nodded, fingers knotted in her lap, "Can you at least promise me," She said, reaching out her pinky to him, "That you'll take care of her? She's always taking care of everyone else and I think she really just… Needs someone else to. At least for a while."
Well, that was easy. He'd never stop looking out for you. "Sure," he said and wrapped his pinky around Maya's, "I promise."
***
You don't think they heard you when you stepped into the bridal suite, but what a sight it was. Jack on his knees in front of your sister, smiling up at her, his pinky wrapped around hers.
You wished you could say the way you reacted had nothing to do with jealousy or trust issues. That it had nothing to do with how the last person you had been in love with had turned you in for the newer, fitter model in front of you.
It wasn't even the way he was looking at her. You'd worked with Jack for years, you knew he smiled at everyone like that. You knew he was a habitual flirt.
It was the pinky promise that really gutted you, combined with everything else. You felt like you were being slapped in the face with the fact that you weren't special, not to anybody, and certainly not to Jack. Something that had felt almost like a secret handshake over the course of the weekend now trespassed upon by your sister.
And of course, the alcohol in your system just fed on these insecurities, nurtured them until they were all you could see.
So, heart aching in your chest, you walked towards them and set the supplies you'd brought down next to Jack.
For your sister's part, she jumped away from him when she realized you were there, but Jack seemed unbothered, "Hey, could you start a saline flush? She just needs a bandage—"
"I need another drink, actually, so do it yourself."
You saw Jack stiffen at your curtness, but you turned and started walking before he could say anything else. He barely got out your name before you had left the room.
It wasn't long, though, before he caught up with you, "Did I do something wrong?" He asked quietly.
"Nope." You tried to feign cool and casual, but the truth was it felt the walls were closing in on you. You had nothing and nobody. You were so goddamn lonely it had started feeling like karmic punishment, for what you didn't know.
"Really," he said, "so there's no reason for the way you spoke to me back there? In front of your sister?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, I need a drink—"
He grabbed your arm, not unkindly, and turned you so that you were facing him, "I think you've had enough to drink today—"
You pulled away from him, stumbling a bit so that he reached out for you, but you regained your balance without his help, "We are not in the ED so you don't get to tell me what to do."
His brows knitted together and he shook his head, "I don't understand, we were just good like five minutes ago, why are you acting like this?"
"What does it matter? You're not my boyfriend, it's not your responsibility to figure it out." You turned and started walking again, "I'm actually just gonna leave, I think, I don't wanna be here anymore."
"Okay," Jack said slowly, "That's fine, let's go then—"
"No," you said, "Not we, me. I'm going. Alone."
Jack threw up his hands, exasperated, "Are we not friends, at least? Can you tell me where you're going? You're drunk, you shouldn't be wandering by yourself—"
"I'm going back to our room, getting my things, and then I'm calling an Uber to take me home."
You started walking again and Jack had to jog to catch up. You felt a pang of guilt when you noticed his slight limp. He'd been on his feet most of the day.
"You're gonna call an Uber to take you back to Pittsburgh? Right now?"
"Yes."
He sighed heavily, "Sweetheart, please, throw me a rope, anything: Why are you so upset with me?"
You felt childish when your vision swam in front of you, "What did you promise her?"
He frowned and shook his head, "What? Who?"
"My sister," You said, swallowing past the lump in your throat, "You pinky promised her something, I thought that was our thing."
His face fell and you could almost see his brain doing calculus behind his eyes as he shook his head, "That is our thing, we were just talking," You were shaking your head, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, "Come on, baby, it's you and me, remember?"
He was holding his pinky out to you and you hated the way you instantly softened at his term of endearment. Anytime he called you baby or sweetheart you melted. But that was how you'd been for David, too, and look how that had turned out. Jack himself said you gave into him too easily and you used to think that's what love was. You wouldn't fold like that anymore, not for anybody.
"I'm going home," You said again and then began walking outside.
Jack chased you the whole way, going on and on about how he knew you were hurting but he thought you were misdirecting your anger at him. When you got to the room he kept talking, begging you to stay and just get in bed with him and you could talk when you were sober. Please, I'll drive you home first thing in the morning, I promise. He was growing increasingly more desperate the longer you ignored him and when you went downstairs to meet your Uber, he carried your bag, but still repeatedly asked you to stay with him.
"Please don't get in the car," He said quietly, even as he put your bag in the trunk for you, "Please come back upstairs with me, I'm sorry. I was talking about you the entire time I was talking to your sister, I didn't mean anything by it."
Looking back on it later, you knew you should've stayed. Somewhere deep behind the anxiety and the pain you knew you were being unreasonable. Punishing Jack for crimes he hadn't committed.
You were looking for problems to make it easier for you to leave so he couldn't leave you first.
The truth was, in all the time you'd been with David, he had never once chanced after you when you were upset with him. He'd never made the effort to try to understand why you were upset. Not even when things were good between you.
Jack was nothing like him, but you were punishing him anyway because you were afraid of how much you cared about him. It was easier to think it wouldn't work out between the two of you because he had fucked up instead of the truth that he more than likely didn't want you like that.
So you got in the car, stared at your phone instead of Jack's receding form as your driver pulled off the curb.
***
Jack Abbot thought himself a patient man. After you left that night, he'd stared off after the Uber feeling sorry for himself and only sent you a single text: Please just let me know when you get home.
On the way back upstairs to the hotel room, he ran into your mother who he apologized profusely to as he explained you had left.
"It's not your fault," She said quickly, "Honestly, I'm impressed she'd made it this far. I expected her to cuss them out as soon as she set foot on the property."
Jack frowned, "Why'd you encourage her to come then?"
"Oh, well, that was the outcome I wanted," She smiled, "I know it seems crazy, what mother wants their daughters to have it out in front of everyone they love? But I've watched her bury it over the last two years. It was eating away at her. And I know that because I did the same thing."
Jack nodded slowly, "She mentioned. That you'd been in a similar situation with her father. I'm sorry."
She shook her head, "The only thing I regret now was not letting myself get angry." She sighed, "I'm sorry you were in the cross fire though, that I didn't want. I was actually hoping that you being here would remind her that her life wasn't over, but I underestimated how much she likes you."
Jack frowned, "I don't follow."
Your mother looked at him with a sad smile on her face, "She's scared of you. Of how you make her feel. That's why she left."
She had left him with that and he'd mulled it over in his head for a while, but decided he couldn't confront that and what it might imply right then. He was still drunk and now he was sad. He had only shared a bed with you for two nights, but he thought he'd probably sleep like shit without you.
He woke up the next morning in the empty hotel bed and saw you'd texted him just before dawn: home.
He wanted to say more. He wanted to call you, he wanted to hear your voice, make sure you were actually alright. But he didn't do any of that. He packed up his truck and headed out without saying goodbye to anyone and drowned out his thoughts with the radio.
Jack was patient when he arrived at his first shift back since the wedding, eager to see you, only to have Lena tell him you had called out. Fine. You had never done that before, but fine. If you still wanted space he could do that.
The second night you called out, he was irritated and finding it difficult to think about anything else. But still, he remained steadfast. He would not push you when you clearly wanted nothing to do with him.
The third night, he snapped.
"What the fuck?" He hissed to Lena, "She can't keep calling out like this, have you—I mean, have you actually spoken to her?"
"No, just texts," she leaned closer to Jack, "What happened while you guys were upstate?"
Jack scrubbed at his face, "Doesn't matter. Could you please call Shen and see if he'll come in tonight? I need to go check on her."
He tried calling you while he waited for Shen to get there, knowing you wouldn't pick up, but at least you didn't deny his call. You had enough decency to let it ring until it went to voicemail instead.
As he headed to your place, his fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel. He had no plan, no idea what he was going to say to you when—if you opened the door. Regardless, he was eager to see you. Even if you just screamed at him to fuck off.
He paced outside your door after ringing the doorbell, fists clenching and unclenching—he felt like a fucking teenager.
When the door cracked open, he stopped and turned, taking you in.
You were barefoot in sweats and a hoodie, eyes swollen and puffy. It was clear to him immediately that you hadn't been sleeping and you hadn't been taking care of yourself.
"Hey," he said softly, feeling like he was trying to coax a stray dog into his car, "How are you?"
Stupid. Dumb question. Especially when the answer was written all over you.
You crossed your arms, "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"
He raised his eyebrows, "Shouldn't you?"
"I'm sick."
Jack hummed, "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe I can take a look at you since I'm here."
You sighed and shook your head, "I don't understand why you're here."
He tilted his head, "You don't?"
Your eyes grew wet and you sniffled, "Are you here to fire me? Is that it?"
"No," He said softly, "Of course not. I'm here because I'm worried about you. Why're you calling out? Is it me? You don't wanna see me? Because I can—I can talk to Robby and see if we can move you to his shift, but I don't want you throwing your career away—"
"I don't want to work on Robby's shift, but I—I have a hard time even looking at you right now," You looked up and screwed your mouth to the side, the way you sometimes did when you were trying to stifle an emotion. He waited, though he was hanging on your every word, "I'm… mortified by how I acted when I left. I—I shut down I was too drunk and I got scared—"
"Scared of what, honey?"
Your lip wobbled, "Scared of loving someone again, of giving someone else the chance to hurt me."
Oh. Jack's heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Your mother had said something similar to him just a few days ago, but after sobering up and the repeated call outs, he assumed she'd gotten it wrong.
"It's stupid and you probably don't even feel like that about me—"
"I'm gonna stop you right there," He said and stepped towards you. He reached a hand up to stroke your cheek, thumb swiping at the tears just below your eyes, "I am madly in love with you."
You hiccuped, bringing up your hand to rest on Jack's wrist, anchoring him to you, "Really?"
He nodded, "And I—I can't promise you that it'll never hurt, I'm…not the easiest to love. I'm old and sad and stubborn and probably have more PTSD triggers than the number of years you've been alive. But I won't ever treat you the way he treated you," He reached his pinky up between you, "That I can promise."
You wrapped your pinky around his and then used your intertwined hands to pull him closer and rested your forehead against his, "I don't think you're hard to love at all. I think I'd be very lucky to love and be loved by you, Jack Abbot."
He sighed shakily against your mouth before kissing you. You'd kissed before, but this felt transformative. As his mouth moved against yours, warm and soft and pliant, he felt overcome by how much he loved you—Something he didn't think he'd get to feel again after his wife passed. But when he was with you, it felt like he was starting over. Like maybe he could step in the light of the sun again and not get burned.
With a groan, he pulled away from you, breathless and euphoric, "I don't want to be presumptuous, but… may I come inside?"
You smiled and looked away shyly, "I… was not prepared for guests I know how neurotic you are."
He gaped at you, eyebrows raised, "I am not neurotic."
You laughed and stepped aside, allowing him a path inside, "I give you thirty seconds before you hightail it out of here."
Jack barely made it past the entryway. There was clutter everywhere, the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, towels and clothes in varying states of clean and dirty littered the floors and hung over the doors.
He could tolerate mess, really, he could. But this level of mess reminded him of living with three other men in college, something he promised himself once he had the money he'd never live with again. He could not fathom wooing you and taking you to bed in this pit of entropy.
"You still love me?" You asked, voice small.
He gave a surprised laugh and ran a hand through his hair, resting at the back of his neck, "Yes, but we're leaving. Pack a bag."
"Where are we going?"
"You're staying with me tonight," He eyed your overflowing trashcan, a takeout container perched precariously on top of it, "Maybe forever," he added softly.
He helped you pack, dismissing every embarrassed apology you threw his way about the state of your apartment. He had been to your place before when you lived with David, once, after your miscarriage when you ended up needing surgery. He remembered the place had been neat and tidy—not sterile, but cozy. The state of your apartment didn't worry him, it was simply a manifestation of your mental health as of late. Something that was fixable. And fix it he would—later.
Once at back at his place, Jack immediately started running you a bath. He had copious amounts of epsom salts to ease his muscles, especially his leg, and he poured these in while the hot water ran. You stood in the threshold of the door alternating between watching him and taking in his house.
"When was the last time you ate anything other than Doordash?" He asked, gently tugging you by the hands fully into the bathroom.
"Um, I don't—" You sighed, "I don't remember."
"I'm gonna make you dinner," he said softly, thumb running over your lower lip, "Do you like bolognese?"
You bit your lip as you looked up into his face, "You don't have to do that."
He shrugged, "I want to. If it makes you feel better I was gonna make it for myself anyway when I got off shift." He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth, "Do you want a glass of wine while you're in the bath?"
"Sure," You smiled, and when he went to step around you, you squeezed his hand, "Jack?" He turned back to you, question in his eyes, "Could you stay with me while I'm in the bath?"
He smiled softly and walked back over to you, kissing you a bit deeper, worrying your lower lip between his teeth before pulling away, "Of course."
***
It felt a bit surreal, sitting in Jack's bath with a glass of red wine in your hand and the man himself staring at you with adoration as you soaked. This morning when you'd woken up you'd contemplated moving across the country so you'd never have to see him again. Now you were in his home and he'd told you he was in love with you.
You were still afraid, terrified really, of giving him the power to hurt you. It wasn't something that could be turned off so easily—but still, you trusted him. There was a persistent voice at the back of your head that reminded you you had trusted David at one point as well. But with Jack, it felt different. With David, even when you trusted him, there was an anxiety, a resentment, quietly brewing in the background. With Jack you felt only peace.
Your legs were thrown over the lip of the tub and the hungry look in Jack's eyes as he eyed them was not lost on you.
"You can touch, if you want," You said quietly.
His eyes dragged up to yours and then he smirked, "Is that why you asked me to stay?"
You sank lower beneath the water and shrugged, "Maybe."
His fingers tread carefully along your skin, at first kneading gently at your feet. You couldn't help the groan of contentment that escaped you almost immediately at his touch. It had been a long time since someone had touched you so lovingly.
Soon, you felt his lips at your ankle, pressing featherlight kisses along your leg as his hands traveled further up—Until they dipped beneath the water.
Your eyes stayed locked on his as his calloused fingers ran slowly up your thigh, your breaths quickening.
Slowly, he ran his tongue along his lips as his fingers reached the apex of your thighs, "You sure?" He asked, and his voice was rough and husky.
When you nodded, you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and beneath the water his fingers parted your lips. He began slowly, gently circling your clit as you sighed and arched your back. When you began whining beneath his touch, he pushed a finger inside you and you moaned in earnest as he slowly and gently curled it upward, thrusting in and out of you.
His fingers felt so good, warming you up and stretching you out, but you needed more. Your hands wandered up your torso until the cupped your breasts and you began pulling and pinching at your nipples.
"Fuck," Jack cursed and you watched as he palmed the bulge in his pants with his free hand, "You're gonna fuckin' kill me, kid."
Already, with Jack's fingers inside you, you were embarassingly close to the edge. You hadn't slept with David since before the miscarriage, so it had been something like two years since you'd been with someone. Since anyone had touched you with desire.
"You close, sweetheart?" Jack cooed, "You wanna come on my fingers?"
"Mmm," You whined, "Please, Jack."
There would be time for slow, for teasing, for edging later, you thought. Much later. Now you were ravenous for him. Altogether you thought it had only taken him about two minutes to get you to unravel on his fingers, and when you did, crying out, he hummed appreciatively, "You're so gorgeous when you come for me, baby."
As soon as Jack pulled his hand away from you, you were standing up. Jack laughed in surprise, "Where are you going?"
"Need you to fuck me," You said shortly, "Can't do that in here."
"Oh," Jack said, seeming surprised, and you watched as a flush worked its way into his cheeks, "You want to—Now?"
Getting cold now, you lowered yourself back down into the water, "Do you not want to?"
"No—No, of course I do. I'm just, um—" He shook his head quickly, "—It's been a—long time for me."
You nodded, "Me too."
He sighed and hung his head, "No, I mean, I haven't slept with anyone. The last person I slept with was my wife."
Ah. Well, that was quite a bit longer than you. Still, it didn't bother you, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," You said slowly, "I hope that goes without saying. But I'm not going to be judging you on performance, Jack. I just want to be close to you right now."
He looked back up at you, a hesitant smile on his face, "I wanna be close to you, too."
Jack held your hand as you climbed out of the tub and wrapped a towel around you, kissing you tenderly as he helped you dry off. But his kisses became hungry, sloppy as the two of you maneuvered to the bedroom, his hands wandering to your hips and ass.
"God, you're so sexy," he murmured into your mouth. You licked into his in response, making every kiss impossibly deeper and hungrier, like you wanted to consume him.
When the back of his legs hit the bed, you dropped to your knees in front of him, looking up at him with wide eyes as you began unbuckling his belt. From this angle, from any angle, he was gorgeous to you, but he bit his lip now as he watched you free his cock and you felt your heart stutter in your chest at the sight of it.
He hissed when his cock sprung free and you wordlessly tugged him down to sitting on the edge of the bed as you admired him. He was thick and leaking, a patch of graying curls at the base, beautiful. You were practically salivating at the sight of it. Taking him in your hand, you lapped at his tip, taking his precum onto your tongue. Immediately, he was groaning and you watched him fist the sheets.
Looking up at him, you took one of his hands, watched it uncurl from the bed and placed it on the back of your head, "I want to feel how desperate you are for me," You said, looking up at him. He looked a bit helpless, almost stunned, and you nodded at him, eyebrows raised, "Okay?"
Finally, he nodded. This time, when you took him in your mouth, his hand gripped you. As you found a rhythm, bottoming out with him hitting the back of your throat, you were pleased when his hips began bucking into your mouth, his hand guiding your head on and off his cock.
After a couple of minutes of this, Jack groaned and gently pushed you off him, "Come up here," he said softly and watched carefully as you wiped the spit from your mouth with your arm and rose to standing.
He kissed you greedily and began to pull you into his lap, but you pulled away slightly, "Can we take all this off, please?" You tugged lightly at the shirt he was still wearing and his half off pants, "Want to see all of you."
Already nodding, he pulled his t-shirt over his head. You knelt back down to the floor to help him take his prosthetic off so the pants could come off too.
With everything off, Jack pushed himself backwards towards the pillows and you admired him from the foot of the bed for a moment. He was as broad chested as you imagined, covered in freckles you wished to connect like constellations. He was muscled, but soft around the middle, a generous happy trail that you longed to lick in its entirety.
You shook your head, almost at a loss for words, "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."
Jack blushed, but rolled his eyes and shook his head immediately, "Stop that, my body's—It's not what it used to be."
You shook your head, "I'm sure you were gorgeous then, too, but you're—" You bit your lip, "I wanna lick every inch of you."
You crawled over to him and straddled his hips, hands wandering eagerly across the planes of his chest while you ground your slick folds over his cock. Jack groaned appreciatively, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, "Fuck, you're so wet," You dragged your folds along the length of him again and he sighed, "That all for me, sweetheart?"
You nodded, eyelids fluttering as you rubbed your clit against him, over and over.
"You wanna come again, baby? Rubbing your clit on my cock like that?" He lightly slapped your ass and you moaned, quickening your pass to chase the friction.
You were close again, could feel your impending orgasm just on the cusp and Jack saw it all over your face, "Go on, baby. Be a good girl and come on my cock."
His praise easily pushed you over the edge, Jack continuing to forcefully move your hips along his length as you came down.
With a hand on the back of your neck, Jack pulled you down to kiss him again, "So good," he mumbled, "feel so good."
Gently, he maneuvered you off of him and positioned you so you were on your side, you back to him, as if you were spooning. Flexing his left leg over your hips for purchase, he pushed inside you slowly from behind, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back into your head.
He kissed the back of your neck, "I'm—I'm not gonna last long like this, fuck—"
"That's okay," You ran a hand down his thigh and rocked your hips back into him, "We can go again later."
He chuckled and then started rocking into you fully, cursing occasionally or biting down on your shoulder hard enough that you were sure it would bruise later. Jack was overwhelming every one of your senses as he thrust in and out of you and you were being very vocal about. So loud, in fact, that Jack reached around and stuffed his fingers in your mouth and ordered you to suck on them as if they were his cock. This quieted you, but only just.
As you moaned around his fingers, he began slamming into you with more force, the sound of his hips snapping into yours filling the air until he stuttered and you felt him fill into you, warm and wet.
The two of you were panting as he finished, hips slowing until they stopped completely. After a moment of recovery, Jack tightened his arms around you and kissed up the side of your neck, "Are you alright? Was that okay?"
You almost laughed, "'Okay'? It was incredible. How was it for you?"
"Yeah," He said, kissing your shoulders, "About the same."
For a long while, the two of you laid there in the quiet, just holding one another—Until your stomach rumbled.
Chuckling, Jack ran a hand over your stomach, "Let's go make you dinner, sweetheart."
***
With the dishes cleared and your stomachs full, you had gotten ready for bed in Jack's en suite bathroom. When you walked back into the bedroom, he was under the covers, his face lit up with the blue light from the TV. When you climbed into bed next to him, you looked to see a baseball game on.
"Do you mind this? I can change the channel—"
You yawned and shook your head as you snuggled up next to him, throwing an arm over is chest, "I'm gonna pass out probably in the next five minutes, so, no need."
He hummed and ran a hand over your back, "Well I was planning on working tonight so I might be awake for a while longer."
"That's okay," You burrowed your nose into his neck, inhaling the scent of his aftershave, "As long as you stay here with me."
He kissed the top of your head, "No place else I'd rather be."
As you fell asleep, Jack kept looking back down at you, as if to check if you were still there. Every so often, he'd touch your face or kiss your head and you'd hum in contentment.
With you sleeping in his arms like this, he began to fantasize of another wedding, a couple of years from now. The dream wedding you'd always wanted, but didn't get the first time. He could practically see it, you in a white dress, him watching you walk down the aisle to him.
Both of you beginning a new chapter together, starting over. He didn't think he'd ever get to be a husband again. But with you warm and safe in his bed, he thought he'd very much like to be yours.
Leaning over you, Jack kissed your cheek and then whispered in your ear, "I love you."
Still half asleep, you murmured back, "Love you."
For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot was looking forward to the sun rising and a new day beginning.
Oh, oh, oh, oh! The guy that does the audiobook for PHM is also the guy who did We are Legion, We are Bob, and he’s so excellent at what he does!
Also I love the idea of Rocky asking about mates with [reader] there bc WOW, whew, excuse me how awkward Grace will immediately get
RAY PORTER, MY LOVE AND MENTION OF WE ARE LEGION? Let's be friends, Anon. I love those books sm. Also this idea plagues my ever being thank you for bringing it up. Pls like, reblog and comment! I was really excited to write this and may have gone overboard haha. Jazz hands. - Em.
Title: Birds, Bees & Beatles.
Pairing: Dr. Ryland Grace x Fem!Reader.
Summary: Ryland knew how to handle the topic with kids whose parents refused to give them 'the talk'. How do you handle the topic when the 'kid' was a Alien, older than the United States of America, from the planet Erid?
Words: 8K. ( there are blisters on me fingers )
Rating: M. ( Human reproduction, heavy mentions of sex, Ryland is uh. Horny on main. But so is reader. ) READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. 18+.
Ryland Grace Masterlist.
Ryland Grace taglist: @strigiform-titan @whats-my-hyperfixation @negativefoursanity @blaze-the-world @box-of-sharpies @everythingismadeofchaos @gnomebutch @t0nystank @greenlalianime @my-cat-can-slay-dragons @gardenavenve
“How Human reproduce, question?”
That hung in the air like a deadweight. Ryland shrugged his glasses off with an awkward chuckle, leaning over to look at the laptop to make sure that his ears heard the Eridian correctly. Yup, he nodded and bunched his mouth into a form fitting pout like he had eaten something sour. He heard that right.
He explained orbital mechanics to Rocky, he explained radiation and time dilation, going deep into his brain to bring up the correct physics and mathematics to do so and somehow tried his hand at saving the Earth and Erid with successful results thus far. And yet… Somehow and some way, with you standing right next to him, mouth flying open, Rocky decided to ask that particular question. Ryland had felt stress before, but nothing like this. Explaining human reproduction to Rocky.
God, he was going to lose hair from the tension in the air.
“Okay,” Ryland said, clapping his hands together. He’d done this before! He’s taught sex-ed! He’ll just… Use that experience. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy. Tightly, his eyes closed as he rose to his feet, pacing and rubbing the stubble on his chin. Ryland couldn’t bear to be near you as he began simply, “Humans reproduce… sexually.”
Rocky’s voice chimed, curious and steady. “No understand word.”
Well, this was a disaster. Ryland wanted to bang his head against the metal wall of the Hail Mary.
There were many things about this that were enjoyable, one of which being the absolute spiral Ryland was going through, evident in the way that he grasped his chin and let a hard sigh escape his parted lips. He needed help but didn't want to ask you---
“He means it takes two people.” You told Rocky, looking down at him in his xenonite container.
Ryland let a laugh out - sharp and precise before turning on his heel and pointing at you. “Yes!! That. Good.” Nodding with a thumbs up, he began shuffling towards the doorway that would get him the heck out of dodge. ”She’ll explain the rest, Rock. Any questions just,” Ryland pointed at you again, “Let her know.”
“Oh, so now it’s my responsibility?”
“Yes,” he said quickly, shuffling his feet. “Team effort, right?”
Rocky’s attention shifted between you both as he teetered from foot to foot to foot to foot to… foot.
“Behavior unusual.” He pointed at Ryland with one of his many fingers who felt like he was being put into a police lineup at the motion,“Grace increase vocal pitch, avoid (Last Name), elevated heart rate. Grace in danger, question?”
You pushed yourself off the edge of the metallic desk you were happily leaning against, stepping closer to Ryland who wanted nothing more than to step back but there was nowhere to go at this point. You were close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm. He stiffened beside you for half a second before searching your face for some sort of explanation of why you were in his bubble.
“He’s not in danger,” you told Rocky gently. “Just… human reproduction is sort of… personal. We don’t talk about it very often. It’s kind of… Socially not accepted outside of certain situations.”
And unfortunately, this was indeed. … One of those certain situations.
Ryland cleared his throat and covered his mouth with a fisted hand, very aware of how near you were now. But it seemed you had a plan and he was more than willing to go along with it despite the heat that was rising in his chest. “Right. Personal. Totally normal to feel weird about explaining this in front of an alien with another person.” He half-whispered that last part.
“You’re a Doctor. In Molecular biology. Isn’t it your job to… not make it weird?” You murmured under your breath. It was futile, you knew Rocky could hear no matter what range of vocal volume you used.
“I’m not making it weird,” He was on the verge of desperation. Given the chance, you were sure he’d bust out into tears but instead he whined, “It is weird.”
Rocky chimed. “Showtime, question? Increased distance between Grace and (Last Name). Is part of human reproduction, question?”
You snorted at that, almost losing what little semblance of control you had at that implication. Rocky didn't know any better, you knew that, but the thought of… Ryland and you caused discomfort to rise in the pit of your stomach, seeking refuge against the bottom of your ribcage as your cheeks turned a nice shade of red. The scientist next to you covered his face briefly, refusing to let you see what expression he was giving off, his pinkies tearing at his bottom lip as he groaned out and rubbed at his cheeks tediously.
Yeah, this was going to be… harder than you both thought.
“No, bud.” It was obvious in the shaky tone of your voice that you were barely holding on, “Let’s start from the beginning okay? Basics.”
“Basic.” Rocky mused.
You nodded, happy he understood at least that. “Humans have two sexes. Male,” You pointed at the still flustered Ryland who was no longer holding his face but was beet red from the neck up, “and female.” Your hand traveled to your chest to point. Like your face was any less colored. “They each produce what's called gametes. Sperm from the male and egg from the female.”
He thrummed a few musical notes your way before the computer voice spilled out, “Understand.”
Ryland nodded along with your words, finally bringing himself to speak up now that there seemed to be a handle on the topic.
“And they have to meet… you know for…” He coughed, hoping that his words didn't come out as awkward as they were sounding in his head, one hand rising to rub the back of his neck as he slurred a small, “for reproduction to happen. They meet, shake hands and create a zygote.”
It was your turn to nod at Ryland in support. Rocky made talking to his pre-teen students about this seem like a cake walk. Hopefully, that will be all and he’d be satisfied with the lesson. The basics were explained, there wasn’t anything else!
Rocky tilted his carapace and played some of his fingers together. “How meet, question?”
Annnnnd, there it was. The question of the century, ladies and gentlemen! Ryland wheezed at that, bending down to hold on to his knees.
“That’s a good question, Rocky. One I’m sure Dr. Grace has a good answer for.” You looked at him, waiting for something to come out of his mouth but there was nothing but a startled laugh of sorts, turning into a prolonged groan. He looked at you like Rocky had just asked him to perform a piano piece in front of a full auditorium. Naked.
“Oh no,” He muttered in your general direction, almost begging on his hands and knees as he scuttled even closer. “No, no, no. You’re better at explaining personal things. I can stick to science!”
“You’re literally a teacher.” Was your response, tucked away behind a smile that Ryland stared at for a moment too long as you grasped his shoulder. He leaned into it subconsciously seeking the comfort it gave him, “You can do this!”
“I teach kids about the power house of cells, not—this!” He gestured rather wildly towards Rocky.
“Didn't you do sex-ed one year?”
“Why do you think they never asked me to do it again!?”
Rocky tapped lightly on the floor with one of his claws. “Grace delay. Answer Rocky question. Important.”
“It’s not like we’re, y’know…” You made a circle movement with your wrist, trying to think about what you wanted to say to him. Instead, you opted to lean in a bit and whisper closer to his ear, seeking some sort of privacy. Ryland felt prickly at the proximity of your face and given the chosen topic of conversation, it was hard to… Not to think about that. “We can just… talk about it. It’s not like he’s judging. He knows nothing about the process. He just needs the science.”
Ryland tilted his head at you, and for a moment the panic faded into something quieter upon feeling your hot breath against the shell of his neck. Something warmer. Unfamiliar in his body, making his feet feel slightly numb and his chest like there was a heavy brick right on his sternum. Was he sweating? He flickered his hands into fists before relaxing them again. He felt like he was sweating---
“Easy for you to say,” His breath shattered into the air, moving some strands of your hair as you were that close to him. “You’re not the one trying not to think about—” He stopped himself abruptly. Woah, this was not the time and place, Ryland!
You leaned back to look at his face quizzically, noting the press of his eyebrows that caused a crease to form between them, the rapid nature of his breath, inhaling and exhaling from his mouth. If you didn't know better, you’d say that this was making him nervous. “Think about what?”
His ears went hot at that, turning a lovely shade that matched the seam of his Horse Shoe Bend t-shirt. “Nothing. Science. Just science, like you said.”
You smiled just a little and patted his shoulder supportively as he straightened his back to stand. “Right. Science.”
Rocky chimed again, showing clear signs of impatience. “Clarify. How meet, question?”
It was your turn to stand straight as Ryland trailed back towards Rocky, grabbing one of the lab chairs and scooting it under his butt. He sat slowly, bunching his knees up on the metallic ring around the bottom. “It happens internally,” He said with a bit more viable confidence. “The male delivers sperm into the female’s body so it can reach the egg.”
Rocky went still before clacking some fingers together. “Explain delivery mechanism.”
Grace made a strangled noise and threw himself rather dramatically onto the lab table. “I can’t do this.” He murmured, his breath causing condensation to rise on the surface.
You bit back a laugh, trailing behind and sitting in the lab stool next to Ryland. “Through physical… closeness.” That was a good word, one that didn't provoke and from the silence that the Erdian gave, maybe he was finally satisfied with the answers he had gotten and he was just taking a moment to remember it all.
“Define word.”
Ryland let out a slow breath and raised his hand to touch your shoulder. Not affectionately, but to give Rocky an example, you figured. “Extremely close. Physical touch. Extremely close physical touch.” He finally pieced together coherently. At least, as coherent as it was going to get as he dragged his hand down from your shoulder, over the smooth skin of your upper arm and down to your wrist where it lingered momentarily under the table. Your shoulder brushed his again as you shifted your weight at the tickling nature of the contact, and this time neither one of you thought of moving away.
Rocky considered the definition and made a conclusion based on what else he knew about Humans. “Trust required, question?”
You looked at Ryland, waiting for him to answer but it was obvious from the way he stared at you that it was not coming anytime soon. Instead, you let your touch flutter across his fingers under the table before you lifted them up. “I’d say so, yes.”
The blonde next to you nodded, jarred out of the moment from his rather reckless grazing against your skin. He couldn’t stop himself though - he tried and failed, like an absolute loser. He just hoped it didn't make you uncomfortable. But… From your reaction, Ryland felt almost confident enough to say that you… Enjoyed it as much as he did. That was new. Clearing his throat once more in a vain attempt to keep himself calm, his voice more grounded than before but still on the hushed side. “A lot of trust, actually.”
He felt shameful to admit that it felt like Rocky wasn’t even there anymore and this was just a conversation waiting to happen between the two of you. For a moment, the awkwardness that had shuffled to the surface of tension faded into something else. Neither of you felt it needed to be said, something… Unspoken about what was happening, what had transpired and what could happen. And the incredible irony that explaining this topic to an alien hundreds of years old unlocked it was just the icing on what was sure to be a very delicious cake. One you wanted to gorge yourself on, and from how Ryland was staring at you, he must have had the same thought.
Your gaze shifted, you were not just looking at him, but almost into him, that you wanted more than just his pointer and middle finger on your skin, touching in places that were off-limits even to think about. He swallowed - harder than he meant to as a smile hit your face, “A lot of human reproduction revolves around that. It’s sort of like… A bond. Once you’ve successfully reproduced, you’re tied to that person for the rest of your life.”
Rocky turned his carapace towards you. How did you know? You spent a long time with him and figured out what side of him was designated the face side. He seemed perplexed by that before deciding to speak on the suggestion of your words, “Bond needed for human reproduction, understand. Eridian have similar. Trust. Bond with mate. Security. We call♩♫♫♩♪♪.”
You glanced over at the laptop this time, making sure that your ears were correct. It was not very often anymore that words came up like this, at least from Rocky, that were not already in your database.
“You feel it with your mate?”
“Yes,” Rocky seemed annoyed with that question from you. “But is not enough. Rocky feel,” He paused, “need new word to describe. Not enough time with Rocky mate. Want more. Want, Want, Want.”
That was a revelation from a creature who lived many, many human life-spans. But, you supposed the desperation for more would always be around so long as Rocky and his mate were together. That was often the same for Humans. For a second, your fingers hovered over the keyboard. What… What were you even supposed to type? You could almost feel Ryland looking over your shoulder at the screen, almost relishing in the way that you could feel his hot breath against the shell of your ear from his sudden proximity of curiosity, surely wondering the same thing as you hesitated. What would you call that? That very unique trust and bond with someone you were going to try reproducing with? You shut your eyes and cringed. Ugh, that sounded so… not romantic.
Love.
You typed in carefully, almost seeking approval from Ryland who looked at the word, mouth propping open and nodded in agreement. You tilted your head, almost bumping noses with your scientist. Your… scientist? When did that get possessive? He didn't bother pulling away either, staring at mouth before trailing up to meet your eyes.
Rocky was oblivious to the moment, proudly speaking out, “Have seen similar behavior with Grace, (Last Name). Trait of bond. Trust---”
Ryland choked on air, finally pulling away from you and leaving only his scent nearby as he trailed towards the wall where Rocky was perched, having moved to be a bit more comfortable in his space. He got surprisingly defensive, giving you a mild whiplash of ‘will we, won’t we’.
“Wh--- Where did you get that idea? We are not--”
“Together.” You finished for Ryland, causing him to startle. When. When did you get behind him? He turned to look down at you as you came around his right side and it took all his willpower not to shove you against the wall that collapsed between Rocky’s atmosphere and the Hail Mary’s and kiss you, proving Rocky right. But, that would lead to a whole ‘nother conversation. What a kiss was.
Gross human thing. Gross, gross, gross. He can almost hear Rocky’s electronic voice in his head--- You use to eat and do that? Human gross. As if he didn't defecate out of his---
“Have observed love between Grace, (Last Name) many time. Have many example. Would Grace like to hear-”
“No thanks.” He murmured, feeling his shoulders tense as he placed a hand carefully on the xenonite wall. And here he was thinking that he had been playing it cool this entire time. Or at least, for the last month when these… Urges, these emotions began surfacing. Why would it be surprising that Rocky noticed? He noticed everything! Could hear, see… Ryland felt a wall of heat rush through his entire body as he looked back at you, suddenly now onslaught with awkward nervousness. All confidence, all swagger that had been around him before was now gone and he was replaced back with… His cowardice.
“We’re not together like that Rocky,” Came your voice of surprising rationale. How were you keeping so calm? Ryland wondered but he could tell from the way that you were holding your body, tense and unsure, it was making you slightly uncomfortable to talk about. It was like you had the world’s worst therapist in the room who couldn’t read the social cues you were both giving off in heavy doses. “Dr. Grace just needs to relax.” You turned your head, giving him a knowing grin.
“Iamrelaxed.” He said immediately, far too fast to the point where his words were jammed together. “I am so relaxed, it’s not even funny.”
He scoffed, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck. It lingered there, grasping a handful of the thick blonde hair at the base and tugged out of discomfort. You watched him squirm in amusement, admiring how the almost fluorescent lights of the lab bounced off the muscles of his bicep with the motion, a peak of his underarm hair teasing your semi-dilated pupils before being pulled back to his sharp face.
“You seem like you’re panicking.”
“I panic when I’m relaxed.” Ryland said, dropping his arm much to your disappointment.
Rocky chimed, “Grace statement inaccurate. Behavior exhibited indicative of---”
“I’m totally fine!” His voice was a few octaves higher than usual, hands placing themselves on his hips as he looked down at Rocky, “You need to stop doing that, bud. I’m trying to be mysterious!”
You laughed at that. Ryland was… anything but mysterious. He wore his heart on his sleeve much of the time to the point where his eyes gave away even the slightest bit of emotion he was trying to keep tucked into the surface. It was… Something you really liked about him, in fact. You could always tell how he was feeling, eyes perked up at you when you entered the room, eyes half-lidded with sleep as he came into the lab with Rocky trailing closely behind, eyes shut with focus as he listened to you explain something important to him. His thick eyelashes would tickle along the very tops of his cheeks when he shut his eyelids, and there were a few times you were tempted to lightly trace where they kissed just to say you were allowed but… Always stopped yourself short.
You hadn’t realized you were gawking at him until his blue irises met yours and there it was again. That something unspoken transferred between you and it made your diaphragm clench, proverbial butterflies in your stomach.
“Okay,” He admitted, submitting his whims to you almost like he was on his hands and knees in front of you. You’d been attracted to him, but something about this look he was giving you was beyond measure as he moved a bit closer to you, shoulder brushing yours as he pivoted himself to be in front of you. You were blocked in between the wall and Ryland. Not too bad of a spot to be in. “Maybe I’m a little… not relaxed.”
“Because of the topic?” Your breath hit the base of his neck as you craned your own to look up at him.
He hesitated. Classic Ryland… Always coming up short when his moment was waiting to be seized.
“…Not entirely.” He raised a hand and experimentally let it rest on your waist, right above where you had the mission hoodie tied around your hips. He used that as a bit of leverage, letting his fingers sink into the fabric and almost audibly moaning at the feeling of heat coming from your skin from below. Was he just… Lonely? Were you just lonely? This is why he argued with Stratt about there being females and males on the mission! One sex made it simpler, but he supposed that if they were going on the mission in the first place knowing they were going to die, they’d let that go and just enjoy it for what it was worth.
This… was… God… The look you were now giving him was through your eyelashes, your right hand raising and pressing against his chest, right in the center and you could almost feel the divot of his sternum beneath your touch that caused another shift. Your feet moved closer, Ryland aiding just a bit as he pulled on your waist telling you that it was more okay for you to come in. Come to me. He was saying, only slightly ashamed in his own lack of self control as his hips moved towards you first, finally having your body almost moulded completely against his own like the white sheath that hugged your taut form when you went to put on your EVA suit.
Ryland had to admit to himself - he’d looked more than once when you were wearing just that. And he had a good feeling that it was a mutual choice based on how you conformed against his hard body, his free hand raising and tucking a piece of your stray hair behind your ear which earned him you tipping your head to the side and letting his slender and long fingers encase the side of your cheek.
“What… were we talking about? I…” Ryland’s voice was a hush as his breath captivated your face. He was that close, his mouth was right there it just took one more… Good pull…
“Is Human reproduction mate random, question?”
There was a quiet beat. Ah, right… That’s what you were talking about. And you were being watched. Very closely. Probably too closely. Rocky had moved to get a bit closer to the xenonite before deciding to use it with his ‘magical wand’ Ryland called it after mistaking it as a gun. It was pointed directly at Ryland and you despite having gotten strict directions… Not to do that. Invasion of privacy was a hard thing to explain to an alien who used echolocation and had the greatest hearing in probably the whole galaxy. Universe, even.
You answered this one without looking away from Ryland who expressed a knowing grin that mirrored the one you gave him earlier. “No. It’s a choice.”
Grace nodded slowly, forcing himself to pull away from you so he could bend down to Rocky’s level, using the clear xenonite to keep himself steady on the balls of his feet. You were left reeling at the lack of contact but it was replaced with something more, something… You needed to hear from Ryland as he spoke to Rocky in a more hushed voice. “An important choice. Human reproduction is about more than just performing a task for the sake of evolution and survival even if our bodies do go through cycles that indicate we want to just reproduce.”
Rocky hummed. “Human reproduction complicated. Just lay egg like Eridian. Easy.”
Ryland huffed a small laugh and looked up at you longingly, so unaware of how he was making you feel as his eyes were lidded by his thick and dark eyelashes, peering at you from over the thin rims of his glasses. “Yeah, well there’s no fun in that.”
“Human reproduction fun, question?”
“You get to take that question, Dr. Grace.”
The tone of voice you used was a bit different, Ryland noticed and joked to himself that he felt a bit like Rocky. It was… deeper. Intentionally so as it was coupled with you pressing your hand to Ryland’s shoulder as a fever washed over him slowly, lingering in places he wished to ignore but it was getting harder and harder at the prospect of… Well, did he even need to say it?
Yeah, he did. His shoulders slopped forward as you trailed your fingers across his width, almost like you were gauging how large he truly was. Fine by him. Measure me any way you want, you’ll find I’m more than adequate as a mate. That didn't feel like him… He wasn’t one to tout about that. But, you were making him feel like that! Making him feel like he needed to prove some worth… That he’d be a great partner to reproduce with! He was loyal, he was funny… Smart… not to mention he wasn’t hard on the eyes.
Did you notice those qualities in him? From one scapula to the other your fingers drifted, positioning a shiver to sweep down and rest uncomfortably in his tail bone. Yeah. You noticed. He wanted to do that old-time sideways dance with you.“Answer Rocky question.” He was impatient again. Not just impatient. Bossy. “Important.”
Ryland shared a spotted glance with you as you trailed back to the lab table to continue what you were working on before, knowing fully well that he watched every move that you made down to the miniscule breathing. You needed to finish dictating notes for the probe's journey back home from your messy handwriting and Ryland’s quick paced scribbles. There was a lingering thought as you stared at the scattered papers about the descriptions used. Messy. Quick paced. Did Ryland like it like that?
Rocky had additional questions. Ten, in fact. Ryland and you only managed to get through about… Two more. One about the aforementioned phases that your Human bodies went through to signal the desire to reproduce and basic anatomy that differentiated males and females as Rocky came to the very clear understanding that it played a very pivotal role in Human reproduction.
Ryland had managed those two answers out and when the very important, in Rocky’s words, question of orgasms came in after he had mistakenly and very regrettably mentioned it in passing, the scientist shut it down with complete and very attractive authority. “I’ll answer that for you in about---” He faux glanced at his watch, the lighting bouncing off his glasses, “Never.”
It was still the cause of your laughter some time later as the ship began to wind down for a pseudo night. It was hard to tell in the deep and dark empties of space what actually qualified as a night, but when Rocky requested to be watched, it turned into night in an instant. At this point, it was just a matter of waiting until the Eridian went numb and lifeless to continue. Maybe? Hopefully? Where you were interrupted earlier.
Ryland just hoped that you still wanted it and your reactions earlier, as pleasing as they were to think about now with the heightened knowledge that he could get you feeling that way in the first place, he worried that it was just a heat of the moment thing brought on by the exaggerated isolation of being so far from other humans.
Just… stillness surrounded the two of you, now propped in the dimmed bedroom as Rocky slept in his allotted corner. That itself caused a lot of contention as Ryland tried to explain to him at the time of setting up that two people - you and he - could not sleep in the same bed for a number of reasons thus needed more space to spread out and a compromise was made. Rocky got more space.
Ryland leaned back against the xenonite enclosure, using your bunched up hoodie that had been abandoned from your hips as a makeshift pillow. It was not as luminant in the room, there was some hope that one of you would take the opportunity to rest, while Rocky did and the other would watch. Ryland suggested you sleep and he’d stay up to watch. And boy… He was watching you intently, the sleepy lighting of the dormitory fauxing shadows along the bare skin of your arms as you now only wore one of the white mission t-shirts that the ship had plenty in stock of along with a pair of the rather comfy and cozy navy sweatpants that were also supplied.
He was particularly transfixed in the way that you ran the brush through your hair and tucked it back behind your ears. It usually was in a tight pony or a bun to keep out of your face during anti-gravity and experiments so seeing it down, seeing you… Vulnerable made Ryland shift in his spot. You wanted him to see you like that.
“You know,” He started saying a bit too loudly, dialing back a bit out of habit even though he knew consciously that Rocky was down for the count for at least another few hours, “I’ve explained stellar physics with less stress than that conversation.”
You smiled at that, grabbing hold of a tiny vial of what looked like unscented lotion you kept in the nook next to your bed space. “If it’s any consultation, you did great.”
“I absolutely did not.” Ryland shook his head, “I made it so… awkward.”
“You didn’t pass out,” You pointed out in a quiet tone of affirmation, Ryland suppressing an almost audible sound at the way that you applied lotion to your skin. He wanted to do that. He wanted to touch. “That’s a win.”
He huffed a laugh, then shook his head as you crawled into your bedspace. Just a small twin sized mattress on the floor. On the other side of the console in the room was Ryland’s space. He looked over at it for a few shameful seconds as he admittedly thought about bringing it over and sharing a larger space with you because how could he do what he wanted to do with you on twin size?
“I just—of all the things to try to explain to an alien…”
“Hey,” There was something softer in your voice now that caused Ryland to whirl, the sound of movement hitting his eardrums and when he brought his full, captive attention back to you, you had made your way on your hands and knees to him and were nearly propped between his own. It gave him quite a startle, swallowing down a lump that had rapidly formed in his throat.
“Don’t beat yourself up. It’s not an easy topic for anyone to talk about. Especially to an alien who doesn’t understand half the things we say.”
You were close to him - unbearably so and he could almost feel the shatter of his pupils dilating as he looked you up and down, stiffening in response as you readjusted to sit in front of him. Still so close, Ryland adjusted his legs a bit so you were encased in them ever so slightly. His thigh pressed against the small of your back as you brought your knees up to your chest and rested your head against the fold of your arms as you hugged them gently.
“I guess… it helped not being the only one.” He raised his hand and lightly let his pinky trace at your forearm. Soft.
You gazed at his finger on your body, goosebumps rising where he touched before trailing your half-lidded eyes up the taut skin that pulled over his arms and could see the minor flex of the muscle underneath with his very gentle movements. “What do you mean?”
Ryland hesitated, pulling back his touch for a moment as he finally admitted, “Meaning you were there. With me, having to explain. You made it… Easier.”
“I can’t really go anywhere.” There was a teasing tinge to your statement, “We’re kind of stuck here together, you know.”
“I think I’d still… want you with me even if we weren’t.”
The honesty hung between you. Not heavy. But reassuring. Silence settled in as you waved over his words. Again and again, but it wasn’t awkward. Not like before. You hadn’t moved away from him at all or given any signals that he was rejected. Which, ha ha. Ryland laughed at his own self-inflicted obvious nature, he was surprised he was able to understand very clearly what the shift was between the two of you with his profound statement. There was a quiet understanding, something both of you were waiting to commit to. It was just time that was needed for the choice to be made.
Ryland was timid to move, letting the expanse of his large hand grasp at your forearm to pull you away from holding onto your knees. There was minor reluctance. If you made the choice to go forward, what was… going to happen? How far was it going to go? He licked his lips, the action spurring something in you as warmth encased your thoughts.
You let him move you, urging in silence as your arms unwrapped to be held by Ryland as you crawled to close the gap. Carefully, he helped you into his lap, legs tucked on either side of his hips and with a rise of that body part himself, he got as comfortable under you as he possibly could as your hands dived between your two bodies to trace the thick waistband of his sweatpants before trailing upwards to rest on his broad chest, pulling along the very thin fabric of his t-shirt.
There, you allowed a few seconds of indulgence, your smaller fingertips casing around his pectorals. He suppressed what could be construed as a whimper. One hand stayed there, it was being used as leverage to make sure you didn't tumble face first into him, and the other ran to his neck.
He let out a quiet breath, quivering around the edges at the sensation it rocketed through him. Ryland couldn’t even remember the last time someone touched him, let alone touched him like this. Carefully, your hand exploded there and you traced the vague outline of his Adam's apple, the pulse of his jugular before setting to cup right under his ear so he couldn’t look away from you. Not that he wanted to in the slightest.
“Y-You know what Rocky said about trust,” Ryland grasped your waist, hesitating for half a second before that action moved to his hands on your back, pushing your upper half towards him gently. The motion was incredibly fluid and you helped out as best you could in your position, snuggling that much closer. “About… choice?”
“I can’t get it out of my mind.” You admitted sweetly, careening your eyes to peer at Ryland’s mouth. You could feel his breath against your face coming in hot and sharp waves and you wanted nothing more than to continue drinking them up like water.
“And you… trust me…?” Ryland drew a deep breath in, letting it linger in his lungs for in the air was the very obvious scent you gave off that caused his body chemistry to skyrocket. “Because w-we don’t have to if you—” He started and it took nearly all of your muscles to keep him from standing up and abandoning the prospect of going any further.
“Ryland.” Oh that was nice… He stopped shuffling beneath you and tilted his head back enough to look you face to face fully. You… never called him by his first name like that before and the way it tumbled from you so seamlessly, so… His jaw clenched slightly. Affectionately… Made him want to burst. “I want to… I’m… choosing to.”
Choice.
Right, he nodded at that and shut his eyes slowly in understanding… In… Submission. In choice. The temptation was at its finest as the hand that had been cupping around his ear lightly plucked the golden framed glasses from his face. They made their new home, at least for the time being, on the floor beside you. Slowly, you began tracing the line that formed from his thick eyelashes against the top of his cheekbones with a delicate fingertip. Ryland shuddered in a breath as your touch dipped to his bottom lip where you lightly traced. His stubble tickled, but it felt good against your skin, his mouth propping open just enough to allow you to pull at the bottom lip before releasing, relishing in the bounce it gave.
This was always about choice.
“Kiss me.” Ryland was almost whimpering as he balled his hands into the fabric of your shirt. Not to get it off, which was a thought for a second, but to get you closer to him. He needed you. “Please…”
It was tentative to start, your mouth falling onto his like you were a shy schoolgirl, like both of you were still half-expecting to mess it up. You had to force that idea out of your mind as Ryland responded, a few moments delayed like he needed the time to process that yes. This was actually happening. The pressure of your mouth against his was a thing, and it was a delicious thing as he slacked his jaw enough to respond.
His lips shuffled, carefully at first as he treaded what was to be considered very sacred ground. He must have known what you needed, his hands collapsed from your back and were brought up to hold you in place, Ryland almost squeezing the sides of your face before resting his slender fingers into your hair, so deeply that it felt like he was rubbing your skull.
His bottom lip quavered, contact breaking only for a second to get readjusted before he dove back in with a bit more vehemence. As if surprising himself, Ryland let a small sound out against your rounded mouth which was happily eaten up by you the moment that it happened. It felt like Ryland was going insane as your lips experimentally slid open against his, giving him access to the inside.
It was a happy invitation he got to explore with your tongue, the idea of mixing saliva usually a rather grotesque thought but once it was put into practice with you? Ryland needed more as you swept your hands into his thick blonde hair, giving him a small tug where his hairline connected the base of his head to the neck. It only encouraged him to groan again as the scientist turned teacher holding your face dropped his heavy hands and wrapped one of his long arms around you.
You wondered what he was doing but was in too much of a heat to truly question, your mouth separating from his and planting kisses along his stubbly jawline earning you a chuckle mixed with a gasp when you nipped at what felt like a sensitive spot closer to the concave of where his jaw met the shell of his ear. If he wanted to toss you around like a ragdoll, where were you to stop it?
Ryland used what little momentum he was able to muster up to shift the position bit by bit until he was able to fully enclose you and lift enough to place you on your back. The floor shattered out a small ‘clatter’ at the readjusted weight. Ryland slotted himself between your open legs and that garnered him the first sound from you that came from deep within your chest as hips connected to hips, hands flying up to grasp at his forearms as he grinded into the sensation between his legs. The internal instinct was so disappointed in the lack of nakedness, but he had to remind himself that it was only a matter of time and not to jump the gun.
He swallowed hard, pulling away for a moment to really… take it all in. You were breathing heavily, mouth swollen from the impact kisses he had been giving you and a blush was heating up your skin and the once tidy brushed hair was now an onslaught of tangles beneath you. The ship hummed softly, finally coming into the forefront as it mixed with panting from both of you.
“How l-long have you been holding out on me?” He joked at you, savoring the way it felt as you brought your legs up to wrap around the narrowing of his waist. “That was… wow…”
You nodded in agreement as he brought his face down to kiss your lips, slowly this time and he collapsed a bit further down on his forearms, crunching your chest with his. Carefully. “Maybe a month,” Ryland smiled against your mouth at your honest answer. “maybe two.” Your hands landed on his shoulderblades, “I should be asking you the same thing, Ryland. Seems like you were really pent up. Are all Molecular biologists wound up so tight?”
“Kiss me again and I might just have to give you an answer to that.”
“Promises, promises.” You said sarcastically with a smile as he captured your lips full on once again, ready to start the process all over again, hopefully, getting a step farther.
You’d never get tired of this, the feeling of your mate’s hot and long fingers sliding delicately through your core. The way that, over the years, he’s meticulously learned where to curl, where to pluck and where to stagnant. It felt fuzzy, your entire self as Ryland’s face finally came into view as he readjusted himself above. He was propped carefully above you, the heaviness between his own legs incredibly evident as you peeped a glance at it and rattled yourself with more excitement that made your eyes roll back. It’d be his turn as soon as this was over, but hey… Ryland was patient.
Especially with the arch your body gave off the bed. Ryland he was doing just fine, his mouth parted semi-dry as he watched the reactions you gave him through half-lidded eyes. Only he got you to feel this way… That was a satisfying thought he had as you reached down in desperation, bonking with the red watch around his wrist and giving a swivel of your hips against his palm. “R-Ryland. I-I’m so clossse.”
“C’mon, sweetheart…” He encouraged you. God you loved it when he did that, giving another wild swing of your hips towards his hand. Dipping his head down, he captured your right breast in his mouth, giving a small suckle before shuffling cutely to the other causing a trail of overt stimulation with his stubble against your skin. He made sure you were watching, and repeated the affection. They needed the same attention after all.
All of you needed attention since making the choice to try for a baby. Or as the youngin’s said back home on Earth. Raw-dog it. Ryland had to be getting closer to his 40’s, based on the math ( and that wasn’t even his age considering time dilation! ) and you were rounding closely behind him. The longer you waited and contemplated, the more complications could rise if it were to happen. As if being on Erid didn't bring its own on-set of complications, but those were thoroughly discussed between the two of you and Rocky. Annnd a board of Eridian scientists.
Who knew your sex lives were so interesting?
“I don’t know why you hold it in. Just…” He sighed dramatically against your heated skin and made it chill for a moment before slowly licking your now taut nipple and brought you back to complete attention to the moment as he murmured huskily, “cum for me.”
That was absolutely all you needed as it hit you like a wave. One after the other, Ryland let you ride it as long as you needed as stars exploded behind your squeezed shut eyelids, goosebumps rising against every inch of your exposed skin. No sound emitted from your mouth for a second before long a tenuous groan finally reached his ears. “There we go, good girl.” You swallowed hard at that nickname, remembering fondly the first time you heard it as he slid his fingers out of you, making note to lick them clean. You remembered fondly the first time for everything… And after all this time, it still made you blush. And after all this time, Ryland Grace was not as vanilla as he wanted to lead people to believe.
“Now, it’s your turn.” You hushed a whisper into the air, letting your fingertips play around with his collarbone, one of his more sensitive spots before trickling rather intricately between your two bodies. Oh, he was in for a treat. Drawing his bottom lip in, Ryland looked down at you and made eye contact the second your fingertips swirled around the head of his cock. All willpower went out the window and he was jerking his hips towards you.
“Pl-please…”
Knock, Knock, Knock.
Ryland groaned and dropped his head. “Just ignore it, he’ll go away.”
That was easier said than done as you pumped your hand around his hard shaft once again, getting a similar reaction as before but before Ryland was allowed to really dive into the pleasure-
Knock, Knock, Knock.
Knock, Knock, Knock.
Knock, Knock, Knock.
You were quickly abandoned in the plush bed, watching in hazy amusement as Ryland buzzed a bit, getting the sheet tucked around his narrowed waist, muttering under his breath as he trailed through the living space. His hair was a wild mess, his feet pattering around quietly as you sat up on your forearms as he disappeared out of view. He started speaking even before the door swung open.
“Rocky, for the thousandth time, we are not dying, we are---”
“Rocky knows.” He hummed to Ryland once the door opened fully, expanding the biodome into the room of what you guessed was the equivalent of an Eridian apartment. House? Whatever it was, it was home for the last few years.
Rocky sat diligently in his newly constructed xenonite suit that allowed him to move more freely in the Earth atmosphere that was being mechanically made, “Hello, (Last Name).”
“Hey, Rock.” You muttered quietly, a small blush overtaking your features.
“You are late. Adrian, children, Rocky wait for you two to come but make us wait 1,800 seconds.” He tapped one of his feet against the ground. 30 minutes. “Do gross Human thing later. We had date.”
“That was today?” Ryland grasped the sheet around his waist as it had become loose with his movement as his other hand rose and rubbed the back of his head nervously, “Ah geez, sorry. We forgot. You know, we decided to try for a baby a few months ago, we need to hit (Name)’s ovulation and you know… She’s suckin’ me dry for the next 24 hours.” He joked and the blush on your face darkened as you threw yourself back on the bed with a groan.
“Ryland, seriously!?” Your voice sounded embarrassed.
Rocky was very… unamused. “Grace and (Last Name) have 300 seconds to meet otherwise Adrian will come talk to them. Adrian is not as forgiving, will be mad, mad, mad.”
Ryland felt a cold sweat hit him, “No, no. That’s not needed! 300 seconds,” He gave a thumbs up and almost dropped the sheet around his waist which made you laugh as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. “Got it.”
summary: ryland grace may be able to carry the weight of the world, but not without breaking somewhere. Luckily, he has someone who knows exactly how to bring him back.
warnings: 18+ smut, oral f receiving, p in v, submissive ryland!!, ryland has a hair pulling kink lowkey, needy! ryland, overworked! ryland, slight angst, soft ending, gentle and emotional smut, pornwith plot
The sound of the clock was impossible to ignore that night.
Now, that’s not to say it was big. Objectively, it was small. An old white thing that had come from Ryland’s first flat, now sitting proudly above the kitchen door. It was cheap plastic and most definitely second-hand, offering a loud click as the seconds crept on. Each landing deliberately as it reminded you what you were trying so hard not to measure.
You checked it again.
22:47.
You exhaled through your nose, lips pressing together as you tried to soothe the ache in your stomach that had been pushing harder and harder as the weeks went on.
The flat was warmer tonight, blame it on the oven being on for too long and the windows not being open enough. The smell of roasted garlic still permeated the air, softened now that dinner was technically over. It now sat on the counter, carefully packed into mismatched Tupperware containers. It had once been plated, earlier, when you thought he’d be home by eight.
You’d even lit a candle. You were optimistic.
The flame had travelled halfway down the wick, the wax pooling unevenly along one side, before you decided to blow it out.
He wasn’t coming back.
You pulled your knees a little closer to your chest, where you sat curled into the corner of the sofa, a blanket half draped over your legs. The TV was on as it flickered a shifting light across the room. Something mindless played on the screen, not that you were actually watching; you zoned out around an hour ago.
You just wanted some noise at this point, or rather, the absence of silence.
There is a brief war in your mind as you debate whether to put the Tupperware away. It was still sitting on the counter. You decide that it is probably for the best to move from your sanctuary on the sofa, stretch your legs and whatnot.
You wander over to the kitchen, socks shuffling across the floor as you reach for the plastic containers to put away.
He may not be here, but there are traces of him everywhere.
It’s what makes you so worried about him.
You turn towards the fridge—it was the first thing anyone noticed when they walked in. Not because it was particularly nice, but because it was covered.
Layered in magnets and paper and colour. Crayon drawings, most of them, curling slightly at the corners where the magnets didn’t quite hold them flat.
Stick figures with wildly disproportionate limbs. Planets coloured in purple and green. A sun with sunglasses. A lopsided rocket labelled—very proudly, in uneven block letters.
MR GRACE’S ROCKET SHIP!!!
You smiled softly.
He’d come home with that one months ago, careful not to let it crease too much on his bike ride home.
“Look at this,” he’d said, laughing. “They think I’m cool enough to go to space.”
You’d laughed then too, teasing him gently, telling him he was cool enough, and he’d ducked his head.
There were more of them now.
More drawings. More little notes. One that just said “Thank you Mr Grace :)” in pencil.
He’d never had the heart to take any of them down.
Your chest tightened.
Because that was him, wasn’t it?
That earnest kind of care. The way he gave himself to things—fully, without hesitation, without holding anything back. Whether it was his students, or a problem he couldn’t quite solve, or you.
Especially you.
Your eyes flicked back to the clock as you put dinner away.
22:52.
You wondered, not for the first time, what he was actually doing.
His most recent job was vague, always described sheepishly. He said there were NDAs involved, said it was "research." Papers were always hidden away where you couldn’t see them, let alone try to understand them.
You trusted him. That was enough for you not to pry. That paired with the way that he’d looked at you—not excited, but lit from within in a way you’d never seen before.
That had been enough.
You didn’t need to know the details to know that something had shifted.
It had started small. A meeting here. A call there. Then longer hours. Then missed dinners. Then the creeping realisation that whatever he’d been pulled into, it wasn’t temporary.
Most nights now, the flat felt too still without him in it.
It wasn’t that you minded. If anything, you were glad he’d found something that lit him up like this. It was the way he gave himself to it, completely and without pause, that worried you. The sense that he was stretching himself thinner and thinner, and that one day there might not be enough left to hold him up.
You lingered for a moment in the kitchen, fingers brushing along the edge of the counter as your eyes drifted once more to the clock.
23:01
Later than you’d promised yourself you’d stay up.
You should go to bed.
He’d understand.
With an exhale, you reached for the switch. The overhead light flickered softly, your hand hovering, as if you were hesitating, as if some part of you was still holding out hope.
The sound of the lock turning cut through the stillness.
You stilled.
Metal against metal. A stubborn click. The push of the door easing open.
Ryland.
You could hear he was trying to keep quiet. His shoes hardly made a sound as he kicked them off, nor did the door as it softly shut, trying not to disturb a space he already thought was asleep.
The flat stayed dim, the kitchen light still on behind you, casting a soft spill into the hallway, catching just the edge of his silhouette.
You could stand here and giggle as he fumbled around, trying to keep silent as he took off his bag and jacket, but the feeling in your chest stopped your thoughts immediately.
Before you could think better of it, you were already moving.
You rounded the corner quickly, too quickly for him to anticipate. He barely had time to look up before you were on him, arms wrapping around him and relief flooding your system.
“Oof—”
He let out a startled sound as you collided with him, hands coming up instinctively to catch you, steady you.
And then, just as quickly, he melted into you.
His arms slipped around you, pulling you in close. His chin dipped toward your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.
He smelled the same. Coffee, soap, completely familiar and him.
“What are you—” he trailed off, voice lower than it usually was, tiredness hinting at the edges. “Should be in bed by now, sweetheart.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, not taking his gentle scolding too seriously.
He should take his own damn advice.
You smiled, practically glowing in his embrace and the knowledge that you’d be able to say goodnight to him in person this time.
“I wasn’t tired.”
It wasn’t a lie.
Your eyes lingered on his face, fully taking him in, even if you hadn’t quite clocked everything yet.
“Plus,” you continued, a little quieter. “I sleep better when you’re here.”
He huffed softly, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
“That’s not true,” he said, voice still gentle. “You’re usually still snoring when I leave in the morning.”
You frowned immediately, offended.
“I do not snore.”
He gave you a look.
“Mm,” he hummed. “Okay. Whatever you say.”
You barely had time to argue before he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It was unhurried, something you let yourself smile into.
When you pulled back, you tilted your head slightly, still holding onto him.
“I made dinner.”
That got his attention.
He blinked at you, like the words took a second to land, his tired eyes softening just a fraction.
“You did?”
You nodded, a little eager despite yourself.
“Pasta. Your favourite.”
He let out a groan, dropping his head into the crook of your neck, his arms tightening around your waist just slightly.
“You spoil me,” he mumbled.
You shrugged, smiling as your fingers brushed lightly against his back.
“It’s my job.”
He huffed softly against your skin.
“Should be mine.”
“What was that?” you asked, tilting your head just enough to try and catch it.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, lifting his head again.
You studied him for a moment, then stepped back just enough to gesture vaguely toward the kitchen.
“Do you want me to heat it up?”
He hesitated.
You saw it, even before he answered.
“Nah—no, no,” he said, a little too quickly. “You go, get comfy, yeah? I’ve just got… I’ve just got some stuff I need to read. Then I’ll be right with you.”
You stilled.
“You’re still working?”
The words came out soft, but they hit.
He stopped too.
In the brief pause between the two of you, it allowed you to really see him.
Even in the low light, it was all there. The shadows under his eyes were darker than they used to be. The strain on his expression that he was so obviously trying to hide. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, unnoticed by him, his hair a little more dishevelled than usual.
He looked exhausted.
“Ry—“ you murmur as your chest tightens, lifting your hands to his face. You drag your thumbs lightly along his jaw as you hold him there. “You can’t work all the time.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
“You need rest.”
“I’m gonna,” he insisted, but there was no real conviction in it.
You searched his face, your mouth turning into a frown.
“But you never get any.”
He hated to admit it, but you had a point.
Damn it.
He exhaled and it was heavy. His gaze dropping to the floor like he disappointed you. He didn’t want to argue, but he also didn’t want to deflect.
Because he knew. He knew you were right.
You brushed his hair back from his forehead gently, fingers slipping through the soft strands, and the effect was immediate.
He couldn’t help himself when it came to you.
His shoulders dropped just slightly, his eyes closing for half a second as he leaned into the touch without thinking, like his body recognised something his mind hadn’t had time to catch up with.
Like he needed it.
You let your fingers linger, nails dragging lightly across his scalp, and he let out a low groan, his grip on your waist tightening instinctively.
Your heart gave a small, startled thud.
When was the last time—
You didn’t even finish the thought.
Too long. Far too long.
Your fingers curled slightly in his hair, just enough to guide his head back, and he followed easily, eyes opening again, a little unfocused now, a little softer.
You had an idea.
You looked up at him, your expression gentler now, something more deliberate settling in your gaze.
“Ry,” you said quietly, almost coaxing. “Are you sure I can’t help you relax?”
It took him no time to understand your insinuation.
He looked at you like the question physically pained him.
Torn.
He dragged a hand briefly over his face, exhaling under his breath.
“Baby, I—” he started, cutting himself off quickly, like he’d caught the words just in time. He shook his head slightly, a faint, tired smile pulling at his mouth.
“Okay,” he said, softer now. “Okay. Yeah.”
His hands found your waist again.
“We can do whatever you want.”
Something bright, almost giddy, flickered in your chest. Because finally, you could take care of him.
Your fingers slid down from his hair, tracing the line of his jaw one last time before you caught his hand in yours. His palm was warm, a little clammy from the long day, but the second your skin met his he laced your fingers together.
You gave a gentle tug and he followed, his steps heavy and dragging behind you, socks scuffing softly against the floorboards. He moved like a man who’d forgotten how to want anything except the next thing you offered him, like a tired puppy trailing after the only light left in the flat.
You led him down the short hallway. The bedroom door was already ajar; you pushed it open with your hip, and the street lamps outside spilt in through the half-drawn blinds, painting everything in soft gold and cool silver.
The way he liked you best.
The glow caught on the rumpled sheets you’d left this morning, on the curve of his shoulder as he stepped in behind you, on the faint sheen of exhaustion that still clung to his face.
He stopped just inside the doorway, blue eyes locked on you. Even half-dead on his feet he looked hungry—starved, really—desperate with his pupils blow wide and his breath hitching every time you moved.
He perked up quickly.
Good.
Time to ease his thoughts away from work and solely on you.
You could still feel it rolling off him in waves: the weeks of late nights, the missed dinners, the way his body had forgotten what it felt like to be touched with anything but clinical efficiency.
You stepped closer, letting your hip cock to one side, head tilting as you looked up at him through your lashes. The movement made the hem of his old t-shirt ride up your thighs, and his gaze dropped there for half a second before snapping back to your face like he’d been caught.
“You gonna let me take care of you, Ry?” you asked, voice low and sweet, the way you knew made his knees weak.
He swallowed hard, throat working.
“You always take care of me,” he murmured, the words rough.
“Yeah…” You smiled, teasing. “But I have a feeling you’re really gonna like this one.”
He opened his mouth—probably to protest, to say he should be the one looking after you, to offer some tired half-joke—but you rose up on your toes and kissed him before the words could escape. He melted instantly. The sound he made was broken, almost embarrassed, like he hadn’t meant to let it out.
His free hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, needing something solid to hold onto while the rest of him dissolved.
You kept kissing him as your hands found the top button of his cardigan—soft green wool, the one he’d worn the day he first told you about the “research job” that was eating him alive.
One button, then another. You worked slowly, letting your knuckles brush the warm skin of his chest each time. He didn’t move to help. He just stood there, eyes half-lidded and gentle. When the cardigan finally slid down his arms and pooled on the floor, he shivered, even though the room wasn’t cold.
Next came the shirt underneath. You tugged it free from his jeans, palms skimming up the flat plane of his stomach, feeling the way his muscles jumped and twitched under your touch.
He was so pliant, so perfectly willing—arms lifting when you guided them, head ducking so you could pull the fabric over it.
The shirt joined the cardigan and he stood there bare-chested, breathing a little faster now, chest already tight from the weight of your stare.
Your fingers dropped to the buckle of his belt. Metal clicked. You looked up at him again, searching his face.
“Is this alright?”
His hands covered yours immediately, warm and steady despite the tremor in his voice.
“Baby,” he said, almost laughing but too wrecked for it, “you can have me whenever you want. You know that.”
The words came out hoarse and you couldn’t help but think about every night he’d come home after midnight, every morning he’d slipped out before you woke.
Your chest squeezed—but you shoved the ache aside.
Not tonight.
Tonight he was here, and he was yours.
You popped the button, dragged the zip down, and pushed his jeans and boxers off his hips in one. He stepped out of them clumsily, kicking them aside, and he was naked in front of you—cock already half-hard and curving up toward his stomach, flushed dark at the tip and beading at the slit.
He looked so vulnerable like this, eyes soft and a little glassy, waiting for whatever you wanted to do to him.
Before you could sink to your knees or touch him the way you were aching to, he reached for you with that same tired, adoring smile.
“Your turn?”
You giggled—couldn’t help it—and let him pull you in. His hands were eager, sliding under the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’d stolen from his drawer. He peeled it off you slowly, reverent.
God, you missed him.
When your breasts were bare he exhaled shakily, thumbs brushing the undersides like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed. The shirt hit the floor and then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your sleep shorts, dragging them down your thighs in one go.
You stepped out and suddenly you were both exposed, skin glowing in the light, the air between you thick with weeks of pent-up need.
He didn’t waste time. He hauled you against him, mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that felt deeper than the last, like the exhaustion was finally cracking open.
One of his hands splayed across your lower back, the other slid between your legs without hesitation. Two fingers stroked through your folds, finding you already slick and aching, and he groaned into your mouth when he felt it.
“Baby…” he rasped against your lips, voice wrecked. “Seems like I’ve been neglecting you, huh?”
His fingers circled your clit once, twice, slow and perfect, and you whimpered, hips jerking forward.
You grabbed a fistful of his hair and softly tugged—just hard enough to make him gasp—then shoved at his chest playfully.
“Tonight I’m taking care of you, Dr Grace.”
Dr Grace.
The title landed like a live wire. You knew exactly what it did to him; he could see it in the way you said it.
His eyes fluttered, a broken little sound punched out of his chest, and he let you push him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. Let you move him where you wanted him.
He dropped down willingly, sprawled out on his back, cock now fully hard and leaking against his stomach. He looked pathetic in the best way—chest heaving, cheeks flushed, arms already reaching for you like he couldn’t stand another second without your weight on him.
You crawled over him, knees bracketing his ribs, ready to sink down and take him inside you the way you’d been dreaming about for weeks. But his hands caught your hips, stopping you. His blue eyes were hazy, pupils blown, yet somehow still so gentle.
“Baby… can you go a little higher?”
You blinked down at him, confused, thighs already trembling with want.
“Aren’t you tired?” The words came out soft, almost worried, and the sound of it made his expression melt even further. “Tonight I was gonna be good to you.”
Not that you were complaining.
He shook his head, thumbs stroking soothing circles over your hipbones.
“I don’t think I’ll last five seconds if we do that,” he admitted, bashful and honest and so fucking needy it made your stomach flip. “It’s been… Gosh, it’s been so long. Let me do my job first, yeah? Then you can have your way, okay, sweetheart?”
Your cheeks burned, but you nodded, heart hammering. He guided you higher, hands firm until your knees settled on either side of his head, and you were hovering over his face.
The light painted his features in silver and shadow—his tired eyes still locked on yours, lips parted, breath already fanning hot against your soaked cunt.
Fuck, he was stunning.
You lowered yourself slowly, and the first drag of his tongue had your head falling back with a moan.
He was tired, yes, but he knew you—knew exactly how to flatten his tongue and lick a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, how to hum in satisfaction when your taste flooded his mouth.
How could he forget you?
His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks you’d treasure tomorrow, anchoring you to him like he never wanted you to leave.
He licked and sucked with lazy, devastating precision, built from months of learning every hitch of your breath, every roll of your hips.
When you started to rock against him he groaned, the vibration shooting straight to your core, and the sound was so desperate—so pathetically grateful—that it made you clench around nothing.
“That’s it,” he mumbled against your pussy, voice muffled and wet, “ride my face, baby. Use me. Let go for me—”
Please.
His fingers dug harder into the soft flesh of your thighs, pulling you down with a desperate strength that belied how exhausted he looked.
You could feel the tremble in your legs already starting, the way your muscles quivered around his head as he devoured you like a man who’d been starving for months—and maybe he had.
Ryland Grace, brilliant and overworked and so fucking touch-starved that he couldn’t get enough, kept dragging you back and forth over his tongue with low, needy sounds vibrating straight into your core.
He was rock-hard beneath you, cock straining and leaking against his stomach, but he didn’t even seem to notice or care. All that mattered was you—your taste, your weight, the way you ground down on his face like it was the only thing keeping him awake.
He cursed every single late night he had, every single hour overtime.
How on earth could he put work before this pure heaven?
You reached down blindly, fingers tangling in his messy hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan loud and broken against your soaked pussy. The sound was pathetic in the most beautiful way. He’d let you use him until there was nothing left if that’s what you wanted.
And you did.
You rode his face harder, hips rolling in messy circles, chasing that building heat while he licked and sucked and hummed like he was trying to memorise every single reaction you gave him.
He felt it when you started to tip over the edge—your thighs clamping tighter around his ears, your breath hitching into these sharp little gasps. His blue eyes flicked up to yours, glassy and adoring even through the fogged lenses of his glasses, and he doubled down, tongue flicking relentlessly over your clit until you tugged on his hair again and came with a broken cry that echoed off the bedroom walls.
It was overwhelming, the way he didn’t stop—licking you through every pulse and shiver, dragging you back down when your hips tried to pull away.
Oh no, you don't.
He cleaned you up with reverent strokes like he couldn’t bear to let a single drop go to waste.
You were shaking, quivering above him, vision blurry with the aftershocks, and only when you were completely spent and whimpering did he finally loosen his grip on your thighs. His hands slid up your sides instead, soothing, like he was afraid he’d break you even though he was the one falling apart underneath you.
You lifted off him on unsteady knees, sliding down until you could look at his face properly. His glasses were completely fogged up, cheeks flushed crimson, lips swollen and glistening with your arousal. He blinked up at you, dazed and blissed-out, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon.
“Was that… good?” he asked, voice hoarse and shy; he still needed the reassurance even after you’d just ridden his face into oblivion.
Tell him he was still good.
You let out a shaky sigh, brushing a thumb over his wet bottom lip.
“You know it was, Ry.”
A sleepy smile spread across his face—pure, unguarded bliss.
You shuffled lower, knees bracketing his hips now, and looked down at him with a teasing little tilt of your head.
Finally, it was his turn.
His cock was throbbing between you, flushed and leaking steadily against his stomach, and he was staring at you like you hung the moon.
“You gonna let me ride you now, Dr Grace?” you asked, voice dripping with sweet mockery.
He groaned, head dropping back against the mattress with a soft thud.
Again with the titles?
“You’re gonna kill me, I swear,” he mumbled, but his hands were already sliding up your thighs.
You chuckled, leaning down to nip at his jaw.
“Good. Maybe that way you’d finally get some rest.”
He huffed a breathless laugh that turned into another groan when you reached between you and wrapped your fingers around his cock. He was so hard it was almost painful to the touch and he jolted up with a sharp wince, hips bucking involuntarily.
“I—sorry, baby—”
It’s been so long.
His cheeks burned even darker, eyes squeezing shut in embarrassment.
You looked at him. His flushed face still shiny with your slick, hair sticking up in every direction from your tugging, that tired but desperate expression that made him look so beautifully pathetic. He was the most gorgeous thing you’d ever seen, soft submission and needy love, and your chest ached with how much you’d missed this version of him.
“You’re beautiful,” you murmured, meaning it with every part of you.
He whined, hips twitching again.
“Stop teasing, please. I need you.”
You chuckled softly, finally taking pity on him. You grabbed his shaft properly, angling it so the thick length slid easily between your slick folds. The motion had his tip catching perfectly against your clit before popping free, and you both moaned at the wet glide.
Fuck, it's been too long.
He sighed against your mouth, which had fallen open in a silent ‘o’, rolling his hips up in search of more friction, chasing the heat of you like he couldn’t help it.
“Patience,” you began, but the last of the word was stolen by a gasp when you ground down to meet his next thrust. The blunt tip of him prodded at your entrance, gliding up again with just the right pressure to make sparks shoot up your spine.
You both moaned louder this time, the sound tangled together in the quiet room.
His arms circled the curve of your waist, pulling you closer, dragging you over the full length of him again. It made you shudder hard in his grasp, nails digging into his shoulders for balance.
He caught right where you needed him most, your walls fluttering greedily around his tip, trying to suck him in. A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest when he tried to push a little more. But it was your hips that rolled this time, taking just enough for him to finally slide all the way in with a slow, delicious stretch that had you both gasping.
“Fuck,” you whined, feeling so full for the first time in way too long. Your walls clung to him tightly, trying to accommodate his size after all these weeks apart. You sat up straighter with a low huff through your nose, letting your nails drag down the centre of his chest. He shuddered hard under you, eyes rolling back for a second. “Fuck—missed you so much—”
“Language, baby,” he managed to choke out, but the words dissolved into a broken moan as you rolled your hips again, taking him even deeper. “Taking it so well—just like that—”
His praise hit you like a spark. You clenched around him involuntarily, and he twitched hard inside you, a fresh spurt of pre-cum leaking out. His big hands found the tops of your thighs, pads of his fingers leaving trails of fire as they slid up to grip your hips.
You started riding him properly then—slow at first, savouring every inch as you lifted and sank back down, the sounds of your bodies meeting filling the room. Ryland turned into an absolute babbling mess beneath you, desperate, eyes glassy as he stared up at you like you were everything.
“Missed you so much,” he gasped, hips jerking up to meet yours. “Missed this—missed baby, I—feels so good, so—”
You let out a sharp whine when he hit that perfect spot inside you, and his eyes lit up with that familiar hunger.
“Right there? That’s it? Yeah, baby?” he panted, begging you to tell him he was doing it good. “Look so beautiful, you—“
You moaned, head tipping back as you kept moving, chasing that building pleasure while he fell apart under you. His hands roamed everywhere—your hips, your waist, up to cup your breasts like he couldn’t decide where he needed to touch you most.
“Please, sweetheart, please,” he begged suddenly, voice wrecked and so fucking pathetic it made you throb around him. “Look at me—need to see you. It’s been so long, I need your eyes on me—”
It was hard to open your eyes—the slow, dragging drag of his cock against your slick walls was almost too much, the feeling of being so perfectly connected to him after all this time. But you did, locking gazes with him as you rode him harder.
He was trembling now, fingers digging bruises into your hips, breath coming in short, desperate pants.
“Not gonna last—I’m not gonna last much longer—”
“Neither am I,” you breathed out, leaning down to kiss him messy and deep, tasting yourself on his tongue again. “Cum for me, Ry. Let go.”
That was all it took.
He did—hard. His whole body seized up, back arching off the bed as he came with a broken, guttural moan that sounded like it had been ripped out of his soul. He swore he saw stars, eyes squeezing shut, mouth open in silent ecstasy while he kept thrusting up into you through it, needy even in the middle of his orgasm.
You followed right after, clenching around him as the wave crashed over you, moaning his name like a prayer while your thighs shook and your vision whited out.
You both came down slowly, chests heaving, skin slick with sweat. His arms circled you immediately, pulling you down against his chest. You stayed there for a long moment, just breathing each other in, hearts hammering in sync.
For a while, neither of you moved. You lay half-draped over him, cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the way his heartbeat slowly began to steady beneath your ear. It was still a little fast, still a little uneven, but it was him again.
Not halfway lost in whatever equations or impossible problems had been pulling him away from you.
His hand rested at the small of your back, fingers tracing against your skin like he didn’t quite know what to do with all this quiet. Like he was relearning it.
You felt him shift slightly beneath you, reaching again for the tissues on the bedside table.
“I’ve gotcha,” he murmured, softer this time, more awake.
He's always got you.
You huffed a small breath against his chest, but you didn’t move away. Let him fuss. Let him take care of you in the way he always did. He needed to feel close as much as you did.
He worked slowly, methodically, brows pulling together just slightly in concentration as he cleaned you up, determined to do it properly. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, the light catching on the slope of his nose, the faint flush still high on his cheeks, the way his glasses had slid crooked again without him noticing.
You reached up, nudging them back into place with a small smile.
“Occupational hazard,” you murmured.
He blinked down at you, a little dazed still.
Tease.
He finished cleaning you up, then his hand came back to you, settling at your hip, thumb brushing. You traced your fingers lightly along his chest, following the faint rise and fall of his breathing.
“You know,” you said after a moment, voice softer now, “you should take nights off like this more often.”
He huffed a breath, eyes flicking down to you, something a little brighter sparking there now.
“Oh, trust me,” he said, a hint of humour creeping back in, “I will be adding that to my schedule immediately. Very high priority.”
You stilled slightly.
The smile didn’t quite leave your face, but it shifted.
“Ry…”
He noticed.
Your fingers paused against his chest, your gaze lifting to meet his properly now.
Here we go.
“I know you can’t tell me what you’re doing,” you said gently, not accusing, not pushing. “And I’m not asking you to.”
He nodded slightly, something flickering in his expression—gratitude, maybe. Relief.
“But,” you continued, quieter now, more earnest, “I am serious.”
Your thumb brushed lightly along his collarbone, grounding yourself as much as him.
“You need to take time like this. Not just for you.”
A small breath.
“For me.”
That stuck. You could feel it.
You saw it in the way his expression shifted again, the humour softening. He looked at you, not just the comfort of you, but the person who had been waiting. Who had been worrying.
Who loved him.
His hand moved from your hip to your cheek.
“I know,” he said quietly.
He exhaled slowly, gaze dropping for just a second before coming back to you.
“I think I… yeah,” he admitted, softer still. “I think I’ve been… a little—”
“Obsessive?” you offered gently.
He huffed.
“That’s a polite way of putting it.”
You smiled faintly.
“It’s one of the things I love about you.”
“Yeah,” he said, a little sheepish. “It’s also one of the things that turns me into a complete disaster when I don’t manage it properly.”
Your fingers threaded lightly through his hair again, softer this time.
“You’re not a disaster.”
“Mm,” he hummed. “Debatable.”
You nudged his shoulder.
“Ry.”
He smiled at that.
“I hear you,” he said, more seriously now. “Okay? I do. I… I can take a night. Or—” he paused, recalculating, already trying to be better, “a couple. I can make that happen.”
You searched his face for a second, like you were checking if he meant it.
“Okay,” you said softly.
His thumb brushed your cheek again, lingering there.
“Okay,” he echoed.
There was a quiet between you. That was until you saw the cogs in his head turning once again.
“…we should probably shower.”
You couldn’t help but laugh.
Typical Ryland.
“Probably.”
He glanced down at himself, like he was doing a very quick, very scientific assessment.
“Yeah,” he added. “Definitely.”
You pushed yourself up slightly, offering him your hand this time. He took it without hesitation. You tugged him gently toward the bathroom, and he followed, steps still a little heavy but no longer dragging.
The light flicked on with a click, filling the small space with warm yellow, as steam already began to gather as you reached for the shower.
He leaned against the counter, watching you, something gentle in his expression.
“What?” you asked, glancing back at him.
He shook his head slightly, a small smile pulling at his mouth.
“Nothing.”
He gave a small shrug as his cheeks heated again.
“I just… missed this.”
Your chest tightened, but in the best way.
“Yeah,” you said, stepping back toward him, brushing your hand against his as the water started to run. “Me too.”
He squeezed your fingers before stepping in with you, pulling you under the warm spray.
For the first time in weeks, it felt like he was finally back with you. Where he belonged.
a/n: first ever post on this blog wooo!!! not new to writing, just new to ryland and couldn't help myself.
just testing the waters to see if there is anyone interested in more of ryland, lowkey want to do a series on him for the movie/book (it will be angsty though but with a happy ending) if people were into that?
anyway let me know what you all think and if you want more of ryland x reader!!
w.c: 3.4k (i really really tried to make it shorter than my other stuff lol)
Summary: I'm on my period. I want Remmick to make me feel better. That's it.
Warnings: Contains smut, MDNI. Not beta read. Vampirism, blood sucking, period blood. Oral sex (f!receiving.) Sorta somno if you squint. deranged!Remmick. Generally just gross. If that's not for you, skip this one.
Reblogs, comments, and likes always appreciated! Please reblog if you like what you read; it helps keep writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!
that may or may not be my actual blood in the banner photo
DAY ONE
Remmick rolls over gently in the bed, facing you as you continue breathing softly, your eyes still shut. He inhales deeply, the scent of your jasmine lotion still lingering in the sheets. But there’s something else, too; a scent that he was uniquely attuned to: the hot, sweet smell of your blood.
You stir slightly when he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Baby,” he whispers, his voice still hoarse with sleep.
“Mm,” you grumble. You were still exhausted; it was impossible to guess the time with how dark you had to keep the bedroom, and your internal clock had been thrown out of whack since Remmick came into your life, making for longer nights and shorter days.
You shift in the bed, brushing one knee against his legs underneath the sheets. His breath catches in his throat as the smell of you grows stronger, your legs parted now.
“Baby,” he tries again, his voice more strained now. You give him a half-hearted groan and keep your eyes shut, determined to slip back into the deep sleep he’s interrupting. He didn’t need as many hours as you did, being what he was, and he frequently woke you, sometimes on purpose, sometimes by accident, like a dog getting up and pacing in the middle of the night.
Well, fine. If you’re going to ignore it…why should he bother waking you?
Remmick waits a few more minutes to ensure you’re drifting away again. He knows you’re touchy when you’re on your period. You refuse to let him touch you for the whole week. Seven days of what should be utter bliss, and he’s denied every time. He didn’t fully understand why; your protests usually involved excuses about feeling gross, about making a mess, but you’d never allow him to clean you up.
He quietly brings his hand to your waist, resting his palm on the curve of your hip. You unconsciously rotate your hips, grinding into nothing, and he inhales sharply. It’s all he can do to not totally lose it. You’re flooding his senses, the metallic scent of your blood mixing with the sweet smell of your skin, and the soft, warm feeling of your flesh under his hand. Carefully, he brings his hand to your stomach, finding the waistband of the oversized boxers you wear to sleep.
When his hand travels down, brushing past your lower stomach towards your upper thighs, you exhale lightly. He halts his motions, worried that he’s waking you, that you’ll stop him. When he sees sleep still sunken into your features, he silently presses on until he finds his target.
His hand gently rests on your folds, and he finds what he’s looking for immediately. His fingers are covered in blood, warmed from your body. He releases a shaky breath and quietly pulls his hand away from you, bringing it to his mouth.
The taste that blooms over his tongue is electric. It’s you, all of you, in the most vibrant, beautiful colors. He’s tasted your blood before, nipping at your neck or chewing on your wrist when you let him. But this was different. This blood had been inside of you, deep inside of you, for weeks. Sure, it tasted like blood, but it was so distinctly, unmistakably you that it stung. He runs his tongue over his fingertips, sucking the liquid that had seeped beneath his nails, lapping at his hand the way a wounded animal licks its paw.
You whine gently in your sleep, flexing your hips again, and it hits him: you’re getting worked up. As much as you denied him when you bled, making him wait, shoving him off of you, here you were, practically begging him to touch you again, completely oblivious to the blood seeping from your center.
He carefully returns his hand to your boxers, his fingers grazing the sticky spot on your upper thighs where you’ve started to leak. He slowly opens you, a gentle sigh escaping your lips as he does. He replicates the sound when he feels a hot rush of you flood onto his fingers.
“Mmm,” you hum contentedly, his deft hand gently rubbing teasing circles over your clit.
“Feel so good, baby,” he mutters, leaning into your neck.
You shift again, grinding into his hand, when you feel it. The distinct feeling of hot liquid pulsing out of you.
“Ugh,” you moan in disgust. You hate that feeling. And knowing that you’re probably staining the sheets, you try to twist away from Remmick to get to the bathroom.
“No, no, baby, ‘s okay,” he mumbles, desperation in his voice.
“Rem, lemme go,” you protest. “Gotta get cleaned up.”
“I’ll do it, c’mon, darlin’,” he pleads.
“No, Rem, c’mon–” you shimmy away from his hand and gasp at the feeling of your blood seeping from your cunt. “Fuck.”
“But ya taste so good, darlin’, please, I’ll clean y’up, promise,” he begs.
“No,” you insist, forcing your feet to the floor. You stand up and wince when you feel more blood rush out of you. “God damn it.”
You awkwardly shuffle towards the bathroom as Remmick pouts in the bed. When you shut the door to the bathroom, he huffs in frustration, staring up at the ceiling, defeated.
He brings his hand to his mouth again and it’s soaked, covered in the sticky red liquid. He plunges his middle and ring fingers into his mouth, moaning around them at your taste. He can hardly believe what you’ve been withholding from him, this perfect flavor that’s so incredibly you. He runs his tongue up the length of his bloodstained hand, moving from his wrist to the tips of each finger. He practically face-fucks himself with his fingers, all because they’re stained with you. More than the taste or the nourishment of the blood, he adores the closeness of feeling you inside of him, dancing on his tongue, painting his mouth.
Even when he’s licked his fingers completely clean, he still can’t get the smell of you out of his nostrils. Restlessly, he twists and throws the sheets back. There’s a stain, splotchy and dark red, decorating the soft cotton where you slept. He scrambles to his knees, still pathetically chasing after any part of you that’s left. He presses his face against the sheets, inhaling deeply. He doesn’t hear you open the bathroom door before he presses his tongue to the fabric, soaking in the blood that remains.
Closing his eyes, humming in pleasure, lapping up the rest of your release, he looks absolutely disgusting. Your period blood paints his cheek, his chin, his lips. You can see that his fangs have surfaced, no doubt triggered by the scent and taste of blood, like a shark drawn to a dying animal.
“Remmick.”
You bring him back to reality, his eyes opening sharply. They’re not red, not yet, but his pupils are enormous, eclipsing his irises in animalistic desire.
“Hey sweetheart,” he stumbles timidly. “Y’sleep okay?”
DAY THREE
You’re in the shower, hot water cascading down your body, turning red as it trickles down your legs and flows into the drain. Just a few more days of torture.
You hated your period. Not a unique perspective, certainly, but it always seemed to hit you harder than most. You weren’t sure who the lucky bitches were who only bled for three days, but day three was usually your apex. A heavy flow, painful cramps, and about four more days of bleeding to look forward to.
The worst was the waiting.
Cruelly, your hormones decided that the second you started bleeding would be the second to hit you with a wave of desperation. It didn’t help that Remmick couldn’t keep his hands off of you either, latching onto you like a goddamn parasite in any moment of rest. It wasn’t easy to deny him; your body cried out to be touched just as pathetically as his. But you couldn’t stand the feeling of bleeding. The feeling of hot liquid between your legs, making you feel like you’d wet yourself. It was impossible to get away from. It felt messy. Gross. That’s why you allowed yourself this little release, to bleed freely in the shower as the water instantly washed it away.
Remmick knocked on the bathroom door.
“Sweetheart, ya been in there for a while, y’okay?”
“‘M fine,” you reply, raising your voice above the falling water. A cramp hits you, stinging in your abdomen, and you hold your breath against the pain.
Remmick opens the door and steps into the bathroom anyway.
“Rem, I’m fine-ah-seriously,” you manage to choke out. You shut the water off and pull the curtain back, stepping out onto the slick tile. You reach for the tampon you left out on the sink. Remmick snatches your wrist as you do.
“C’mon, Remmick, enough of this,” you huff, your patience wearing thin.
“Yer wastin’ it,” he whines. You notice the tiny bit of drool escaping from the corner of his mouth.
“Remmick, please,” you insist.
“C’mon sugar, please, please, let me take care of ya, I’ll be real gentle, please?”
“Are we really doing this right now?” you ask, breathless. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want him just as bad, soaking in the sight of him pressing a gentle kiss to your wrist. You feel a drop of blood snake down your leg and wince.
“Ya know ya want it, sweetheart,” he croons. “Actin’ all tough, like you’re not goin’ crazier’n I am the whole week. Why ya hidin’?”
You sigh as he pulls you in close and kisses you.
“C’mon, angel,” he pleads. “Lemme help ya out.”
Another drop of blood runs down your leg towards your feet. He kneels below you, his hair wild and his eyes reverent as he drinks you in. He leans forward and presses his tongue to your ankle. You toss your head back, heaving a heavy breath and staring up at the ceiling. He follows the thin trail of blood up your leg, licking the red stripe clean.
“Mmmm, so good sugar. Fuck, ya been holdin’ out on me, baby.”
“Don’t make me change my mind,” you reply smugly.
He goes back to work, licking up the drop that’s painted your other leg. His tongue, hot and wet, feels good against your skin.
When he reaches your upper thighs, he nuzzles himself in your folds, making you cry out and reach down, tangling your hands in his hair.
“Mm, there’s my girl,” he mumbles against you. You sigh in response. “C’mere.”
He leans back slightly and offers a hand up to you.
You take his hand and let him guide you to the floor, the cool tile stinging your still-warm skin. When you’re in front of him, kneeling, face-to-face, he examines your face. The eyes staring into yours are somewhere between human and animal. You take his chin in your fingers and turn his face slightly, catching his eyes in the light. He flinches at the sudden brightness, and, subtly, almost imperceptibly, his eyes flash a brilliant red.
You hum lightly as he turns back to you, smiling, his eyes returning to their usual color.
“Teasin’ me, sweetheart?” he smiles, enchanted.
“Jus’ love lookin’ at you,” you purr.
It was true; vampire or human or somewhere in between, he was just pretty to look at. His soft brown hair between your fingers, the tips of his fangs poking out from his full pink lips, his bare chest shining with a thin layer of sweat. You drag one fingertip down his chin, down the long column of his throat, across the lines of his collarbone. He inhales slowly and deeply under your touch.
You feel another pulse of blood flow from your legs and shut your eyes against the feeling.
“Smell so good, sugar,” he mutters against your skin, burying his head in your neck.
“Yeah, I smell like blood,” you retort. “Of course that turns you on.”
“Nah, not jus’ that,” he continues, his voice drenched in desire. “Y’smell like blood…smell like pussy…” He punctuates this sentence by bringing his hand back to your cunt, making you gasp.
“Smell like want, darlin’.”
You can hear the smile in his voice. The satisfaction.
“That’s what turns me on.”
He brings his hand to his mouth, eyes locked on yours, and dips his fingers past his lips. It’s disgusting but you love it, watching him suck and lick you off of his hand. He presses a hand to your shoulder, laying you down on the floor underneath him.
You shudder as he finds his place between your legs. He drags his tongue through your center, collecting you on his tongue. One of his fangs nicks the skin on your thigh, and you hiss, glancing down at him.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles, still distracted by you. “Can’t help it, yer makin’ ‘em come out.”
You were used to his fangs making an appearance when things got exciting, but seeing the sharp ivory points coated in the blood coming from your uterus utterly melted you. He was feeding on you, but this was completely devoid of his usual predatory habits.
When you let him drink from you, he was always attached to your neck, pouncing on you with playful ferocity, pinning you to the mattress, the wall, whatever surface was available, sinking his teeth into your skin with enough pressure to break through and slurp on you like a cool glass of iced tea in the Mississippi heat.
No, this was different.
He was savoring you, letting every drop of your blood and desire melt across his tongue. The speed and dexterity of that tongue was making you breathe a little deeper, heavier, as you felt the heat in your body start to compound in your stomach.
You inadvertently clench in your pleasure, feeling another rush of blood squeezing out of you.
“Mmm, do that again, darlin’,” he drawls, his voice so thick it sounds like syrup. “Fuuuuck.”
Your legs are shaking slightly under his touch. He doesn’t let up, continuing to lick and suck on your lips, not wasting a drop.
The heat growing in your body spreads now, coursing through your veins with every labored breath. You peek down at him and can see a dark splotch on his cheek. He rocks back briefly, dragging the back of his hand along his mouth, collecting the mess that’s built up around his cheeks, lips, and chin. You can see his claws, though not at their full length, have begun to protrude from the tips of his fingers.
He sticks his tongue out and flattens it against his wrist, dragging it up his hand, swirling it around each finger. He finds a piece of you on his hand and sucks it into his mouth. You watch as he chews–literally chews–on the dark red blood clot.
He hums contentedly.
“Mmmmm, so good, sweetheart. Shit,” he chuckles. “Never lettin’ you waste this blood never again. I’ll stay under you all fuckin’ week if I gotta. Jus’ can’t letcha throw this all away.”
He latches back onto your center, and you know you don’t have much left in you. His tongue, working masterfully, alternates between short and fast licks straight to your clit, and long, slow drags along your entrance.
You moan his name, making him pick up the pace.
Another cramp ghosts through your abdomen, making you tense. Remmick notices and adds two fingers to where he’s devouring you, pressing down roughly on your clit. You can feel the claws, dangerously close to your sensitive bundle of nerves, scratching gently on your labia.
“Don’t–ah–be careful,” you manage to choke out.
“Wha, with these?” he smiles, holding up his hand. His claws look almost black now, with all the deep crimson pooling beneath the nail.
“Don’t–God–” he cuts you off when he brings his dexterous fingers back to your clit, resuming his relentless pace. “Don’t scratch me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’,” he teases.
As if to challenge you, or prove some sick point, he removes his clawed fingers from your overstimulated button and plunges them directly into you.
You cry out, but Remmick’s too far gone to notice, blissed out on your blood and your impending orgasm.
His claws are inside of you, gently scratching and stretching your walls. Your breath shudders through you, the warmth flooding your body going straight to your head. He finds the spot inside of you that makes you grab onto him, your hands grasping for his hair, his shoulder, anything to ground yourself.
“Ah–ah, Remmick,” you whine.
“Gotcha, baby, I gotcha,” he mutters.
He presses his free hand to your pelvis and you unravel, the heat in your body flooding through you as you release on his tongue. He loudly and lewdly slurps you up, every drop of blood, of slick, collected on his tongue, swallowed with gratitude and satisfaction.
He doesn’t stop, still licking and sucking at you as you twist your hips, sensitive, trying to escape his relentless hunger.
“Rem, mgh, c’mon, stop,” you breathe gently, your senses still overwhelmed.
“Jus’ one more, baby, c’mon, one more,” he pleads.
“I don’t have one more,” you laugh. “Too much.”
He grumbles against your flesh.
“Remmick,” you manage. “Stop.”
He whines, frustrated, but pulls away from you. He slowly removes his fingers from your aching pussy, deliberately dragging his claws along your walls as he leaves you, making you sigh.
You sit up slowly and reach for the tampon still sitting on the sink. He grabs your wrist again, your own blood coating your skin like a painted-on bracelet.
“Remmick.”
“Why y’gotta waste it, darlin’?”
He sounds so pathetic. Needy. As if he didn’t just devour you. Frankly, you’d be surprised if he hadn’t just sucked the remaining four days’ worth of blood right out of you.
“I’d like to go to sleep,” you counter. “Without feelin’ all this mess leakin’ outta me.”
He opens his mouth to protest, his fangs stained red, shreds of tissue lodged in between his teeth.
“And no,” you cut him off. “You cannot spend all night between my legs.”
He pouts as you stand, shaky legs carrying you to the toilet. As you unwrap the tampon, he cleans himself like an animal, wiping his mouth, neck and shoulders, then lapping the remaining blood from his fingers, hands, and wrists. When you start to insert the tampon, his eyes are locked on your motions, still that reflective, predatory red.
“Behave yourself,” you whisper.
“Mmmmngh,” he growls in frustration.
You stand, flush the toilet and step around him to the sink to wash your hands. He’s still on the floor, though you don’t notice that he’s picking through the trashcan like a misbehaving dog.
Remmick grabs the tampon applicator you just threw away, now covered in a thin layer of dark red blood. He glances towards you, and, seeing your attention diverted, licks the applicator clean in one swift motion, savoring the last taste of you on his tongue.
He goes to drop the plastic back in the can when something catches his eye. The tampon you were wearing before you got in the shower.
It’s fat, swollen with blood from being inside of you for hours. He’s jealous–actually jealous–of this wad of cotton for getting to soak you up, for being in you the way he wishes he could. It’s not fair, he thinks, that you’d sooner welcome this cold, unfeeling thing into your warm, blood-soaked center, when he could do a better job of keeping you clean–and satisfied.
He delicately picks it up, dangling it by the string in front of his face, noticing a dark red clot caught in the folds of the cotton. He sticks his tongue out and licks it, taking the gelatinous clump of you in his mouth. He chews, the sweet taste of iron and you exploding from this piece of your uterus. He might not be able to knock you up, but God, it was worth it.
He pops the whole bundle of used cotton into his mouth, chewing and sucking on it for any remnants of you.
You turn to the trash can, crumpled paper towel in hand. You stare at him. Blood still cakes the skin on his neck and shoulders, already beginning to dry and crust. The red-stained string of the tampon hangs from his mouth, like a cartoon cat eating a mouse. His eyes shut in bliss, he doesn’t notice you staring until you clear your throat.
“Remmick.”
His eyes open with a start, his cheeks flushing red underneath your gaze.
a/n: hi I enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoyed this too! I'm having such a bad jack oconnell fever ...
word count: 3.6k
warnings: remmick is a big flirt. not really a song fic, kind of implied reader is poc or from a diff country but it's not that important, anybody can read this. reader is also depicted as a shy person, and remmick is a lover boy just longing for reader :)
plot: the first half is inspired by the poem The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth but it kinda became my own thing at the end. — Remmick's just doing his chores reaping crops in the highlands where his family partly owns and cultivates. One day, he stops everything he was doing when he hears your captivating voice echoing through the highlands. Soon, you both learn to sing and play together, forging a bond special only to the two of you.
The sun was seeping through the trees, the birds were singing at a distance and the animals were roaming around as they pleased. This was the highlands, where it's serene and had no towns for at least a few miles. It's normal for occasional travellers everyday, but you'd have to visit the local farmers for some company if you found yourself lost or tired. Remmick's family owned part of this land, where they cultivated acres of crops. So did a few other families, just distances away.
This little community was great, but can be very boring at times. Luckily, Remmick had a good ear for music. When he wasn't digging or pulling out vegetables, he was strumming his guitar and singing to himself on a log far away from his home, but you could view its beautiful landscape perfectly.
So it was just another typical morning. Remmick got his shirt, suspenders and draws on and was ready to wake up his siblings and parents to get up and seize the day.
Then he was outside again, knee deep in the dirt, wrestling some carrots out of the ground. He just got the carrot out of its confinements in the dirt when he heard it. A voice. Lord, did he love a good voice every now and then. Living in the highlands with no source of entertainment for miles was dreadful.
But this was no ordinary voice, it was beautiful. Melodious. Enchanting. Yours.
He threw the carrot in his wheelbarrow, resting his hands on his knees as he sat on the dirt, just listening to your voice. He'd sometimes, rarely hear you sing, but your voice would echo throughout the fields, and there's no other like it.
You sing better than any songbird, he thinks. He can't really compare it to anyone when he's only ever listened to his sisters' clumsy singing voices. But he loves them, of course. Just can't really deny how much of a gem you are.
Remmick stands up from his position, using a shovel to balance his weight. His ears are perked up now, so focused on searching you. The sun was blasting in his eyes as he tried to look for you in the distance. And there you were, at least a field away, reaping some crops all by yourself.
He knows your family. Sometimes he'd be able to exchange pleasantries with your parents, your siblings, but it would be a special treat if he gets to talk to you. You were neighbours, and he'd sometimes get the pleasure of giving you some fruits when his family had "too much". He calls you, 'the Highland Lass', the woman who sings beautifully like a siren pulling him in and charms him with just her voice.
There's nobody around to disturb you. His parents were still doing their own chores on the complete other side of their farm and his siblings were probably still eating their breakfast. So it's just him and you. Like you were singing and he was your only audience.
You were like a fairy, like you're part of some beautiful folktale his parents would tell him at night before he went to bed as a child. Your clothes were flowy, and your hair looked bright in the light of the sun.
You were singing but he doesn't know what exactly. In a completely different language he's yet to understand. Still, he lets it consume his senses as he listens to you. He's completely forgotten all his tasks and the unrooted vegetables next to him on the dirt was left ignored. My, it's like the birds and the wind blowing in the air were your instruments and played along with your voice.
He watches you from a distance, his chin resting on his hands atop the shovel handle. As you sang while tending to your family's crops, he was completely captivated, as if in a trance, until a passing wagon broke his focus on you.
A man in the wagon was driving two horses and chatting away rather loudly with his friend in the passenger seat. The driver and his friend chattered loudly, the hooves of the horses clanking against the ground, and the clatter of pots and pans from inside the wagon was almost deafening. His frustration was evident as he quickly strode to them.
"Stop! Shh." He at least tried to gently quieted them down, bringing his finger to his lips to stop them from disturbing you. Luckily for him, the man stops his horses. "Stop here or pass. Don't you hear that voice?" They paused to hear it for a moment.
"She sings lovely and you're not to disturb her." He continued, catching his breath as he practically ran over to them.
"Beautiful voice." Not wanting to argue, the driver tips off his hat as an apology and goodbye, then moves on with his horses.
When the men left, Remmick took a deep breath. He was slightly closer to you now, at least a hundred steps away from closing the distance. He can see you clearly now. But he lingered there, hesitant, as though afraid that if he moved too quickly, you'd notice and the spell of your voice would shatter. You seemed to almost be at the end of your song, and every note seemed to draw him in closer. Little by little he takes small steps to you, like a thread binding him to your captivating voice.
As the final word fell from your lips, silence settled around you. Only the birds chirping could make up for the silence. Before he knew it, Remmick clapped loudly, startling you. It was too late to stop now. "Beautiful!" He shouted, as the distance was still quite far. You smiled and waved at him and his heart hammered in his chest.
He drew in a steadying breath as he walked closer, not too close, just enough so he didn’t have to raise his voice so much. “I think I could listen to you forever." He said, the words slipping out before he could second-guess them. His tone carried a warmth he hoped wasn’t too obvious, something between admiration and awe.
Realizing how bold it sounded, he cleared his throat quickly, adding with a crooked smile, “You might have just ruined all the songs I know. None of them are gonna to sound as good anymore.”
"Forever's a long time. I think you'll get tired of me eventually." There's your speaking voice. Just as beautiful as when you're singing.
"I don't think I will." He replies just as fast. "Remmick." You said his name, as if confirming it was his. "Did you listen to the whole song?" You tilted your head as you toyed with the stem of a vegetable.
"'Course I did. It was amazing." He's throwing compliments everywhere. It was making your cheeks warm.
"Though, I don't really understand what it meant. That from a different language or...?" He trails off, trying to look for your eyes as you looked down sheepishly from the fact he heard your entire song.
"Yes. It's something that my parents used to sing to me. It's about where I came from." You stood up straight, placing the vegetable into your basket to seem busy. "Well that sounds special. How about you sing it to me sometime? I know somewhere private you could." He grimaced just as he said it, he's scaring you off, isn't he?
You glanced up at him, half-smiling as you tucked the basket closer to your side. Setting your shyness aside, and to his surprise you reply, “And where might that be?”
He pretended to think, a playful look plastered on his face. “Somewhere you won’t be distracted by carrots and cabbages.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “That’s asking a lot. I happen to like carrots and cabbages.”
"I know some place with a great view. I can play my guitar." He adds, hoping it'll convince you. He's gotta find some way to be close to you. "You can play?" You look up at him expectantly, suddenly very excited. "W-well, yeah. I'm not that good though. I'm okay." He stammers, he's never really had an audience and now wasn't so sure of himself.
Your eyes lit up in a way that made his chest tighten. “Then you have to play for me,” you said, a little too eagerly. He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks heating up. “I don’t know… I usually just mess around with the strings when no one’s around.”
“That’s the best kind,” you insisted, your lips tugging a playful smile. “It means it’s honest. You know your way around a guitar all on your own.” For a moment he just stared, caught off guard by how excited you were for him to play. Finally, he huffed out a nervous laugh and nodded. “Alright. But promise not to laugh when I mess up.”
You clutched your basket tighter to your chest, fighting a grin. “Promise. Though I’m not sure I can promise not to smile.” His heart skips a beat, and he nods feverishly.
The following afternoon before sunset, Remmick picked you up from your family's house. It was a modest cottage with flower bushes planted around. It suited the kind of person you are, he thinks. His guitar was slung behind his back, ready to be used like it always has at this time of day. Except this time, it's being played alongside a voice. Your voice.
You stepped out of your house, wearing something a little different, with a shawl on your shoulders yet it was suitable for the outdoors. You looked like a dream.
"So where are we going?"
"You'll see." He grins, fidgeting with the guitar strap against his chest.
"You're not going to kidnap me and drain my blood, are you?" You joked, hiding your smile with your hand as you and him continued forward. Remmick, confused but a hint of amusement flashed his face. "I wouldn't."
On the way on top the hill where Remmick's secret place was, you filled the air with small talk. And occasionally, he'd steal a glance at you as you walked side by side each other to his little log up the hill.
Climbing up the steep hill, he helps you up with a hand, and he can't say he wouldn't like the physical contact. Remmick's secret place was surrounded just enough by trees and bushes. And on the far side, there was a log where he'd sit with the beautiful view of the land.
"It's beautiful, Remmick." You gasp in awe, staring into the horizon, holding onto a tree bark.
The sky was a bright orange and pink with a tinge of blue in it, indicating the sun was gonna set soon. It was a gorgeous sight, but instead, he's fixated onto you, onto your expression, and your hair and clothes gently flowing with the wind. He's seen the view on the hill a hundred times, but you, he'll never see enough.
Coming to his senses, he starts. "So, shall we begin?" He sits down on the log in front of you, taking off the guitar from his shoulder. "What would I even sing?" You sat down next to him, turning to face him fully. If it wasn't your heart hammering from the nerves of singing, it was his for being so close to you.
"You can sing that song you sang this mornin'. I know just the tune for it." He sets the guitar on his lap and gently tunes the guitar and strums it to find the right pitch. Your ears tinge pink, and you rub your fingers together on your lap. He must've had your voice and song etched into his head for awhile to the point he's able to play alongside you.
It was different singing by yourself while working, but in front of Remmick, face to face....
"No rush, okay? Whenever you're ready." He readies his fingers on the strings. Gathering up your courage, you let the first line slip out your lips, trying your best to keep a steady rhythm.
He strums the guitar with your song, a melody intertwining with your voice. You continued singing, and he continued strumming, and it made you smile from how good it sounded. When you accidentally messed up a lyric, you'd giggle out of nerves and his heart would take leaps. Still, he takes focus on your voice and the strings on his guitar.
By the fifth verse, you got used to singing in front of him and everything went smoothly. When you finished singing, his fingers on the strings stilled. You fidgeted with the ends of your shawl as the song ends. You couldn't help the smile etching onto your face. "That sounded good." You meekly commented.
"Well, I think it sounded fantastic." He grins, resting his hand on the neck of the guitar. "It did, didn't it?" You laugh, nodding in agreement.
"You sounded fantastic." He makes that clear, watching your expression carefully in case he accidentally stepped over a line. "Thank you." You gave a tight lipped smile with a warmth creeping up your neck. You've had one too many compliments this afternoon already.
Through the silence, he noticed the way you lingered your eyes a moment too long on his guitar. "Wanna play?" He grins, and without even hearing your response, he's already moving to take off the string of the guitar from his neck.
"N-no! I couldn't. I don't know a thing about playing." You gently moved the guitar back to him as he was already working to place it on your lap. "Don't worry. I'll teach ya'. " He insists, standing up from his seat to move behind you and place the guitar onto your lap.
"I really don't know..." You frowned, furrowing your eyebrows as you looked at the very complicated object. You're on the same boat as Remmick, really. He doesn't often get to hear a beautiful voice and you, any musical instrument. Sometimes, you'd be lucky enough to hear a passing traveller play their banjo or guitar when it's your turn to do the chores aside your siblings. But on the highlands, you've only got your voice to accompany you most of the time.
He positions your hands on the neck of the guitar where the strings laid and carefully instructs you what some specific cords are. You tried imitating what he just taught you, but it's hard to concentrate when he's so close to you.
"Darlin' that's not even a cord." He laughs, adjusting your fingers into the correct position and letting you strum clumsily. He bites his lip in amusement at your look of determination.
When the cords got too difficult, he'd gently hold your fingers into place and let you strum the guitar. The first time you strummed would hit a good note, then the next would sound like you weren't confident in your strokes. Noticing your mistake, you grimaced and tried strumming again.
Your heart was beating fast, and you're sure he hears it. Singing in front of him was nerve wracking, but this? It was sure to make your heart jump out your chest.
Although you were terrible and your fingers were tangled with each other, Remmick enjoyed spending time with you like this. He can't deny that he's got a thing for you for awhile now. And he's not going to take it for granted by rushing into it and scaring you away.
"Although I'm pretty good at singing, I think I'll entrust the guitar skills to you." You bit your lip, embarrassed you couldn't really get it on your first try. You gently put the guitar back onto his lap.
"Fine by me. I'd rather hear you sing than this stupid old guitar, anyway." He pretends to be frustrated with the guitar, though the grin on his face and the genuine comment made your stomach go into knots.
Before you knew it, that afternoon became the first of many. He'd come by every few days with his guitar and lunch, asking you for a song at his secret place. Eventually, it became yours too. Your secret place. Then every few days became everyday, and you grew more comfortable with each other.
As soon as he finished his chores, he's up and about taking long strides to your house. It became a routine, and it was something you both looked forward to everyday. And without fail, he walks you home just before the sun completely went down.
Overtime, you started to notice changes in him too. He looked like he had combed, and his clothes were less dishevelled. One day, you brought this up and he just said something like, "What? Is it bad I'm trying to impress you?" And that really shut you up. Simply because you couldn't muster up a clever response without stuttering.
On a certain afternoon, you were situated with your head on his lap, tying knots on the stems of some flowers as he looked up into the patches of the sky through the trees. He was absentmindedly running his hands through your hair as you worked on your flower crown. His guitar was lying on the grass next to you, and your empty picnic basket sat next to it.
Suddenly, you sat up from your very comfortable position on his lap, yelping in pain. "Ouch." Remmick, who was enjoying the moment, turned to look at you in concern. "What's wrong?" He searches your face for anything wrong and furrows his eyebrows when he notices you shaking your finger like something was on it.
"Nicked my finger from a thorn." You frowned, putting the injured finger into your mouth to relieve the pain momentarily. "Let me see." He grabs your hand, and inspects the damage.
His hands on you were gentle, but you know he's strong enough to hurt you. Yet he holds you like you were porcelain and simply brushes his fingers against yours. Slowly, he closes your fingers into a fist. "It's nothing." You tried to reassure him as he kept furrowing his eyebrows.
"Don't look like nothing to me." He murmurs and shakes his head, rubbing circles on your fist. Next thing you knew, he brings your knuckles up to his lips, and he places the most tender kiss onto the skin. He lowers your hand, still rubbing circles on it as if its some remedy that'll fix your injury.
He looks up at you through his eyelashes, and there was something inside his eyes that gave you a strong pull of desire. He was practically pulling you in, with just a look in his eyes. You didn't realise it, but you both were slowly leaning into each other, it was silent but the message was clear. You liked each other and you liked this. You both wanted this.
The flower crown resting on your lap was forgotten and he stopped rubbing circles on the top of your hand. His other hand was cupping your cheek, a handful of hair in his fingers, messy and desperate. Your hand was resting on his lap as you leaned in.
He kisses you briefly, as if getting to know you first. It's like a kiss saying hello, how are you? Like he was seeking permission to continue. Then he kisses you again, and it's more comfortable. Your hand moves up to his chest as he kisses you again for the third time, this time longer. More wanting.
His grip on your hand was loose, yet it felt like he didn't want to let go. It was both of your first kisses, and he's already thinking he's never gonna get over this. You could feel his heart on your hand against his chest, it was beating just as fast as yours.
For once, the birds and the trees rustling against the wind became still and it was only you and your heartbeats. You could barely feel the injury on your finger anymore but could only feel the warmth of his lips and his chest rising and falling rhythmically against your hand.
He pulls away to catch his breath, then gets straight back to your lips, as if it wasn't enough the third time. He's just not getting enough of you.
When he finally pulls away to end the kiss, his lips stay pursed. Still feeling the ghost of your lips against his. You slowly flutter your eyes open to look at his, which were already fixated on you.
He rubs your cheek with his thumb, looking at you with a warmth in his eyes. Or love. He finally breathes out something to break the silence. "I've been wanting to do that for a long time now." He admits, chuckling softly as a smile inched up at the corners of your mouth.
"Well, now you can do it as many times as you like." You grinned, pulling him in closer to you, landing a sweet kiss onto his lips. You could feel the smile on his lips as he kissed you. He's grazing your hair, gripping your hand again, as if afraid you'll disappear from his hold forever if he doesn't make sure this was real.
Your voice, which was melodious and beautiful as ever, was a rare gift he felt only he was special enough to hear it in the distance in the highlands. Now with you being his and him being yours, he could listen to you forever, singing or not. You're music to his ears, music in his boring life that lacked of melody. You completed each other, and you didn't realise it until your first afternoon with him on the hills overlooking the horizon of the highlands.
He could hear you sing a thousand times but your voice would never stop feeling rare. You would never stop being rare. The highland lass who was charming and beautiful all the same.
❀ summary: An anthropology thesis brings you to a remote Highland commune. What you find is community. Charity. Ceremony.
Their leader and the Devil's very own son, the enigmatic Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal, wears an upside down cross and a crown. Their rituals promise transformation. You’re told you can leave anytime.
But the flowers bloom late.
And angels are made slowly.
(Or: a Midsommar au)
❀ wc: 21k
❀ a/n: Oh boy. This is officially my longest one-shot to date!! But I guess Jimchosis will do that to you. Please, PLEASE mind the tags on this one. This is—without question—my goriest fic by a country mile, and I mean that in every possible way, you've been warned. Huge thanks to Abhi @scannainscanrula for the killer banner, it’s probably my favorite one I’ve ever had made for a fic!!
YOU DON'T NEED TO WATCH EITHER MOVIE TO READ THIS (certain cult dynamics carry over from both but there are no Bone Temple spoilers)
❀ warnings: dead dove: do not eat, extreme graphic violence, graphic gore, ritualistic torture, blood eagle execution, body horror, mutilation, cults and religious extremism, ritual sacrifice, murder, psychological abuse and manipulation, coercive control, indoctrination, satanism, dubcon/noncon dynamics, sexual violence themes, p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink/forced pregnancy themes, forced marriage, drugging/altered state of consciousness, (psilocybin/mushrooms), peeping tom/non-consensual voyeurism, public/mutual masturbation, oral (f!receiving), menstrual blood drinking, love spells, captivity and loss of autonomy, illusion of choice, manipulation, abusive relationship, emotional/physical abuse, this bum brushes his teeth
❀ likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
❀ Masterlist
❀ MIND THE TAGS
Caleb forgets your anniversary.
Not that you expected flowers. Or a note. Or even a “happy four years.” You know better than that by now. But it still hurts—sharp, shamefully so—when he storms through the door already pissed, slams his messenger bag into the wall like it’s your fault gravity exists, and doesn’t so much as glance at you.
Not even in the outfit he said he liked. The one you changed into after lectures—twice—because some secret, desperate part of you still wanted him to look. To pause. To notice the curve of your hip in the mirror, the earrings you dug out from the back of the drawer because he complimented them once over a year ago.
Your hair is still damp at the ends where you tried to fix it in the sink. You spent twenty minutes under the fluorescent glare of the bathroom trying to coax it into something softer, something less exhausted. You even dabbed perfume onto your wrists before he got home—as if that might anchor him to you. As if scent might do what love can’t anymore.
He doesn’t even sniff. Just kicks off his shoes and groans like the world owes him something.
“Are you fucking serious with that Shakespeare shit today?” he snaps, already heading toward the fridge like you aren’t even standing there.
You blink. “What—”
“In lecture.” His tone is venom. “You just had to correct me in front of everyone.”
You go still. “I didn’t—I was just—”
“You do this every single time, you know that?” he says, yanking the fridge open so hard it rattles. “You love making me look like an idiot. Just so everyone can see how clever you are.”
It takes you a second to catch up. “You mean—when I brought up the gendered violence themes in Titus Andronicus?”
“Yes, Jesus. Did you even stop to think for a second how that made me look?”
You hadn’t. You didn’t think he was even paying attention—he spent the second half of the seminar texting with his headphones in. You only spoke because the professor asked for clarification. Because you wanted to contribute. Because you thought maybe, just maybe, he’d be proud of you.
Instead, he twists it into something ugly.
You clutch your bag tighter. “I didn’t say anything about you. I just—”
“You always have to chime in. Always have to be the smartest fucking person in the room.” He pops a bottle open on the edge of the counter. The metal cap clatters to the floor. He doesn’t pick it up. Of course he doesn’t.
He takes a long drink, then leans back against the counter, eyes already flicking to his phone. Scrolling. Smirking at something on-screen while you stand frozen in place, your purse still on your shoulder, your hands still cold from walking home.
You watch the little twitch in his lip. The way he holds the bottle like he’s entitled to it. The way he hasn’t said a single word about how you look. How you tried.
You shift your weight. “Are we…doing anything tonight?”
He glances up, annoyed, like you’ve interrupted something important. “What?”
You swallow. “Our anniversary.”
A pause. His brow furrows. “Fuck. That’s today?”
You nod. You feel it in your throat, thick and closing.
Caleb just shrugs. “Let’s order something, I guess.”
That’s it. No sorry. No kiss. No smile. No nothing. Four years. That’s all it earns.
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The weeks bleed together.
Senior year feels like drowning in molasses. The weight of your relationship sits like a stone on your chest. You wake up sore, not from sleep but from how tightly you clench at night. Your molars ache. Your jaw won’t unclench. You dress in layers because it’s easier to hide the tension in your shoulders, and the bruises he swears are from “love.”
You say “sorry” before you speak, even when no one’s listening. You’ve learned to navigate his moods like they’re weather systems. Don’t ask questions when he’s quiet. Don’t look too long when he’s angry. Don’t argue when he’s drunk. Don’t cry unless you can make it sound like laughing. Don’t talk back unless you’re ready to be punished for it.
You’ve trained yourself to hear the way his key turns in the lock and know what mood he’s in. To recognize the stomp of his feet versus the drag of exhaustion. To know the difference between a slammed door and a forgotten one. Your entire world has become a waiting room for his temper.
In class, you keep your eyes on your notebook. You only speak when called on. Your voice is small. You try to make yourself smaller. You try not to exist unless you’re useful.
That’s when she appears.
Front row. Bright smile. Loud laugh. She dresses like she doesn’t care about being noticed—which makes her impossible to ignore. You don’t know her name the first few times you notice her. You just register how she always seems excited to be here, like she’s part of some joke no one else is in on.
She wears heart earrings one day and a fake fur jacket the next. Her nail polish is always chipped, like she starts things with passion and never finishes them. She bites her pen cap when she’s thinking. She laughs too loud. Her voice carries like sunlight through clouds.
When your professor announces a semester-end partner project, your stomach sinks. You already know Caleb won’t want to help, and you dread the awkwardness of being paired with someone random.
“And for this unit…let’s see. You’ll be with Emma H.”
The girl in the front row turns. Her eyes are blue, delighted, wide.
“Hi,” she says, sliding into the seat beside you. “Emma. Or Em. Whatever works.”
You blink. “I’m—”
“Oh, I know who you are,” she grins. “I’ve seen you in lecture. You always look like you’re solving a crime scene.”
You flush. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s intriguing.”
Emma is everything you’re not. She doesn’t raise her hand—she just speaks. She doesn’t walk—she skips. She starts sharing snacks during class and texting you weird memes after midnight. Her energy makes your head spin sometimes, but it never feels fake. She listens. Really listens. And when Caleb shows up late to pick you up one day, you find yourself sitting with her on the curb, talking about everything and nothing.
“You look tired,” she says gently.
You shrug. “I’m just juggling a lot.”
“You ever think about running away?”
You laugh, dry in your throat. “All the time.”
“Where to?”
You hesitate.
“I don’t know. Anywhere quiet.”
She bumps your knee with hers. “I might know a place.”
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The first time she mentions the festival, it sounds like a joke.
You’re at the library, pretending to work on your outline while Caleb texts you increasingly possessive messages about when you’ll be home.
Emma taps her fingers on her laptop. “You ever hear of Brìgh an Fhuil?”
You shake your head.
“It’s Scot's Gaelic. Roughly means ‘vital force of blood.’ Sounds more metal than it is. It’s a spring festival my community does. Really old. Rural Highlands. Off-grid.”
You raise a brow. “Off-grid?”
“Yup. No phones, no internet, no capitalism. Just food, rituals, dancing, and bonfires under the stars.”
You laugh, just a little. “Sounds nice.”
“It is.”
There’s a pause.
“Could be good for your thesis,” she adds casually. “We don’t usually allow outsiders, but I think you’d really like it. You’d be safe with me.”
You chew the inside of your cheek. “Caleb wouldn’t go for it.”
“Does he get to decide?”
You don’t answer.
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When Caleb finds out Emma’s a project partner, he doesn’t hide his disdain. “The girl who talks like she’s on fucking mushrooms all the time?”
You frown. “She’s nice.”
He snorts. “She’s weird. You should keep your distance.”
You don’t.
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The second time Emma mentions the festival, you’re crying in the girls’ bathroom, trying to cover up the welt under your eye from where Caleb struck you too hard the night before.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just hands you a wet paper towel and sits on the counter. “He hit you?"
You shake your head, but she doesn’t press. “I’m serious about Brìgh an Fhuil,” she says gently. “It’s not just a party. It’s a way out.”
Your voice is a whisper. “Why me?”
She smiles like it’s obvious. “Because someone should treat you like you matter. And you don’t know it yet—but you do.”
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The next time she brings it up, it’s with printed tickets in hand. No airline logo, just a time and a gate and a single sentence beneath it in italic serif type:
YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.
Caleb scoffs when he sees them. “Fucking hippie bullshit.”
But he doesn’t say no. And you—you don’t know why you say yes. Only that when you do, Emma’s smile is nothing short of radiant. And you feel something like hope flicker behind your ribs for the first time in months.
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The airport isn’t listed on any map.
You don’t even realize that at first, too busy triple-checking your backpack, your ticket, the spare charger you probably won’t even be able to use if this place is really “off-grid” like Emma keeps saying. But you notice when the cab driver frowns at the terminal number and has to call dispatch to confirm the drop-off point. Notice when the security checkpoint is nearly silent, manned by two guards who don’t check IDs—just wave you through like they’ve been expecting you.
There’s no TSA. No families juggling strollers. No overhead announcements droning about carry-on limits. Just sterile gray floors, a series of locked doors, and a woman in white linen standing beside a private staircase, holding a small metal clipboard and nothing else.
She doesn’t ask your name. Only takes your ticket, glances at it once, then looks at you.
“Phones,” she says.
Caleb stiffens. “We’re not even at the gate yet.”
“No digital devices are permitted past this point.”
You glance at Emma. She’s already handed hers over. She smiles, light as ever. “It’s part of the cleansing.”
You hesitate only a second before slipping your phone from your bag. The linen woman takes it carefully, as if she’s handling something dangerous. Caleb grumbles, curses under his breath, but he hands his over too.
The staircase leads to a waiting area that feels more like a doctor’s office than an airport lounge. Pale walls. A row of identical chairs. One window—but the glass is frosted over from the inside. You sit beside Emma, and she laces her fingers with yours without asking.
“You nervous?” she asks.
You nod.
She squeezes your hand. “Good. Means you’re still human.”
The plane is small. Sleek. The interior hums with a quiet that feels engineered. You can’t hear the engines. You can’t feel turbulence. It feels like floating. There're no other passengers. Just you, Caleb, Emma, and a man with a shaved head seated at the front, who never turns around. No one speaks.
You stare out the window, but the sky never changes—gray clouds stacked like cotton batting, no sun, no horizon.
Caleb taps his foot the entire time. Says nothing, but his silence feels pointed. You wonder if he regrets saying yes. You wonder if he knows why you did.
The landing is smooth. You almost miss it—only notice because the pressure in your ears pops and Emma nudges you gently, already unbuckling.
When the cabin door opens, the air outside is wet and sharp. It smells like pine and moss and something faintly sweet—like the inside of a greenhouse. You step onto the tarmac and realize there’s no terminal. No signage. Just a single long van idling beside the runway, its windows blacked out, the driver already standing beside the open side door.
He’s tall. Pale. Dressed in a faded blue nylon tracksuit with stringy blonde synthetic hair, stockstill despite the drizzle.
“Blindfolds,” he says simply.
You blink.
“What the fuck,” Caleb mutters behind you. “Is this a cult thing?”
Emma’s voice is gentle. “It’s tradition. For guests. So you see the place the right way.”
“That’s insane,” Caleb says. “I’m not—”
But Emma’s already holding one out to you. Fabric soft, like silk.
You take it.
Caleb scoffs but doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t protest again when you tie it behind your head and the world goes dark. You feel the brush of Emma’s hand on your elbow, guiding you into the van.
The drive is long. Longer than expected. The road beneath the wheels changes texture again and again—paved, gravel, dirt, something that feels like packed earth. You can’t see, but you feel every turn in your gut. Hear branches scrape the sides. Hear the driver humming something wordless and slow.
At some point, Caleb asks how much longer. No one answers. Eventually, the van stops. You expect someone to remove the blindfold. They don’t.
The door slides open and a rush of cool wind hits your face, carrying the scent of smoke and crushed grass and distant firewood. A hand—Emma’s, you think—grips yours and helps you out. You take one tentative step. Then another. Then the blindfold is lifted. And your breath catches in your throat.
The world in front of you blooms.
You're standing at the top of a sloped hillside, just above a massive circular valley carved into the Scottish landscape like a sacred wound. Everything is green—too green, like something out of a fever dream. Wildflowers in every color ripple through the grass in wide, deliberate paths, like painted lines guiding your eyes to the massive stone structures in the distance.
There're no buildings. Not in the way you expect. Just rows of long wooden halls with moss-covered roofs and carved beams, small rounded cottages with ivy climbing up their sides, and one enormous central hall—dome-shaped, smooth, windowless—like the belly of something sleeping.
White-linen-clad people walk barefoot along stone paths between the buildings. They carry baskets of roots, vials of oil, sprigs of herbs. Some are singing. Some are praying. Some are just…smiling. Content.
The sky above is cloudy but bright. The air is heavy with scent: lavender, wet soil, something slightly metallic.
You hear Caleb behind you make a noise low in his throat. He steps forward, taking it all in, and mutters, “Jesus.”
Emma laughs softly. “Close.”
They separate you quickly. You barely have time to glance back at Caleb before a woman takes your hand and leads you down a path of white petals toward a smaller structure tucked beneath the trees. Emma doesn’t follow.
Inside, the air is warm and soft. Low candles flicker in alcoves carved into the walls. The floor is polished stone covered in rugs that look hand-woven, dyed in rich reds and sun-worn ochres.
The woman doesn’t speak. She smiles, gestures to a wooden bench, and brings out a basin of steaming water. You sit. She begins to unlace your shoes. You flinch, instinctively drawing back. She pauses. Tilts her head.
“I’m here to prepare you,” she says. “Nothing more.” Her voice is low. Calm.
You nod.
She removes your shoes. Your socks. Your jacket. She moves slowly, like she’s handling something fragile. When she reaches for your shirt, she waits.
You nod again.
She undresses you like a child. Folds everything with reverence. Guides you to a stone bath in the corner of the room where petals float across the surface like offerings. The water smells like mint and iron. You sink into it. Try not to shake.
After, you’re dried with soft cloth. Your hair is brushed, braided. You’re dressed in a long white linen shift embroidered with gold and purple thread at the hem. No shoes. No jewelry. Just the dress, and the feeling of being polished like something precious.
They offer no sanitary products when you ask. Just a small cloth folded in half, handed to you like a secret.
“We free bleed here,” the woman says gently. “It’s part of the process.”
You open your mouth to argue, then close it.
Later, you see another woman collect the cloth silently from the room. She doesn’t meet your eyes.
You're taken next to a long, low hall. Inside, the air smells of wax and age. The walls are lined with fabric panels—each one hand-stitched, covered in scenes you don’t recognize. One in particular catches your attention. It’s a story. Told in images.
A woman stands alone. A man sits at a feast. She bleeds into a cup. He drinks. Her pubic hair is cut. Baked into bread. He eats. He's put under a spell. They fall madly in love.
You stare at it for a long time. A quiet voice beside you says, “It’s about devotion.”
You turn. Emma’s there. Dressed in a blue and white striped tracksuit and matching jelly shoes, blonde hair free from the pigtails or barrettes she typically accessorizes with.
“It’s just folklore,” she says. “But there’s power in intention. In making someone a part of you.”
You don’t know what to say.
She smiles. “You’re doing so well.”
You swallow.
“How long have you been coming here?” you ask.
She hums. “A long time. Long enough to know it’s where I was always meant to be.”
She leans closer, brushing a piece of damp hair from your face. “I think it might be where you’re meant to be too.”
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It begins with silence.
Not the kind that soothes, but the kind that presses inward. A silence that feels cultivated, curated, like a held breath stretched too long. Even the insects seem to understand something sacred is about to happen. You're led barefoot through dew-wet grass, the chill seeping up into your bones, the hem of your linen dress heavy with moisture as it drags against your calves. Each step is deliberate. Each footfall sounds louder than it should. The sun hangs low and swollen above the treeline, gold and aching, staining the sky like an unhealed bruise.
You walk alone now. The woman who guided you stops several paces behind, lowering her gaze as if she’s reached the edge of something forbidden. She does not speak. She doesn't touch you again. The path ahead narrows, then widens abruptly, opening into a natural amphitheater carved from earth and stone.
You haven't seen Caleb since morning. You last remember the curl of his lip when they offered him the linen robe. The way he laughed, sharp and ugly, and tossed it back at them like refuse. The way he muttered about freaks and cult cosplay and how he’d never let anyone tell him what to wear. He refused the food too. Refused the drink. Refused the songs. He said it loudly, so everyone could hear.
You didn't defend him.
You bathed when they told you to bathe. You stood naked and trembling while unfamiliar hands washed your skin with oils that smelled of crushed flowers and iron. You let them braid your hair, dress you, guide you. You handed over the cloth without argument. You let them take what you were bleeding without fully understanding why. The drink you swallowed afterward burned sweetly down your throat, leaving behind that familiar softness, that dreamy buoyancy you're beginning to associate with being here.
Now you walk. The hill crests sharply. You stop because your body tells you to, not because anyone speaks. And there he is.
Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal.
You remember Emma briefly mentioning him before, the idolized whispers of his name that had been floating through the commune more often than the summer breeze ever since your arrival.
He stands atop a raised stone platform, ancient and fractured, its surface etched with spirals and sigils worn soft by centuries of weather and devotion. Bones are woven through the carvings with gold and purple thread, delicate and intentional, as if the altar itself has been stitched together from offerings. Behind him rises a great ring of standing stones, towering and solemn, their shadows long and distorted in the afternoon light. Smoke drifts lazily through the air, though no fire is visible.
He doesn't blend into the setting.
He dominates it.
He wears a dirty purple velour tracksuit, the velvet dark and rich, royal purple catching the sunlight. The fabric clings to him in places, hangs loose in others, worn like a second skin. Heavy gold chains layer his chest, tangled and excessive, each one ending in a different symbol—cross inverted and upright, jagged teeth, keys, small bone charms polished smooth by touch. A crooked tiara rests in his loose blond curls, tilted but deliberate, tarnished yet glittering defiantly in the light.
And his eyes. They lock onto you instantly. Not scanning. Not assessing.
Claiming.
The world seems to narrow to the space between your body and his gaze. The chant of the commune fades into a low hum at the edge of your hearing. You forget to breathe. You forget where you are.
You feel seen. Not observed. Not admired. Seen like an object discovered. The moment stretches. He doesn't blink. Neither do you. Someone behind you exhales shakily. You don’t turn. You can’t.
“He's noticed you,” a woman murmurs, voice thick with awe.
You don’t know what that means, but your feet move again, carrying you forward as if pulled by invisible threads. The grass beneath you is warm now, sun-soaked, the scent of crushed flowers rising with each step. Bees drift lazily through the air. Your pulse thrums loud in your ears, in your fingertips, between your thighs.
When you reach the base of the platform, he's still staring. Then he smiles. It's not kind. It's not welcoming. It's the smile of a man who knows the ending of a story before the first chapter has finished.
He lifts his arms. The commune erupts.
Sound crashes over you—cheers, chants, laughter, sobbing devotion. You hadn’t realized how many people were gathered until they reveal themselves, spilling from the trees and the low-roofed halls, all dressed in white linen, wreaths of wildflowers and bone crowning their heads. Some fall to their knees. Others raise their hands to the sky. Several weep openly.
You aren't introduced. No one asks your name.
Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal speaks, his voice thick with a Scottish lilt, warm and melodic, dangerous in its smoothness.
“We welcome the Vessel...as it was written."
The crowd echoes, “as it was written!"
“We take her womb in welcome, as was foretold.”
“As it was foretold!"
“We welcome what she’s meant tae become. Howzat?"
"HOWZAT!"
Silence falls again, heavy and absolute.
He descends the platform slowly, deliberately, moving as if gravity answers to him. The Seven Jimmys follow—each in a different colored tracksuit, each identical in haircut and posture, eyes fixed forward, expressions devout. Among them stands Emma—Jimmima, she had politely corrected the other day, her manic brightness gone, replaced by subservient stillness.
Jimmy stops inches from you. He doesn't ask permission. He lifts his hand and presses two fingers to your forehead. His rings are cold. His touch lingers.
You don't flinch.
“Ye’ve come far, aye. Farther than folk ever dare," he says softly. His voice vibrates through you.
“Tell me somethin’, love…” he murmurs, head cocked like a priest sizing up sin. “Are yer dreams clean?”
You don’t know how to answer. Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
“Have they unknotted that mind o’ yours yet?” he murmurs. “Or d’ye still think in his voice?”
Your stomach twists.
He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns, gesturing for you to follow, and the crowd parts instantly. As you walk behind him, he murmurs to the Seven.
“She’s here,” he says, almost tender. “The bones’ve stirred wi’ heat…the silence knows. It’s ready.”
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Dinner that night is held in the central hall—vast and circular, built from pine and yew, its ceiling vanishing into darkness that no number of candles can chase away. The walls breathe with the flicker of firelight, golden tongues licking across tapestries stitched with thread and tendon and thin, delicate bones. The air smells like smoke, honey, and wet roots—a sweetness thick enough to turn in your throat, grounded by something older and fungal beneath. You sit beside Jimmima, her hand clasping yours beneath the table, thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles into your palm. She hasn’t spoken since guiding you here, but her body is all language. Protection. Anticipation. Maybe even pride.
Across the room, Caleb eats alone. Not by choice, but design—the rest of the commune gives him a wide berth, and the Jimmy in all green stands behind him with the stillness of a tomb guardian.
Caleb’s jaw clenches as he picks at his plate, shoulders high, spine braced like he’s expecting a punch. He glares at the arrangement of roots and greens before him like it’s a personal insult. “What the fuck is this,” he mutters, loud enough for you to hear. “Rabbit food. Fucking yard scraps for strays.” He sneers as he forks a piece of roasted beet onto his tongue, then spits it back onto the plate with theatrical disgust. “Tastes like dirt and afterbirth. You people need a fucking grocery store.”
No one responds. No one even looks at him—except the Jimmy behind him, who tilts his head once, birdlike. Caleb doesn’t notice. Or he does, but doesn’t care. He scoffs again and goes back to pushing food around with dramatic disdain. You keep your eyes down, throat tight. The back of your neck prickles with secondhand shame.
Across the head of the room, Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal sits in his carved wooden throne, expression calm, body still. He doesn't eat. He has no plate. Only a cup—bone-white, polished smooth, carved with curling motifs you recognize from the tapestries. He lifts it to his lips and drinks. The liquid inside is a rich, heavy orange, darker than anything you’ve seen the others sipping. Your stomach twists. You look at the bread laid carefully on the table beside him, golden and flecked with something dark—too fine to be seeds. Your mouth goes dry. You remember the tapestry. The ritual. The spell. The preparation. Your own blood, your own hair, wrapped in cloth and carried away.
Jimmy sets the cup down slowly.
“We were promised a Vessel,” he says, voice curling into the rafters like smoke. His accent wraps around the words, thick and deliberate, every syllable offered like scripture. “Anointed wi’ blood. Carried by dream. Named in the fire.”
The commune hums in response, a low and vibrating sound that lives not in the ears but in the chest, in the bones—a resonance that makes the candlelight shudder.
“The Choir sang her name,” he continues, fingers resting lightly on the rim of his cup. “An' we listened.”
You don’t know why, but your eyes lift. His meet yours across the room.
“She’ll walk the path, aye," he says, gaze steady. "She’ll wear the crown—and she’ll no shy from the flame.”
His fingers tap once—once—against the polished bone of the cup.
“And from her…” His voice drops now, lower, thicker, reverent. “From her, the Hellborne will rise.”
The hum deepens. You don’t understand. Not fully. Not yet. But something inside you does. And it answers.
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You’re still blinking away the blur of moonlight when the door creaks open behind you. Not fully closed. Not fully shut. Like someone had cracked it open earlier and never bothered to fix it. You know it wasn’t you.
The communal lodge is cool and hushed. Too hushed. The stones at your feet feel almost warm in contrast, heat held from the late-afternoon sun. There’s a strange stillness in your limbs, like they’ve forgotten the shape of fear. You know what that is—psilocybin mushrooms, though you haven’t admitted it out loud. Not to yourself. Not to anyone else.
Caleb is still asleep on your shared cot in the far corner, his frame a loose tangle of elbows and limbs beneath the thin wool blanket. His back is turned toward you, chest rising and falling. Face hidden.
You swallow. Your throat tastes like nettles and dirt. It should be a comfort, seeing him like that—safe, still, unbothered. But it isn’t. You feel the hollow before you even sit down beside him. That gaping silence. Like whatever thin cord once knotted your lives together has frayed into loose threads. He didn’t even ask where you’d gone.
He didn’t notice you were gone at all.
You lie down slowly, not wanting to disturb him. But when your back meets the cot and the frame creaks ever so slightly beneath you, his body stiffens. Not a full stir. Not a groggy reach for you. Just a deliberate, rigid shift—one that turns him farther away.
"Where were you?" he says, voice flat. Not slurred, not sleepy. Awake.
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. It takes a moment to realize you were holding your breath.
“I—” you start, but he cuts you off.
“With that girl again?” His voice sharpens. “What’s her name? Emma?”
“Jimmima,” you correct softly, but instantly regret it.
“Right,” he snaps, twisting under the covers. “Because that’s a normal fucking name.”
“She told me it’s what they call her here. It’s just—” You don’t know why you’re defending her. Maybe because you need someone to defend. Maybe because she’s the only one who’s really looked at you lately.
Caleb pushes himself up with one arm, looking down at you. The moonlight is just enough to catch the hollow beneath his cheekbones, the tension that wires his jaw.
“I saw the way you were laughing with her,” he says. “I saw how you touched her arm.”
You blink. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I wasn’t—Caleb, she was telling me a story.”
“You’ve barely looked at me in days,” he mutters. “But you’ll cling to some cult chick the second she gives you mushrooms and a flower crown?”
You sit up straighter, pulse climbing. “You think I wanted the mushrooms? I didn’t even know what they were.”
He scoffs. “Bullshit.”
“I didn’t.”
“You think I don’t see it?” he hisses, and now he’s fully facing you, voice low and venomous. “Every day, you’re off with them. Wandering the grounds like some dumb fawn. Like you’re one of them now.”
You don’t know how to answer that. Because something in you is changing. It’s not just the drinks. It’s the softness of the mornings, the quiet rituals, the feeling of being seen. Tended to. Held.
“Why are you talking to me like this?” you ask finally.
He laughs, bitter. “Like what?”
“Like I’m your enemy.”
His face twists. “Because maybe you are.”
The words hit you square in the chest. You expect him to take them back, but he doesn’t. He just turns again. Back to the wall. Leaving you alone in the darkness.
You lie there for hours. Eyes open. Watching the shadows crawl.
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You don’t speak the next morning.
He takes his breakfast and sits with the other visitors at the long communal table, smiling like nothing’s changed. But he doesn’t look at you once. Jimmima finds you outside instead, her jelly soles silent in the morning dew.
“You look like you could use something warm,” she says gently, and she passes you a carved wooden cup filled with golden liquid.
It smells of citrus and spice. There’s steam rising from it, but not the kind that burns. You drink slowly. It’s the third day in a row she’s brought you something, and you don’t ask what’s in it.
You don’t want to know.
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Later, he accuses you of cheating.
“I saw you with that guy,” Caleb snaps.
You look up from the woven basket you were carrying, mouth dry. “What guy?”
“That tall prick you were talking to this morning. The one who keeps looking at you.”
“That's Jimmima’s brother, I think. We were talking about holistic medicine for my thesis.”
“medicine,” Caleb repeats like it’s an insult.
You don’t answer. There’s nothing you can say that he won't twist.
“I’m serious,” he says, crowding you against the woodpile. “You keep acting like I don’t see it.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“You’re a liar.”
And then—he slaps your cup from your hands. It crashes against the ground. Liquid splashes your legs. The sharp smell of fermented herbs hits your nose. For a second, you think he might hit you next.
But he doesn’t. He just looks at the mess like you caused it, then walks away.
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That night, you sleep facing the wall.
Because he told you to. Because it’s easier than fighting. Easier than letting him know how much you’re starting to prefer the silence.
You think of Jimmima’s hands instead. How gently she plucked the leaves for your tea. How soft her voice was when she told you stories about the earth having memory.
You wish she were here now.
You wish someone was.
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Your next drink tastes sweeter than the last.
Jimmima’s smile is easy, but her eyes are sharp as she passes it to you.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
You hesitate.
“Soft,” you admit finally.
She beams. “Good.”
“Why?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just traces the rim of her own cup with one finger, watching the wind move through the garden.
“The mind must be cleaned to accept the truth,” she says eventually.
You blink.
“What truth?”
She just smiles.
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The next time Caleb sees you laughing—really laughing—with one of the older women near the sun dial, he storms over and jerks you away mid-conversation. You barely get out a goodbye before he’s dragging you down the path.
“You think this is a fucking game?” he snarls. “Flouncing around like you’re some enlightened hippie now?”
“Let go of me!”
But he doesn’t. Not until you’re behind the lodge. Out of view. Then he shoves you, hard, into the wall.
“You think you’re better than me now?”
“I never said that—”
“You don’t have to say it. You think I don’t see the way they look at you?”
You’re shaking now. You don’t know what part is psilocybin and what part is terror. Everything is too loud.
“I want to go home,” you whisper.
He freezes.
Then he laughs. A low, mean laugh. “You think there’s a home to go back to? You’re a fucking joke.”
The words slice deeper than any slap. He doesn’t hit you. Not yet. But something about the way he looks at you makes your skin crawl. Like he could. Like he wants to. Like you’re his to punish.
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That night, Jimmima finds you huddled by the cold fire pit. She doesn’t ask what happened. She just sits beside you and lays her head against yours.
You don’t tell her you’re scared. You don’t need to.
She already knows. Her hand finds yours in the dark.
You don’t pull away.
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The bathhouse is carved from the earth itself. Stone and moss and timber, all softened by age and candlelight, tucked into the lower ridge like it bloomed there centuries ago and simply never left. You find it by accident—or perhaps not. Nothing here ever seems truly accidental.
You’ve followed the curved path beyond the east gardens, past the prayer stones and the hollow where the women dye fabrics in great bubbling pots, and there it waits: half‑open, steaming, aglow with beeswax lanterns that hang from ceiling beams like captured suns. The air smells of lavender and damp wood and the mineral tang of the spring that feeds the deep bathing pool sunken in the center.
No one's inside.
The door doesn’t creak. It simply breathes shut behind you with a sigh of pine and dust, leaving the flicker of candlelight your only companion.
You don’t undress right away. Your hands hover at the hem of your dress, fingers worrying the fabric. You listen. Wait. But the stone walls hold no echo of voices or footsteps, only the low lap of water and the rhythmic drip from the rock ceiling. A wooden bench waits in the corner, folded linens neatly stacked. There’s a rough woolen robe, too, though no one told you to come here. Not exactly.
Jimmima had only smiled at dinner when you’d asked about the ritual cleansing and said, It finds you when you’re ready.
Apparently, tonight—tonight it’s found you.
You peel off your dress in one slow motion. The fabric pools at your ankles. You fold it out of habit, placing it on the bench as if this were any other spa, any other life. You pause with your thumbs hooked beneath your underwear. Still, no sound but the ripple of water.
You take them off.
Barefoot, bare‑skinned, bare‑blooming in the low gold light, you walk toward the spring‑fed pool. The stone is cool beneath your soles, but your skin is already heating, flushed from more than just warmth. From the steam. From the quiet. From the strange looseness that’s been living in your blood ever since you started drinking the commune’s tea.
The silence wraps around you. Intimate. Anticipatory. You descend into the water.
It kisses your ankles, calves, thighs—hot and clean, the temperature perfect. You shudder once, a soft sound leaving your throat before you can stop it, then exhale slowly, sinking up to your collarbones. Your tits float just beneath the surface, nipples already tight from the heat, from the air. Your arms drift weightless beside you, hands brushing the surface like lily pads. The water smells faintly of juniper and something else—fennel? Honey?
You tilt your head back.
The candlelight shimmers on the wet stone above, and for a moment, the flickering shadows make the ceiling look alive, like it’s breathing in time with your chest. You close your eyes. Let yourself float.
You’re weightless. Unguarded. Open.
For the first time in weeks—months, maybe—you're entirely alone. Not waiting for a slap on the thigh or a muttered insult when you speak too freely. Not walking on eggshells in a room full of people who love you only when you’re quiet. Caleb hasn’t touched you in days. Not gently, anyway. Not since the outburst in the courtyard when he called you a flirt for laughing at Jimmy Shite's joke. Not since he gripped your wrist too hard in the greenhouse. Not since he began sleeping with his back turned toward you like you were a mistake he could turn away from.
But none of that exists here.
Here, the warmth cradles you. The air is sweet with herbs. The candlelight paints your skin gold. Your thighs drift slightly apart beneath the water, a dull, unfamiliar ache blooming low in your belly.
And then—
You feel it. The prickling. That uncanny, certain awareness that eyes are on you.
You lift your head slowly. You don’t rise. You don’t scramble to cover your tits, your hips, the delicate softness of your body floating like an offering in the water. You don’t even gasp. Something in you already knew. Something in you invited this.
You look toward the latticed window high on the opposite wall, just above the stacked firewood. There—barely—a glint of motion. Not an animal. Not the wind. A shape. A shadow.
A man.
At first, you only see part of him. A sliver of face between the wooden slats. One eye. Blue. Unblinking. Watching you with an intensity that makes your breath stutter. You realize he’s been there a while. Long enough to watch you undress. Long enough to watch you step into the bath. Long enough to see the way your nipples hardened, the way your thighs parted, the way your head tipped back in pleasure.
He doesn’t hide when you look at him. He shifts just enough that you can see more of his face through the lattice—his mouth slightly open, breath slow and measured, like he’s savoring the sight. Like he’s memorizing the way your body looks wet and open and glowing in candlelight.
Your breath catches, but your limbs remain loose in the water. Your hands slide beneath the surface, fingertips brushing the insides of your thighs. You feel warm all over—flushed and tingly and almost high.
The psilocybin.
You’ve been drinking the commune’s tea without protest. You know it’s laced. You knew when Jimmima giggled and said, The mind must be cleaned to accept the truth, that she wasn’t speaking in metaphor. But you drank it anyway. Each cup made you feel a little lighter, a little warmer. The euphoria blooms now in your limbs, slow and golden. You blink, and everything glows.
He steps into view. Not through the door. Not down the stone steps like a man obeying the rules of entry. He appears in the arch of the open doorway with no sound, no warning—only presence. As if he was always meant to arrive. As if this space was made for him.
Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal.
He's barefoot. Candlelight licks across the curve of his collarbone, the lean strength of his chest, the thick muscle of his thigh. He wears nothing but his tiara—silver gleaming with candle‑gold—and the inverted cross necklace resting against his sternum.
He’s naked beneath it all.
Your eyes drop before you can stop yourself.
His cock hangs heavy between his thighs, thick and soft, already stirring, the head flushed darker in the heat, rooted in coarse, dark hair. It sways slightly when he takes a step forward, completely unashamed, completely aware that you’re looking. Your pulse jumps, low and sharp, right between your legs.
His hair is slightly damp, curling at the ends from the steam. His hands hang loose at his sides, gaudy rings catching the light. His expression—placid. Devout. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach flip instead of knot.
He says nothing for a long moment. Just looks.
His gaze drags slowly over you, from your collarbones to your shoulders, then lower, to where the water cradles your chest, nipples dark and visible beneath the surface. Then lower still, to the faint shadow between your thighs, where your pussy waits just out of sight. You don’t hide yourself. You don’t cross your arms. You let him see everything he can.
His lips part. You think he might speak. You feel your own pulse in your wrists, your thighs, your cunt. Then:
“Forgive me, my bloom,” His voice is low. Soft. The edge of a promise lives in it.
You swallow.
“The Father asked me tae see ye the way He sees ye—bare…and bloomin’.”
You don't speak.
He takes a step forward.
The heat in the bathhouse thickens. The water shimmers around your ribs. You should be afraid. You should feel shame or protest or at least the echo of Caleb’s voice reminding you that your body isn't your own. But it doesn’t come. None of it comes. Only the sound of water. The scent of lavender and honey. The weight of his gaze like silk drawn across your belly.
You rise, slow as the moon. Water cascades down your skin, over your tits, down your stomach, between your thighs. You meet his eyes. Your limbs tremble beneath the weight of his gaze.
The bath water's gone still. Candlelight flickers across your slick, bare skin, making you look almost gilded—like the Saint Lucia wax dolls perched in the windowsill, waiting to melt.
You don’t move.
Neither does he.
His bare feet are silent against the damp stone as he walks, and his cock—long, thick, heavy—hangs between his thighs, half-hard and pulsing.
You can’t stop looking at it. You try. You really do. But your eyes keep dragging back down, tongue pressing nervously behind your teeth.
He notices.
And he smiles. Not a smirk. Not something arrogant or teasing. It’s slow. Ancient. Like it knows something you don’t.
“I scared ye,” he says, voice low and smooth like syrup left in the sun. “Forgive me.”
Your breath hitches. You nod, barely.
He tilts his head. “I shouldnae’ve watched so long.”
You don’t reply.
Because you had let him. That’s the truth. You’d known someone was watching, had felt the pressure of his gaze like a hand cupped between your thighs—but you didn’t stop. Didn’t cover yourself. Didn’t leave. You stayed in the bath with your pussy exposed, your back arched, your tits catching the candlelight like an offering. Your stomach tightens with guilt and something darker.
Jimmy watches you wrestle with it. He’s always watching. You don’t know how old he is—not really—but there’s something ancient in the way he moves, in the weight of his silences. He looks like a statue animated, half-holy, half-wrong. Skin pale and lean over muscle, every inch of him wiry, unhurried, coiled like scripture waiting to be whispered aloud.
“May I sit?” he asks, gesturing to the stone ledge behind you.
You nod. Again. Voice lost.
He sits slowly, knees open. The thick head of his cock twitches once in the candlelight, drawing your eyes back. It’s veined and ruddy and impossibly large, resting heavy against one thigh, like it’s just as intrigued by you as he is.
You look away—too fast.
Jimmy lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh. “No shame in curiosity, my bloom.”
Your fingers curl into your lap. Your nipples are hard. You try to fold your arms across your chest, to shield your tits from his stare, but all it does is press them together—soft and wet and flushed from the heat of the bath.
His eyes flare, just slightly. “You are beautiful.”
You shouldn’t want to hear that. You shouldn’t feel anything when he says it. Not after everything with Caleb, not after the way you’ve been yelled at, accused, called names, treated like a burden. Not after being forced to sleep turned away, after days of icy silences and the sudden slam of doors—
But you do.
You feel like you’re about to cry.
Jimmy doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t move any closer. But his voice softens. “There’s nothin’ in ye that needs hidin’. Ye were made this way. Bare. Bloomin’. D’ye ken what it means when a flower opens on its own?”
You shake your head.
“Means the soil was ready,” he murmurs, leanin’ back just enough to watch your lips part, your thighs press tight beneath the water, his icy gaze dragging over every inch. “Means the time’s come.”
The ritual tea was laced. You know that. You’d laughed at the fire too long. You’d heard the trees humming like they had voices of their own.
And now—
Now you feel soft. Like every nerve is made of sugar and wet earth and yearning.
You breathe, and it’s too loud. You move your hand, and the water ripples like silk. You blink, and his tiara glows like the moon.
You lick your lips. “Why are you really here?”
His smile fades. Not completely, but enough.
“Because the Father asked me tae look upon ye.”
You tilt your head. “And what did he see?”
He looks down. His hand moves to his cock, fingers idly wrapping around the base—not stroking, not yet, just holding himself in his palm like it’s instinct. “He saw a woman wi’ hunger in her—and no fear left for it.”
You shiver.
Your voice shakes. “Is that what I am?”
Jimmy’s gaze drags back up your body. He lingers on the shadows between your breasts, the gleam of your collarbone, the slick skin of your inner thighs. “That’s what ye could be.”
Silence.
The water steams around you. The candles burn lower. Jimmy’s hand starts to move, slow and deliberate. He strokes the thick shaft of his cock once, then again, like he’s offering a sermon in rhythm. Your pulse trips.
“I should go,” you whisper. “Caleb—”
“Wouldnae notice,” Jimmy says, voice like a blade. “He hasnae looked at ye proper in days, has he?”
You swallow.
He’s right.
Caleb hasn’t kissed you in a week. Hasn’t asked how you’re feeling. Hasn’t looked at you with anything but irritation. When he touches you, it’s rough. When he speaks, it’s sharp. You’ve shrunk around him like a wick—slowly burning yourself out to keep him warm.
Jimmy strokes himself again.
“Ye donae belong tae a man who cannae see ye.”
You try not to look. You fail.
His cock is stiff now, red at the tip, leaking at the slit. His hand is slow and practiced, never taking his eyes off your face. You can smell the musk of him—earth and sweat and something sacred. You inhale without meaning to, and the scent goes straight to your cunt. You feel yourself clench. Wetness pools between your thighs, even beneath the water.
Jimmy sees it. Of course he does. His voice drops to a rasp.
“Ye feel it, don’t ye?” he murmurs. “The way yer body begs. That ache beneath yer skin. That’s always been the truth o’ ye, my bloom. The sacred hunger. It’s no somethin’ tae punish. It’s somethin’ tae worship.”
Your hand drifts beneath the surface of the bath, trembling fingers slipping between your thighs. You’re already wet—soaking, slippery, your pussy pulsing with need. You touch yourself with a soft gasp.
Jimmy groans.
“That’s it.”
Your eyes flutter shut, lashes damp. Your fingers swirl, rubbing soft circles over your clit beneath the water, mouth parted. You can’t help the breathy whine that escapes. You’re too high, too hot, too watched. The candlelight dances across your tits, and you arch your back, your other hand rising to cup one breast, thumb flicking your nipple until it stiffens under your touch.
Jimmy strokes himself harder now.
You hear the slick sound of it. You look at him—and the sight makes you whimper.
He’s moaning low, the head of his cock flushed and angry, precum smeared down the shaft. His abs tighten as he fists himself, eyes locked on you like prayer, like judgment, like the hand of God.
“You’re divine,” he breathes.
You rub yourself faster. “Please.”
He watches you unravel. He doesn’t stop. Neither do you.
You’re riding your own fingers now, hips rocking, tits bouncing in the water, mouth open as your moans echo off the stone. Jimmy’s chains clink as he grips his cock tighter, jerking himself fast and rough, like it’s hurting him not to be inside you already.
Your orgasm breaks like fire.
You cry out, full-throated and shaking, cunt spasming around nothing as your body arches out of the bath like a woman possessed. You come hard, long, fingers buried against your clit as waves of heat crash through your spine.
Jimmy comes with you.
His hips jerk. His cock pulses. Thick ropes of cum paint his stomach, his hand, his thighs—some of it splashing against the floor between you. He groans your name like a vow.
And when it’s over—
Silence. Only the sound of water dripping. Your body slumps back into the bath, exhausted, skin steaming, pussy throbbing.
Jimmy wipes his hand on his thigh. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at you. And this time—this time—you meet his gaze without shame.
Without fear.
And you smile.
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The walls are watching.
You don't realize it at first—how many of them there are. Hung in imperfect grids, dozens of sepia-toned photographs, each with the same subject rendered anew: a girl, dressed in flowers. Not just dressed in them. Draped. Swallowed. Garlanded in thick ropes of bluebells and carnations and buttercups, crown heavy with blooms, hair braided into intricate knots, a smile that was always a little too wide or a little too soft or a little too blank. Some were cracked with age. Others impossibly crisp, as though taken yesterday. But they all bore the same date etched beneath the image: Beltane.
You squint. One is from 1913. Another, 1867.
You lean in closer. You don't recognize a single one.
“Do you like them?”
Jimmima’s voice startles you. You hadn’t heard her approach. She stands a few feet behind you, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea. She's always holding tea lately. You're starting to think she never lets herself be seen without it.
You glance over your shoulder. “Are these the May Queens?”
“Mhm.” She pads closer, the slight wisp of her nylon tracksuit jacket rubbing together carried by the summer breeze, “Every one of them. We keep their portraits here. Some say it’s for legacy. Others say it’s so they never forget where they bloomed.”
You turn back to the wall. “They look...happy.”
“Of course they were,” Jimmima says softly. “It’s the highest honor here.”
You reach out without thinking, fingers hovering near the frame of a photo marked 1904. The girl was pale and round-faced, with flowers stuffed so thick into her braid it looked like a vine strangling her hair. She was barefoot, feet tucked into moss. Her eyes didn’t quite meet the lens.
“And it happens every year?”
“Every Beltane,” Jimmima confirms, moving to stand beside you now. “There’s always a celebration, but not every year has a selection.”
You frown. “What do you mean?”
“Well.” She sips her tea. “The crown has to want to be worn. The commune must see the girl. The earth must rise to meet her. You can’t force that.”
There was something almost dogmatic in the way she said it. A hush around her syllables, like a prayer kept secret.
You scan the photos again. Some are clearly more recent. You find a girl from the early 2000s, her smile glossy and full of teeth, her makeup modern. Another just five or six years ago—you wonder if she's still here, if she lives among them, faceless in the crowd.
Jimmima caught the look on your face.
“You’d be beautiful in the crown,” she says, like she’s been waiting for the right moment to say it.
You blink, caught off guard. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” She laughs. “Come on, don’t be dense.”
You feel your cheeks warm. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means you have heart. It means the commune has noticed you. It means the land has noticed you.” She leans in, her voice dropping to something more conspiratorial. “And that means you’re eligible.”
You step back. “Eligible for what?”
“The May Queen selection.” She watches you carefully now. “You’d have to compete, of course. But you’ve already caught their attention. And more than that—you’ve caught His.”
You freeze, feeling your cheeks grow warm at the mere mention of him, memories of last night in the bathhouse flashing through your mind like an erotic zoetrope.“Jimmy?”
She grins. “We don’t use that name here.”
You look back at the wall. The 1931 May Queen had eyes like yours. You wondered if she was scared when they took this photo. You wondered if she knew what it meant.
“I don’t know, Jimmima,” you say carefully. “That seems like…a lot.”
“It is a lot,” she responds brightly. “That’s what makes it worth doing.”
Her eyes glitter with something you can't name. Before you can respond, a voice behind you cuts through the space like a crack splitting ice.
“You’re not seriously considering that shit, are you?”
You turn.
Caleb's stood in the doorway, arms folded, a smug smile tugging at his lips. His hair is still wet from the communal showers. He must’ve followed you here.
“You want to run around like some flower-brained virgin in a dirt pageant?” he scoffs. “You would.”
“Caleb—”
“I mean, you fall on your face and I’ll pretend I don’t know you.”
The way he said it isn't teasing. It isn't playful. It's mean. Small.
And it works—your stomach twists with shame even though he didn't say anything true.
Jimmima’s face darkens, just for a second.
“She hasn’t even agreed yet,” she spoke lightly. “We were only admiring the legacy.”
“Yeah, well,” Caleb rolls his eyes, stepping forward, “maybe try admiring something that doesn’t look like a funeral procession for woodland whores.”
You flinch.
He sees it. He always sees it.
“Come on,” he adds, turning. “Don’t make me stand around waiting.”
You don't move.
He looks back. “Seriously?”
“I’ll catch up,” you murmur quietly.
He stares at you like you've spoken a different language. “Fine. Suit yourself.”
His footsteps echo off the stone as he leaves. The silence he leaves behind is heavy.
Jimmima sets her tea down on a nearby ledge. “He doesn’t deserve you.”
You swallow.
“He sees you shrinking,” she comtinues softly. “And he likes it.”
Your throat goes tight.
She doesn't press. Just steps closer and gently takes your hand.
“I meant it,” she whispers. “You’d be beautiful in the crown.”
You stare at the wall, at the girls who came before you. Their flowers. Their bare feet. Their strange, haunting smiles. And for the first time since you arrived—you let yourself wonder what it would feel like to wear the earth like armor.
To be chosen.
To belong.
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You say yes.
Not with fireworks. Not with some rousing declaration or sudden swirl of wind. You say it quietly, in the hush between one breath and the next, in a voice that barely rises above the weight of your own hesitation.
“…Okay.”
That’s it.
But Jimmima lights up like you’ve set her on fire. She clasps your hands in both of hers, eyes wide and glassy with delight, and presses a kiss to your knuckles before whispering something in that strange tongue you still haven’t learned. Her voice wraps around the vowels like a secret being sealed.
You don't ask what it means. You don’t want to know.
She tells you preparations begin at once. You’ll receive your first flower at dawn. There will be five days of ritual, one for each petal of the crown. Five gifts, five offerings, five tests. At the end, you will be judged—by the commune, by the soil, by Him.
“Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal,” she says, tasting each word like it’s sacred.
You just nod. You don’t know what to say.
That night, Caleb doesn’t speak to you.
He doesn’t ask where you were, or why your shirt smells faintly of lavender. He doesn’t mention the wall of portraits or the gleam in Jimmima’s eyes or the fact that you walked back to the cottage barefoot, like you were trying to feel the earth through your skin.
He just lies beside you, facing the other way, his breath shallow and cold. You lie there awake for hours, staring at the ceiling beams, wondering what you’ve done.
You don’t dream.
But something in the walls clicks, like it’s paying attention.
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You wake before the sun.
The commune is already stirring—bare feet padding across dew-wet grass, low voices humming in the distance, smoke curling out of chimneys like thin, lazy fingers. Everything smells like ash and mint and soil.
Your door creaks open on its own.
You sit up. The wind flutters in behind it. And there, just outside the threshold, rests your first flower.
It’s not in a vase or tied with twine. It’s just placed—deliberately, reverently, with the stem angled toward your feet and the bloom facing the rising sun. It’s a marigold.
You hesitate before picking it up. Its petals are warm. Almost pulsing. You swear it leaves a faint smear of gold on your fingertips.
No one's watching.
And yet you feel seen.
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Day One is a ritual of silence.
You’re not told this aloud—it’s understood. No one speaks to you. Not when you wander the gardens, not when you’re given a bundle of herbs to hold, not when a child—barefoot and no older than six—presses a wet rock into your palm like a keepsake.
They all smile at you. They all touch your wrist, your shoulder, your back. But not a single word is exchanged.
You carry your marigold the entire time.
By sunset, it’s wilted around the edges. You place it beneath your pillow that night.
You dream of teeth.
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Day Two is hunger.
You're fed nothing but milk and honey. You’re not allowed to ask why.
Jimmima brings it to you in a carved wooden bowl and watches as you drink it, kneeling beside your bed like a priestess. You want to ask what this has to do with queenship. She brushes a hand down your cheek and says softly, “The body must remember sweetness before it can be filled with light.”
You nod like you understand.
Caleb glares at the bowl when he sees it later.
“What the fuck are they feeding you?” he mutters.
You shrug. “It’s tradition.”
“Tradition,” he scoffs. “You sound like them.”
You say nothing. You’re getting good at that.
You sleep fitfully. You dream of Jimmy.
Not the man in the purple tracksuit and gold rings. Not the coaxing voice who found you naked in the bathhouse and called you bloom like it was the name he’d carved into your ribs before you were born. But the other version—the one who watches without blinking, who waits without speaking, who stood behind you once while you bathed and made your skin flush with heat before he even touched the door.
You dream of him standing over you.
And of yourself, lying still.
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Day Three is fire.
They light the torches before noon. They dress you in white.
You’re led barefoot to the firepit where the ashes of the last Beltane sleep beneath a layer of moss. The pit is surrounded by the commune—women in linen robes, elders with rings through their noses, children painted in symbols you can’t read.
Jimmy isn't there.
Jimmima holds your hand and says only: “Let the flame remember you.”
Then she sets the hem of your robe alight.
You don’t scream.
The fire isn't real—or maybe it is, but it doesn’t hurt. The smoke curls up your legs like silk, the flames dancing like they know you, and for a moment, the heat is so intimate it feels like someone whispering at your throat.
When it’s over, the robe is untouched. But your skin glows.
Caleb doesn’t speak to you that night. But you catch him watching you from across the cottage with a look you don’t recognize—part fear, part jealousy, part something else.
You fall asleep with your marigold clutched to your chest.
This time, you dream of a crown. And the heavy weight of hands, pressing it down.
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The night before the competition smells like smoke and berries and something fermented enough to sting your nose.
The girls gather in the longhouse after dusk, the hems of their dress skirts brushed with pollen, hair still damp from the river. Someone has brought out a fiddle. Someone else pours the dark, cloudy drink from a ceramic jug etched with spirals and ribs. The candles are low, set into niches along the walls, their flames trembling like they’re listening.
You sit cross-legged on a woven mat, laughing.
Actually laughing.
It surprises you—the sound of it, how easily it comes, how it doesn’t snag on your throat or feel like a risk. Your shoulders are loose. Your spine isn’t braced for impact. No one here is watching you the way Caleb watches you, waiting for you to say the wrong thing.
A girl named Iona tells a story about the first May Queen she ever saw, how she thought the woman was made of flowers, not flesh. Another girl braids rosemary into your hair without asking, fingers warm and confident, humming under her breath.
Someone presses a cup into your hands.
You drink.
The psilocybin blooms slow and golden behind your eyes. The walls soften. Candlelight stretches. The laughter sounds farther away and closer all at once, like it’s happening inside your chest. You tilt your head back and let yourself feel it—the lightness, the warmth, the way your body feels like it belongs to you again.
For once, you’re not performing.
You’re just…here.
Then the door slams open.
The sound is wrong in this space. Too sharp. Too loud. Like a gunshot in a church. The laughter dies instantly.
Caleb fills the doorway like consequence.
He hasn’t changed out of his clothes. His jacket is still on. His jaw is tight, mouth already twisted like he’s halfway through an argument you didn’t agree to have. His eyes rake the room—over the girls, the drinks, the firelight—before locking onto you.
There you are.
Laughing.
Barefoot.
Adorned.
“What the fuck is this?” he snaps.
No one answers him. They don’t shrink, though. They don’t scatter. They simply go still, watching him with a quiet, unreadable calm that makes his shoulders hitch like he’s missed a step.
You stand slowly. Your body knows this routine. Knows how to make itself small without appearing to. Knows how to soften your voice, how to hold your hands just right so he won’t accuse you of being aggressive.
“We’re just—” you start.
“Just what?” he barks, stepping fully inside now. “Playing dress-up? Getting drunk with these fucking weirdos?”
One of the girls—Freya, you think—opens her mouth.
Caleb whirls on her. “Did I fucking ask you?”
The air thickens. The candles gutter. You feel the psilocybin spike, the room tilting slightly as adrenaline rushes in to meet it. Your heart pounds too fast. Your palms sweat.
“Caleb,” you say quietly. “Please.”
That word.
Please.
It lands wrong.
His eyes flash. “Don’t fucking ‘please’ me.”
You see it before it happens. The shift. The way his shoulders roll forward, the way his hand flexes at his side.
You don’t step back fast enough.
The slap cracks across your face, loud and unmistakable. Your head snaps to the side. Heat explodes along your cheekbone. For a moment, everything goes white—no sound, no light, just impact and the sharp taste of blood where your teeth catch your lip.
You don’t fall right away.
Your body tries to stay upright, tries to pretend this is manageable, survivable, something you can smooth over later. But your knees buckle, and you’re suddenly on the floor, the mat rough against your palms, the world swaying.
Someone gasps. Another swears.
Caleb is breathing hard. “Look at you,” he sneers like he's smelling curdled milk. “Parading around in their scraps like some holy whore. You really think this makes you special? That a few flowers and pity fucks from freaks who worship bones makes you anything?”
Your face throbs. You touch your cheek without meaning to. When you pull your fingers away, there’s a smear of red.
The room feels too big. Too exposed.
You break.
The sound that comes out of you isn’t pretty. It’s not restrained or polite or quiet enough to ignore. It’s a sob torn straight from your chest, sharp and ugly and unstoppable. You curl in on yourself, hands coming up too late, shoulders shaking as everything you’ve been holding back finally gives.
Caleb scoffs. “Oh, don’t start crying now.”
That’s when the door creaks again. Not slammed. Opened. Slowly. The sound draws every eye.
Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal stands in the doorway. He doesn’t rush in. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t look at Caleb at all at first.
He looks at you. Your tear-streaked face. Your hand pressed to your cheek. The rosemary tangled in your hair, the white fabric pooled around your knees like something discarded.
His expression doesn’t change. No anger. No shock. Just…stillness. A terrible, blasphemous quiet.
Caleb turns, scoffing. “What, you gonna say something now?”
Jimmy doesn’t answer him. He steps inside and closes the door behind him with deliberate care, shutting out the night. The latch clicks softly into place.
The silence stretches. It’s suffocating. The girls have gone completely still, like animals sensing a shift in the weather. The candles don’t flicker now. The air feels heavy, charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.
Jimmy finally lifts his gaze—to Caleb this time. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t square his shoulders. He simply looks at him, eyes dark and unblinking.
For a heartbeat, Caleb looks uncertain. You’ve never seen that before.
Jimmy says nothing. But the weight of his presence presses down on the room, dense and undeniable. His silence isn't passive. It’s not hesitation.
It’s judgment.
Caleb scoffs again, too loud, too forced. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He turns back to you. “Get up. We’re leaving.”
You don’t move. You can’t. Your body is still curled in on itself, shaking, cheek burning, chest tight like it’s been wrapped in piano wire. The idea of standing, of walking past him, of going back to that cottage feels impossible.
Jimmy watches. He doesn't intervene. And somehow, that’s worse.
Caleb waits a second longer, then mutters, “Unbelievable,” and storms out, slamming the door behind him so hard the frame around it rattles.
The room exhales all at once. Someone kneels beside you. A soft hand brushes your hair back, careful of your cheek. Another presses a cool cloth to your face. You sob into it, shoulders hitching, the humiliation settling in like a bruise beneath the bruise.
Through it all, Jimmy remains where he is. Watching. Not comforting. Not touching. Witnessing.
When your sobs finally taper off into hitched whines and breathy whimpers, something broken and exhausted, you lift your head.
He meets your eyes. And for the first time, you see something flicker there—not pity. Recognition. As if something has just confirmed itself. He turns and leaves without a word.
The door closes gently behind him. And you know—deep in your bones, deeper than fear or reason or doubt—that tonight changed everything.
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You don’t remember falling asleep.
Only waking up. Swollen‑cheeked and cold beneath a woven quilt that smells faintly of lavender and old smoke, your head heavy, your eyes grit‑lined. The light is different now—less gold, more pewter. Dusk has pressed itself against the windowpanes, turning the glass opaque and bruised. Somewhere beyond the room, you hear the rhythm of footsteps and laughter, the cracking pop of wood as kindling is broken, the low murmur of voices gathering for the night.
Life going on. As if nothing happened.
Your face aches. When you touch it—ginger, uncertain—you can feel the exact shape of his hand still mapped there. The swell of your cheekbone. The heat trapped beneath skin. The tenderness that makes you hiss quietly through your teeth.
You swallow.
The knock is quiet. Two fingers, slow and spaced apart. Not Caleb.
You sit up too fast, heart thudding, your vision swimming. The room tilts for a moment, the edges blurring as pain and exhaustion catch up to you all at once.
“Come,” you croak. Or maybe you just think it. Either way, the door creaks open.
He’s backlit in the doorway like some ruinous god—dressed in his tracksuit, curls damp at the temples like he’s come in from the mist. His tiara is gone now, set aside with ceremony you didn’t witness, but the inverted cross still glints at the center of his chest, a sharp gleam in the twilight. His hands are bare. No rings.
Jimmy Crystal steps inside without a word and closes the door behind him. The sound is soft. Final. He says nothing at first. Just studies you the way he always does—gaze slow, deliberate, the kind of looking that leaves you feeling opened up without ever being touched. Like he’s taking inventory. Like he’s committing you to memory. You expect him to sit. He doesn’t. He leans against the closed door instead and tilts his head, eyes tracing the line of your body beneath the quilt, the way you’re folded in on yourself.
You swallow. “Is he gone?”
Jimmy’s expression doesn’t change. He shakes his head once. “Naw.”
Your stomach drops. “Is he—” Your voice falters. You have to try again. “Is he coming back?”
Another pause. Longer this time. Then—soft, low, almost thoughtful:
“He'll be nearby.”
Not with you. Not allowed near you. Nearby.
Your breath hitches. You want to ask more. You don’t. You’re afraid to know what’s already written in the calm of Jimmy’s posture, in the calmness of his hands.
“He struck ye,” Jimmy continues quietly, like he’s reciting a fact, not an accusation. “That's no permitted here.”
You let out a weak, humorless laugh. “He didn’t seem to care.”
“Naw,” Jimmy agrees. “Men like him rarely do.”
He pushes off the door then. Walks across the room with that same quiet weight, that prowling grace that once unsettled you and now feels…inevitable. Like gravity doing its job. He crouches in front of you where you sit on the edge of the mattress, lowering himself until you’re eye‑to‑eye. For a moment, he just rests his elbows on his knees and looks at you.
Then he speaks.
“May I?”
You nod.
Jimmy lifts his hand—fingers cool, careful—as he touches your cheek. His thumb brushes the bruised skin with agonizing gentleness, a ghost of pressure, a lover’s hush. It’s barely anything at all, and still you flinch, breath catching despite yourself.
He stills immediately. The silence stretches between you, thick and deliberate. Then, in a voice lower than a whisper:
“Does it always feel like this?”
You blink. “Like what?”
“Like ye’re disappearin'.”
The words land harder than the slap did. You turn your face away, jaw trembling, eyes burning. Your shoulders curl forward as if you can fold yourself small enough to vanish entirely. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t chase the moment away or try to fix it. He just lets you breathe through it. Lets you feel it.
“Ye can lie,” he says finally. “But no tae me.”
You meet his eyes then—hard, defiant, but hurting. You don’t know how he sees it all so clearly. You don’t know when he learned the meaning of your silence. He holds your gaze as he asks, quiet but steady, like he already knows the answer.
“Do ye feel held by him?”
The question hollows you. Not in the way Caleb does. Not in the way that leaves you small and bleeding and trying to claw yourself back out of yourself afterward. This hollows you in a different way. A gentler way. Like someone carving out rot to make space for something better.
You try to answer. You really try. But your voice breaks halfway through the first syllable and you shake your head instead, tears stinging as you look down at your lap, shoulders caving inward.
Jimmy exhales. Not in relief. Not in triumph. Like someone grieving a truth they already knew.
He reaches forward.
You think he’s going to touch your face again—but no. It’s your hands. Both of them. He takes them in his own, cradling them between his palms, rough and warm and steady. His thumbs press lightly into the centers of your hands, grounding you, anchoring you.
And suddenly you’re not shaking anymore. Suddenly, there’s heat in your body again. There’s gravity. Weight. The sensation of being real.
Like you’ve been floating, untethered and invisible, for so long—and someone just finally said, I see you. Come home.
Jimmy’s voice is quieter now. Still low, still carrying that Scottish rasp like smoke across skin. “Do ye want tae keep fightin' for somethin' that only ever breaks ye?”
A beat.
“Or do ye want to be chosen for once?”
You can’t breathe. But you nod. You nod.
Jimmy lifts your hands and presses a kiss to the backs of them, slow and deliberate, like he’s sealing something older than words. Not a claim. A vow.
When he pulls back, his eyes are darker.
“Rest,” he murmurs. “Tomorrow will be heavy.”
You hesitate. “Caleb—”
Jimmy’s mouth curves—not into a smile, but something colder. Something final. "He will be receivin' Charity,”
The word means nothing to you. And somehow, it means everything.
Jimmy releases your hands and stands. He pauses at the door, glancing back once.
“Ye're safe the night, aye," he says.
And you believe him.
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You wake in white.
The robe they gave you the night before is still clinging to your skin, though someone has removed the bruised, wine-stained underlayers. You don’t remember undressing, only falling asleep in Jimmima’s bed while her fingers soothed over your hair. You remember her whispering a prayer in your ear. You remember her hand on your back when your shoulders trembled too hard to breathe. You remember her promising you wouldn’t be alone in the morning.
You aren't.
When your eyes blink open, there are hands on you—soft and humming, a small chorus of girls dressed in similar white, lifting your arms, brushing out your hair again, washing your skin in floral oils that smell like crushed lavender and sun-warmed citrus. They move as one body, synchronized and silent save for the rhythmic hum that bleeds from their chests. Their fingers comb through your hair and rub tinctures behind your ears, at the soft spots of your hips, the hollow of your throat.
You don’t speak. You don’t need to.
Their presence is warm and bright and maternal in a way you didn’t know you could crave. Not like this. Not the kind of care that makes you feel like a person being prepped. You feel like an altar. A vessel. Not objectified, not groped, not owned—but honored. Revered.
Your bruise is still visible. You see it when they turn you toward the mirror, a blooming handprint rising over your cheek like a rolling thunder cloud. It should look terrible. But the way they’ve painted you makes it seem intentional, almost sacred—like your pain is part of the ritual.
They crown you last. You don’t even feel it at first, the delicate weight of the woven wildflowers settling atop your head. It’s not the heavy mass of a stage prop but something natural and strange. When you look up, you catch the details in the mirror: winding vines, sprigs of baby’s breath, poppies, buttercups. Nestled among them are carved slivers of ivory—feminine and beautiful and aged. Bone.
You don’t know it’s human.
You smile anyway.
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Everything is washed in light.
The entire commune gathers in a ring of celebration around the sacred maypole, its tall white body wrapped in spiraling red ribbons and garland. The pole reaches toward the sky like a stake to heaven, shimmering in the morning dew, marked with centuries of carved names and prayers. Children run barefoot through wild grass. Women paint each other’s faces. Elders raise small ceramic horns in your direction when you pass.
Jimmima holds your hand.
She looks radiant in her ceremonial white tunic, something everyone including the Fingers wear during Beltane, her usual mischief softened into something warm and devoted. She guides you to the heart of the circle like a mother giving away her daughter—though not to a husband. To the sun. To the sky. To the dance.
You aren’t the only girl.
There are others, maybe eighteen, maybe twenty, each glowing in their own way. Some look older, some younger. All dressed in ivory linen, all crowned, all smiling. The moment doesn’t feel competitive. It doesn’t feel like bloodsport. It feels like unity. Like every girl in this ring is part of something older than her body. A ritual that will choose—not based on beauty, not on merit—but on something deeper. Something divine.
Sir Lord Jimmy watches from afar.
He’s positioned at the edge of the crowd, seated on what looks like a carved throne made from twisted, pale branches. He isn't wearing his tracksuit today. His upper body is bare save for the fur pelt draped over his shoulders, his skin kissed by the cold wind but unmoving. His eyes are heavy on you.
He hasn’t spoken to you since after Caleb struck you last night. He hasn’t needed to. His silence wrapped around you like a second robe, like an answer, like a shield.
And even now, from across the field, you feel that same veil of knowing settle over your shoulders. You know he’s watching. You know he’s here for you. The others are witnessing the tradition.
He's witnessing you.
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The drinking horn is passed around, its dark wood damp with condensation. When it reaches your hands, your fingers curl around it without hesitation.
It’s sweet. Too sweet. Coated in honey and rose. The herbal tang hits your throat half a second after you swallow, burning and numbing, followed by a curious warmth that floods your stomach and rises like smoke into your head.
It’s drugged. You know that now.
You knew it before.
But you don’t fight it.
Because there’s something about this place, about these people, about this dance—you want to feel it. All of it. You want to be part of it in the way they are, eyes shining and cheeks flushed with joy, bodies moving in time to an unspoken rhythm older than any language you’ve learned.
The drum begins.
It’s not a performance drum, not a beat for an audience. It’s deep and primal and patient. You feel it in your spine. You feel it in your womb. The world around you pulses with it, ground vibrating gently under your feet.
You're placed beside the pole. Your ribbon is red. So is the ribbon of the girl beside you. All of you are red—each given a ribbon that will bind you to the pole, and to each other, until only one remains standing.
The dance begins in a clockwise spiral. It’s slow at first. Measured. You step forward when the girl ahead of you steps, winding the ribbon between your fingers, looping it around the pole. You're weaving the world together, thread by thread. And in this sacred spiral, you're not awkward or clumsy or uncertain.
You're a part of it.
The circle. The history. The choosing.
Girls begin to drop. One by one, they stumble, they laugh, they fall into the arms of waiting commune members who carry them gently from the ring. The pace increases. The rhythm intensifies. Your limbs feel like they belong to the earth. Like you’re made of air and fire and bone.
Time stops meaning anything. You spin. You laugh. You glow. You forget about Caleb. You forget about the bruises. You forget about the ache in your chest and the fear in your blood. All that remains is this moment. This dance.
You don’t notice when there are only three girls left.
Then two.
Then—
Jimmima gasps, covering her mouth. The crowd erupts. You're still standing. Your feet rooted, your ribbon perfectly wound, your breath shallow and shaking but full of life.
You’ve won.
The sun blazes low but strong in the sky, burning like a second crown above your own. Your lungs are still scorched from laughter. From dancing. From screaming breathless joy as the last of the girls around the maypole collapsed to their knees—writhing with giggles or tears or both—and you stayed standing. High and dazed, your feet slick with sweat and flower petals, the world spiraling in a syrupy golden blur around you.
They swarmed you when you won. The women first—Jimmima wrapping you in her arms, kissing both your cheeks, weeping openly. Then the men. Then the children. Petals flung, songs sung, your name echoing in your ears like thunder underwater.
You can’t stop smiling. You can’t stop floating. Even now—still dizzy, crowned in wildflowers, the carved bone digging cold and delicate into your scalp—you feel like you’ve been split open to sunlight. Like something radiant has carved its way into your chest and taken root there, blooming out of your ribs. A fever dream of acceptance.
You’re their May Queen. You belong to them now. But no one warned you what comes next.
The drums don’t stop. The singing doesn’t stop. And then you’re led—barefoot, trembling—toward the platform in the village center. You think maybe there’s more dancing. Maybe a blessing. Maybe a feast. You’re light-headed, drunk on fungus and affection and windburned praise.
Then you see the altar. And the chairs beside it. One for you. One still empty.
You’re told to choose.
“The King,” Emma whispers in your ear, her hands on your shoulders. “Your consort. Your counterpart. Your mate. You must choose.”
“What—?”
“This is tradition, darling.” Her voice is honeyed and solemn. “You must choose your May King.”
Your stomach lurches. No one said anything about a king. About a partner. About—marriage?
You look at her. She looks back with a kind of eerie, expectant calm. Like this is all very obvious. Like you’re just slow to catch on.
“I don’t—I didn’t know—”
“It must be someone here,” she says softly, like she’s soothing a child. “Someone within our bounds. Someone worthy.”
You can’t think. Your limbs feel gelatinous. Your jaw unhinged. You see faces swimming in the crowd—beaming, breathless, pink-cheeked with joy. All of them turned toward you. All of them waiting.
And then you see him.
Jimmy.
He’s watching from the back of the crowd, haloed in shadow, his inverted cross catching the dying light. He’s not smiling. He’s not swaying with the others. He’s still. Silent. But his eyes are burning. They burn for you.
And something in you answers. Your lips move before you can stop them.
“Him.”
The word hits the air like a bell. Clear. Irrevocable. You point—shaking, breathless—toward Jimmy Crystal.
“I choose him.”
There’s a moment of calm. A suspended beat in the universe. And then—chaos. No—not chaos.
Caleb.
Because Caleb is suddenly there, charging toward the altar, his face a twisted mask of disbelief and rage, his voice tearing through the air like barbed wire. “No. No, fuck that—fuck this!”
His arms flail as he’s grabbed—first by Jimmy Ink, then Jimmy Shite, and then the wiry, sharp-toothed one they call Jimmy Fox. All three restrain him with terrifying calm as he thrashes, red-faced and snarling, trying to claw toward the platform.
“You lying little bitch!” he screams at you. “You let him touch you? You let him—after everything—I brought you here!”
“Caleb—” you gasp, trying to stand, to say something, but Emma’s hands are like iron on your shoulders.
“No,” she murmurs. “You don’t speak to the unchosen.”
“Unchosen?” Caleb spits. “This is fucking insane!”
He lunges again. Jimmy Ink cracks him once in the ribs with an elbow. He folds. And over it all—cutting through the noise like thunder—is Jimmy’s voice. Authoritative. Resonant. Final. “She has spoken.”
He steps forward at last. “The May Queen, our vessel, has chosen.” He mounts the platform with an ease that feels inevitable. That has always felt inevitable.
You stare up at him as he takes your hand.
The sun dips behind him, and he’s all fire and silhouette, curls backlit, jaw rigid. He looks half angel, half beast. The crowd stills again. And then Jimmy lifts your hand high and declares for all to hear:
“The binding is begun.”
The crowd erupts. Cheers. Chanting. Bells ringing. Drums booming. Somewhere, Caleb is still screaming. Still cursing. But his voice is drowning in it, shrinking beneath the sound of devotion.
The May Queen has chosen. And her King is Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal. You don’t understand what it means yet—not fully. But the way Jimmy looks at you, the way he brings your knuckles to his mouth and kisses them like something sacred—you think maybe you will soon.
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You don’t remember walking. You don’t remember the way the crowd parts for you, or the feeling of flower petals against your bare feet, or the way the crown of bone and blooms sways slightly with each step. You don’t remember the moment your dress was changed—no longer the long, floating white from the maypole dance, but a translucent silk shift that kisses your thighs and bares your arms. You don’t remember the knife being blessed. But it’s there when you arrive.
A carved, ceremonial blade, honed from pale bone, rests on a bed of marigolds. You blink at it, and your vision warps—light streaking across your pupils like oil on water. The color of the flowers swells, breathing with golden pulse, as if the sun itself is kneeling beside you.
Someone places the knife in your palm. You’re too high to speak. Too high to move unless guided. The world smells like smoke and pollen and sweat. Behind you, the commune chants in a low rhythm that thrums through your bones—not words you understand, but vibrations, intonations, syllables for fertility, for lineage, for rebirth.
Your feet keep moving. You stop in front of him. Jimmy. You get a better look at his torso, his bare chest an altar of pale skin, thin white scars, and breath. His dark pants are loose around his hips, tied with a blood-colored sash, and his fingers are wet with something crimson and slick.
He doesn’t look drugged. Not even a little. There’s something terrifying in how still he stands, how watchful. His eyes—always eerie—seem glassier now. Like twin black lakes beneath a winter sky, full of reflection and nothing at all. He holds out his hand, palm up, and you know what to do.
The bone blade trembles in your grip. Still, you raise it. Your vision narrows to just his hand—the wide, calloused expanse of it, fingers slightly curled, waiting for your vow. You slice his palm. Blood wells immediately, fat and dark. He doesn’t flinch.
Then he takes the knife from you. And does the same. The moment the blade touches your skin, your knees nearly buckle. It’s a clean cut, but it stings. The sharpness blossoms like fire, and for a second your vision flares. The crowd gasps as your blood joins his—dripping down your wrists and onto the packed earth below.
But it’s not over. Jimmy steps closer. And tilts your chin. No warning—he presses the blade gently beneath your bottom lip. You shudder, tears springing to your eyes as the thin skin splits. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches as the crimson beads gather at your mouth, then raises the blade to his own.
His lip splits cleaner. Quicker. And then his hand is in your hair. He pulls you in.
And kisses you.
It’s not like any kiss you’ve ever had. It’s a sealing. A vow. His lips crash into yours, blood to blood, mouths open and wet and aching—and the taste is salt, and metal, and want. The copper floods your tongue. You gasp against him, but he doesn’t pull back. He deepens it, tilts your chin harder, groans something against your mouth in a voice the others can't hear.
When he pulls away, his mouth is painted in your blood. Yours painted in his. Your lip throbs, pulse beating just beneath the break in your skin. You can feel the bond settling into place—not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Physically. The psilocybin in your veins reacts to the moment like it’s divine. Your chest seizes with awe. Your body tingles, crowned in reverent submission.
The commune erupts in praise. They chant his name. Then yours.
“May Queen. May King. May Queen. May King.”
You sway where you stand, but Jimmy’s hand finds the back of your neck. Holds you steady. His thumb presses beneath your jaw like he’s anchoring your soul to your body—like you’ll float away if he doesn’t keep you there.
The next steps of the ceremony begin behind you. The preparation of the bed. The fire set to burn behind it.
The crowd gathers in the glade, eyes on the King and Queen, and someone wraps a red cord around both your wrists, binding your hands together in the marriage knot. You wanna ask what happens now. But something tells you you’ll find out. Because Jimmy’s looking at you like he already knows. And he doesn’t blink. Not once.
Jimmy doesn't release you when the chanting rises again.
The marriage knot is loosened, not removed—the red cord slipping from your wrists only to be gathered in his hand as he turns you away from the glade, palm firm at the base of your spine. The commune parts without a word. Faces blur. Firelight streaks across your vision like dragged paint. Your body is humming, still buzzing from blood and vow and kiss, lip throbbing where the blade split you open for him. You’re still swaying when he guides you forward. And this time, you feel every step.
Stone replaces soil beneath your feet. The temperature shifts—warmer, heavier, the air thick with smoke and resin and old heat baked into bone. The chanting doesn’t fade. It follows. Reverberates. Echoes now, distorted by walls that curve inward like ribs.
The Bone Temple rises out of the earth like something unearthed rather than built.
It's circular, sunken, erected pillars formed from pale stone and lashed skeletal remains—femurs bound with twine, spines set into mortar, skulls half-swallowed by lichen and candle wax stacked in a pyramid at the center of it, a memorial of human suffering and sacrifice. The ceiling opens to the sky, a ring of moonlight pouring down onto the altar at its center. Fire bowls line the perimeter, flames low and constant, fed by unseen hands.
This isn't a place of rest. This is a place of metamorphosis. The altar isn't raised. It's hollowed. A broad slab of stone worn smooth by generations of bodies, layered with furs and hides darkened by age and ritual use. The scent hits you all at once—sex, smoke, old iron, something sweet and animal beneath it. Your knees weaken.
His hand tightens on your neck, thumb pressing beneath your jaw until your head tilts back, eyes lifting to his. The crown still sits on his head. The inverted cross gleams against his chest. He looks at you like you're exactly where you belong. Then he guides you forward. The unseen watchers don't speak. They breathe together. You feel it on your skin—a collective inhale as he lays you back onto the altar, arranging you with care that borders on tenderness. The furs cradle you, warm and rough. The stone beneath them radiates heat, seeping into your spine.
He doesn't rush. He reknots the red cord, this time looping it low around your waist, cinching it snug over your hips. A claiming band. A boundary. His fingers linger there, pressing into your flesh like he’s measuring you. You shiver. He lifts the silk shift from your body, slow and deliberate, letting the fabric slide over your skin until you’re bare beneath the open sky. The firelight paints you gold and shadow. You hear a soft, reverent sound from somewhere beyond the walls—not a gasp, not a cheer. Something closer to prayer.
You aren't embarrassed. You're exalted.
Jimmy undresses without spectacle, eyes never leaving you. The fur pelt around his shoulders falls. Then the pants. When he steps free of them, the fire bowls flare in response, light climbing the walls. He keeps the crown. Keeps the necklace. He isn't discarding power—he's wielding it.
He kneels between your thighs. Spreads you open with his hands. They're rough. Certain. His thumbs press into the soft of your inner thighs, pushing them wider, holding you there as he looks at you fully, reverently, like a passage he’s memorized by heart.
You feel small.
Chosen.
His fingers drag upward, slow, unhurried, tracing the heat-slick seam of your cunt. You gasp, hips twitching, and his grip tightens—a warning. Not cruel. Controlled.
"Patience," he murmurs, voice low, carrying like scripture. "The altar must be readied. The gates opened. The womb invited."
Two fingers push into your soaked pussy. You cry out. They slide in easily—your body welcoming him, desperate for more—and he doesn’t stop there. He moves with deliberate pressure, curling, stretching you open inch by inch. You feel him everywhere. In your jaw. Your spine. Your womb.
He watches your face as he works you open, eyes dark and unblinking, fingers scissoring, testing, spreading you until your thighs tremble and your breath shatters. The cool metal of his rings kisses your slick folds. He adds a third finger slowly, stretching you wider, deeper, until you’re gasping, clutching at the furs.
"Ye were made for this," he says softly, voice thick with idolization. "Made tae be filled. Tae be bred. This cunt exists tae be used for creation."
His mouth follows. The first drag of his tongue makes your vision white out. He eats your pussy like an act of devotion, messy and unrelenting. His fingers never stop. He holds you open and fucks you on them while his tongue works your clit with reverent circles. You sob, hips jerking, overwhelmed. It’s too much, too holy. The psilocybin in your blood turns everything inside-out.
"Good girl," he praises, muffled between your thighs. "Give it tae me. Let your God drink from your cunt."
When you come, it’s not one orgasm—it’s a cascade. A scream torn from your throat as your whole body writhes, walls fluttering helplessly around his fingers. He doesn't stop. Not until you're sobbing, dripping, wrecked.
Only then does he rise. His cock is heavy and flushed, hard and wet at the tip, and the sight alone makes your thighs fall further apart, remembering that intimate exchange you shared in the bathhouse. He wraps his fist around it, strokes once, then presses the blunt head to your entrance.
"This is where I plant ye," he murmurs, tiara gleaming. "Where the bloodline begins. Ye’ll take every drop, wife, and ye’ll thank me for making ye mine."
Then he fucks into you. All at once. You scream. Your pussy stretches, parts, swallows him in one brutal, holy thrust. Your back arches, mouth open in a soundless sob. He holds himself there, cock buried to the hilt, thick and pulsing and so deep it feels like he’s breaching something sacred.
You feel him in your belly.
"Mine," he growls, voice sharpened with awe. "My hole. My wife. My sacred little incubator."
He starts to move. Not gently. Slow and deep, grinding into your cervix with every stroke. He fucks you like the altar was made for this—for you—for the obscene slap of his hips on your thighs, for the wet squelch of your cunt sucking him in again and again.
You’re gasping. Whimpering. Clawing at his back, his arms, the stone.
"Ye feel that?" he pants, breath hot against your cheek. "That’s my cock reshaping your cunt. That’s yer pussy milking me for every drop."
You cry out again, and he bites your throat—teeth dragging along the skin, hard enough to bruise. You’re shaking beneath him, legs spread wide, his name falling from your lips like prayer.
"Ye’ll drip for days," he snarls, fucking harder. "Ye’ll leak down your thighs in front of the commune and they’ll know what I did tae ye. What I made."
Your orgasm hits so violently you choke on it. He fucks you through it, relentless, hips snapping into you. You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Your cunt spasms around him, fluttering tight, clenching like you need to be bred.
"That’s it," he growls, "take your blessing. Take yer fucking purpose."
He groans into your mouth as he spills inside you. Hot. Endless. Possessive. He stays inside, grinding into your overstimulated pussy as cum floods your womb, his cock twitching, pushing it deep. You feel it leaking out, dripping between your ass cheeks, but he doesn’t move.
"Ye’re mine now," he breathes, "marked in blood and seed. Ye’ll carry me. Ye’ll birth for me."
He presses his hand to your belly. Flat. Claiming. Forever. And whispers, "so let it be done."
You don’t know if you hear it with your ears or your bones. But you feel it settle in your cunt. In your womb. In your soul. You’re not empty. You’re filled. You’re his.
Forever.
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You're still leaking him when they lead you to the stone. Still split open, stretched wide, slick between your thighs from where his seed took root. You can feel it trickling down the backs of your legs as you walk—or are walked, rather, because your feet barely move. The red cord around your waist hasn't been removed. It trails behind you like a leash, like a tail, like a marker of what’s been done and what you’ve been made for.
The firelight licks your skin. The furs cling. You don't protest. Because you're his. And he's bringing you home.
The Bone Temple empties behind you, but the chanting doesn't stop. It continues as a pulse through the dark—lower now, guttural, weighted with something that isn’t ecstasy anymore. Something heavier. Something close to mourning.
No one touches you except Jimmy.
You pass commune members on your way. They drop to their knees. They don't look at you. They look at your womb. At your belly. At what might already be growing inside.
The moon is high when the glade opens again, revealing a half-circle of figures gathered beneath the stone arch. Torches blaze. Incense chokes the air. The altar behind you is still wet. You feel the evidence of your making with every step—every sore muscle, every sticky pulse between your legs, every raw, stretched ache deep in your cunt. You never want it to fade.
They’ve set two figures before the fire. Bound. Kneeling. One is a commune member. A boy—no older than twenty—with pale lashes and a trembling jaw. He doesn't cry. He doesn't move. He stares straight ahead with wet, wide eyes.
The other is Caleb. Your Caleb. You know it’s him even though the chanting makes it hard to think. He’s gagged but his expression says everything—rage, disbelief, the kind of frantic betrayal that only men like him feel when they’ve lost control.
He tries to rise when he sees you. Fails. His hands are tied at the wrists and elbows behind his back, knees digging into the soil. His shirt is half-ripped, dirt smeared across his chest, and there’s blood dried along one side of his neck—from the last time Jimmy “charitied” him for speaking out of turn. He's still beautiful in the way a corpse is beautiful before it remembers it should rot.
You don't flinch when he looks at you. You don't turn away. Jimmy stops behind you. The firelight throws a long, jagged shadow across the clearing, stretching his form over the ground like a broken angel. His tracksuit hangs open at the chest, still streaked with sweat, having gotten redressed after the consummation. His rings catch the light. His crown is tilted slightly back on his head, curls haloing his face like something Biblical.
The Jimmys emerge behind him—seven masked silhouettes, including Jimmima. Silent. You feel them watching. Waiting.
Only Sir Jimmy speaks.
He lets the silence stretch. Lets Caleb shake. Then raises his arms like wings and speaks in that unholy cadence—the one that splits the air open and makes your knees weak.
“The altar's been made fertile,” he begins. “The seed's been sown. The future's promised.”
Your breath catches. The crowd bows. Jimmy doesn’t look at them. He looks only at you. “But the Devil’s son cannae rise on inheritance alone. The soil’s got tae be fed. The past stripped clean. The vessel unburdened.”
He walks toward the two kneeling men. You don't follow. You stand naked before them, thighs sticky with his cum, pulse hammering beneath your skin like something desperate to escape. But you don't speak. You listen.
“Every mother’s got tae make a choice. Every womb’s got tae choose what it’ll carry.” He smiles now—slow, sharp, and terrible. “One’ll feed the flame. The other’ll watch the dawn.”
He stops just behind the two figures. “On yer left…” he purrs, and gestures to the commune boy, who doesn't flinch. “One of us. Born tae serve. Raised tae kneel. A willin’ offerin’. On yer right…”
He turns to Caleb. A low, amused scoff escapes his mouth. “This one…” he hums, crouching down to grab a handful of Caleb’s hair and jerk his head up, “this one was yer burden. Yer cage. Yer rot.”
You feel your stomach turn. Caleb snarls behind the gag, straining against Jimmy’s grip, but it’s useless. Jimmy leans in.
“Did ye ever tell her,” Jimmy hisses, dragging Caleb’s face up by the jaw, “how ye begged her tae stay when she tried tae leave? How ye called her a fuckin’ whore when she cried after? How ye only touched her when she was too scared tae say no?”
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Jimmy smiles wider. “She screamed for me,” he says, eyes never leaving Caleb’s. “She bled for me. Came so hard on my cock it soaked the altar. And I’ll fuck her raw every night ‘til I’ve pumped her so full o’ seed the whole commune’ll hear it slosh—‘til I’ve filled her wi’ the heir o’ the Devil’s very own son.”
He lets go. Caleb slumps. You’re trembling—not from fear. From the weight of it. From the finality.
Jimmy turns back to you. “You must choose,” he says simply. “The sacrificial angel—or the loyal lamb.”
The crowd chants in rhythm behind you, soft and slow.
Choose. Choose. Choose. Choose.
You look at Caleb. Then the boy. Then Jimmy. Your mouth opens. The word sticks for a moment—lodged between ribs, caught behind tongue—and then slips free, barely audible over the drumbeat of your pulse.
“Caleb.”
The crowd doesn’t cheer. They exhale. A long, solemn release. A confirmation of what they already knew.
You’re still shaking.
Jimmy bows his head. “Thy will be done.” You're taken by the arms—gently, carefully—and led back to the temple’s edge while the Jimmys advance on Caleb. The one in silver removes something from his jacket.
Ropes. Hooks. Something glinting.
They move in perfect unison. The commune boy bows his head in relief. He's spared. Caleb isn’t so lucky. You don't blink as the Jimmys close in.
Caleb flinches. It’s instinct, not bravery—his body jerking backward as if his bones still believe in the possibility of flight. But there’s nowhere to run. The earth holds him down like judgment. His knees sink deeper into the soil as the first masked figure steps forward, face obscured by bleached hair and a stitched together mask repurposed from a suede green adidas trainer. The others move with him, silent and sure, a phalanx of ritual precision. Their feet disturb nothing. Even the fire seems to bow away from them.
Only Jimmy stands apart. Unmasked. Crowned. Watching. You feel the wind shift behind you as the Bone Temple’s great torches are extinguished one by one, leaving only the central pyre to cast light over the clearing. Shadows rise like spirits along the stone arch. The carved wings etched into the altar behind Caleb seem to flicker and pulse, as if something ancient is waking beneath the rock.
You don't weep. You burn. You're still bare. Still sticky. Still ruined in the most holy of ways. The red cord around your hips has loosened, fallen low against your thighs, soaked with sweat and something more. Your knees tremble with every breath, but you don't fall. You stand because Jimmy told you to stand. And you listen now. You obey.
The commune sings something low and wordless. A sound without melody. A thrum that builds in your sternum like dread—or rapture. The boy you spared has been led away, shoulders trembling in what may be relief or guilt or both. He'll never forget your face.
But all your focus is on Caleb.
They strip him fast. Ritual fast. Hands move in tandem. Fabric is cut, not unbuttoned. The gag is torn from his mouth but no words come out, only the sound of his breath—ragged, snarling, afraid. His chest rises and falls in panicked bursts. His wrists remain bound, elbows locked behind him. When they force him to kneel taller, arms tugged unnaturally backward to open up the rib cage, he starts to scream.
Jimmy raises a single hand. And the screaming stops. The Jimmys obey. Everyone obeys. The sound dies like it was snuffed out by the Devil himself.
You watch. Your toes curl into the dirt as Jimmy steps forward at last. Not with the grace of the commune, but with something else—something feral. Something purposeful. His tracksuit clings to his chest, streaked with sweat and blood and soil. He isn't cloaked like the others. He doesn't hide. His crown glints where it sits just askew atop his curls, and the inverted cross on his chest gleams like a dagger between his pectorals.
He flexes his hands as he approaches. The rings crack. They aren't just decorative. You’ve known that for some time now. They're weighty, thick, shaped to hurt. Bone and silver, gold and teeth. He wears one shaped like an angel’s wing. Another like a flame. And another—your favorite—bears the sharp-toothed grin of something not quite human.
He doesn't speak at first. He kneels beside Caleb, who's shaking now. The dirt on his skin has mixed with blood, and he won’t stop jerking—head, shoulders, wrists, breath. Until Jimmy grabs him by the jaw.
The communion begins.
Jimmy doesn't rush it. That's the worst part. He stays crouched in front of Caleb, one hand still cupping his jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge hard enough to make his teeth click. He forces Caleb’s face upward until their eyes lock—until there's nowhere left to look but at the man who is about to unmake him.
“Ye see her?” Jimmy asks quietly.
Caleb’s eyes flick to you despite himself. You don't move. You don't look away. You stand naked and crowned and slick, red cord hanging low at your hips, Jimmy’s work still warm between your thighs. You aren't shaking anymore. Whatever fear once lived in your body has been burned out and replaced with something else—something steadier. Something chosen.
Jimmy hums in approval. “That’s good,” he says. “Ye should look. Angels are made with witnesses.”
He releases Caleb’s jaw. Then he stands. The air shifts with him—pressure dropping, lungs tightening. The commune leans forward as one. You feel it ripple through the clearing like a held breath. Jimmy rolls his shoulders once. Twice. The rings catch the firelight as he flexes his hands again, testing weight, alignment. He steps back just enough to give himself room.
Caleb opens his mouth.
Jimmy hits him before the scream can form.
The sound is wet and catastrophic—bone on metal, flesh giving way beneath force meant to break. Caleb’s head snaps sideways, spit and blood spraying into the dirt. He collapses forward, barely held upright by the bindings wrenching his arms behind him. Jimmy doesn’t stop. He never stops.
The second blow lands lower—ribs—a brutal, arcing swing that caves breath out of Caleb’s chest in a choking wheeze. You hear something crack. Maybe more than one thing. The sound echoes against the stone arch like applause.
Jimmy steps in close.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Each strike is deliberate. Measured. Not frenzy—ceremony. He alternates hands, rings blooming red, knuckles already slick. Caleb sobs now, the sound raw and involuntary, leaking out of him like something he can’t hold in anymore.
Jimmy grabs him by the hair again and yanks his head back. “For the record,” he says conversationally, “this is what us hippies call Charity."
Another punch—straight to the mouth. Teeth clack. Blood pours freely now, dark and fast. “Ye think Charity is soft,” Jimmy continues, voice calm as a priest’s. "Folk always do. They confuse it wi’ mercy. But Charity’s no about sparin’ pain.”
He strikes again. “And it's no about forgiveness.” Again. “It’s about release.”
Caleb’s body sags, muscles failing, knees digging ruts into the soil. His face is already swelling, features losing shape beneath Jimmy’s hands. His breathing has gone thin and hitching, each inhale a gamble.
Jimmy pauses. Just long enough for hope to try to crawl back in. He crouches again, bringing his face level with Caleb’s ruined one, rings dripping. He brushes a thumb beneath Caleb’s eye, smearing blood across his cheekbone like war paint.
“This is where ye let go,” Jimmy murmurs. “This is where ye stop clingin’ tae the lie that ye ever mattered.”
Caleb tries to shake his head. Jimmy straightens. And brings both fists down together. The sound this time is different—deeper, uglier. Something structural gives. Caleb screams at last, the noise ripped straight from his spine, sharp enough to make the commune shudder as one.
You feel it between your legs.
A dark, shameful throb. Jimmy exhales slowly, satisfied. He steps back and nods once.
The Jimmys move in. They don't touch Caleb, not yet. Not with blades. Not with hooks. They only hold him—forcing him upright, spreading his posture wider, pulling his shoulders back until his chest is thrust forward unnaturally, ribs flared and exposed.
Jimmy circles them. Circles him. “Ye see,” Jimmy begins, addressing the crowd now, voice carrying, “The body’s got tae be taught before it’s opened. Pain loosens what pride keeps tight.”
He stops directly in front of you. Looks at you. His rings, his hands, are red to the wrist. “Ye understand,” he says softly.
It isn't a question.
You nod. Jimmy smiles. And turns back to Caleb.
“Good,” he says. ““Then we can get tae work.”
One of the Jimmys steps forward, producing a length of cord—thicker than rope, dark with age. Another produces iron hooks, dull and cruel, clinking softly as they’re laid out beside the fire. The smell of blood has gone copper-thick in the air. Caleb is barely conscious now. His head lolls. His breath rattles. His body has been reduced to something pliable. Something ready.
Jimmy kneels once more and presses his forehead briefly to Caleb’s—a mockery of intimacy.
“Be grateful,” he whispers. “No everyone gets tae become an angel.”
He stands. And nods. The first hook sings when it leaves the fire. It’s not sharp—not in the way knives are sharp. It’s blunt at the curve, heavy, designed to pull rather than pierce. When the masked Jimmy holding it steps forward, the iron hums with heat and old use. You smell it before it touches flesh—scorched metal, blood memory, something ancient.
Caleb makes a sound. Not a word. Not a scream. Just a broken animal noise dragged out of a throat that no longer knows how to form language.
Two Jimmys brace him from either side. They force his chest forward, wrenching his shoulders back until his spine bows and his ribs strain beneath skin already mottled purple and red. Jimmima steps behind him and lifts his chin again—not gently. Fingers dig into bruised flesh, nails pressing hard enough to leave crescent moons.
Jimmy watches, standing just to the side, hands clasped loosely behind his back, crown gleaming, tracksuit darkened with sweat. He looks pious now. Focused. Like a man about to conduct an orchestra.
“Charity,” he says, voice steady, carrying. “It’s the act o’ openin’ what’s been shut. It’s the removin’ o’ burden.”
The hook presses to Caleb’s back. Right between the shoulder blades.
Caleb thrashes. The Jimmys don't let him move. The hook goes in.
There's resistance at first—skin stretching, refusing—and then a wet, tearing give as it breaks through. Blood wells instantly, slick and hot, spilling over the curve of the iron and down Caleb’s spine in rivulets. Caleb screams. This time it doesn’t stop. The sound claws its way out of him, raw and hoarse, echoing off the stones and trees until it feels like the forest itself is screaming back. His body convulses violently, muscles locking and unlocking in panicked bursts.
Jimmy lifts a hand. The screaming continues. He allows it.
“Ye feel that?” Jimmy asks calmly, stepping closer, crouching so his face is level with Caleb’s twisted one. “That’s the moment pride slips out the body.”
Another hook. The second Jimmy steps in from the other side, mirroring the placement. The hook sinks into flesh just below the opposite shoulder blade, tearing through skin and muscle with a sound like fabric ripping apart. Caleb’s scream fractures into sobs. Blood pours freely now, soaking his lower back, splattering the dirt beneath him. The earth drinks greedily.
You smell iron. Smoke. Something sweet and wrong. Your thighs tense. Your belly tightens.
Jimmy stands. "Hooks arenae punishment,” he says, addressing the crowd as the Jimmys begin to pull—slowly, carefully—testing tension. “They’re invitations. They ask the body tae let go.”
The pull begins. Caleb arches involuntarily as the hooks are drawn back, stretching the skin between them until it shines. His spine bows, ribs flaring grotesquely. You hear wet tearing as muscle fibers give way under strain. He sobs. Chokes. Begins to plead.
Jimmy ignores the words.
“They always beg here,” he continues, voice smooth. “They mix up fear wi’ repentance.”
The Jimmys pull harder. Skin splits further. A deep, ragged line opens down Caleb’s back, blood spilling in sheets now, steaming in the cool night air. You can see muscle beneath—red and striated, shuddering with each tortured breath. Caleb’s head lolls back.
Jimmy steps in close and grips his jaw again, forcing eye contact. “Stay wi' me,” Jimmy murmurs. “Angels donnae look away.”
The Jimmys reposition the hooks, anchoring them higher now, pulling outward and upward. The sound that comes from Caleb’s body is indescribable—a tearing, sucking noise as flesh separates from bone.
His back begins to open.
Not cleanly. Nothing about this is clean. Skin peels back in uneven flaps, muscle ripping free in wet strands. Blood sprays with each movement, splattering the masked faces of the Jimmys, dotting Jimmy’s chest, streaking across your calves where you stand.
Jimmy steps back and raises both hands. “Behold,” he intones, voice ringing, “The body, given over. The burden, unfastened.”
The Jimmys pull.
Hard.
The skin tears fully now, splitting from spine outward, exposing ribs slick with blood. White gleams through red. The back is no longer a back—it's something opened, something transformed into an offering. Caleb’s scream breaks mid-note. His body jerks violently once. Twice. Then dissolves into shuddering, gasping inhales that barely move air.
Jimmy watches his face. Watches his eyes. “They always go quiet here,” he says softly. “That’s when the soul starts tae listen.”
One of the Jimmys steps forward with a blade. Not sharp. Wide. Heavy. Designed to separate.
Jimmy takes it from him. He tests the heft once. Then presses the edge to Caleb’s ribs.
Caleb convulses. Jimmy leans in close, mouth near Caleb’s ear. “This is Charity,” he whispers. “An' ye're about tae be set free.”
The blade goes in.
The first crack sounds like a branch breaking underfoot. Jimmy’s blade presses into the curve of Caleb’s rib, just below the spine. He uses the flat of his palm to drive it deeper—not sawing, not slicing, just separating, forcing space where there's none. The bone gives reluctantly, audibly, a deep groan followed by the sharp pop of a joint unseating. Caleb spasms. He’s long past words now. His throat only produces noise—ragged, strangled, punctuated by breathless hiccups of pain. His face is a mask of blood and snot, his eyes blown wide and unfocused. His skin gleams slick in the firelight, every inch of him trembling.
Jimmy shifts position, working the blade beneath the next rib. “Ye know,” he says calmly, conversational, “The first angel was made when Cain struck Abel. That’s when the world split. One soul made holy. One made whole.”
He twists the blade. Another crack. Another rib separates. Caleb jerks like a puppet with cut strings. The Jimmys hold him steady, murmuring low chants you barely hear—something guttural, syllables from a language that may have never existed outside this place. Blood spills over their hands, coats the hooks, drips in steady rhythm into the dirt.
Jimmy continues. Patient. Steady. Methodical. Rib by rib, he opens Caleb’s back like a cabinet, like a book, like a confession. Each break is brutal—some needing extra leverage, others snapping easier than they should. The lungs begin to show beneath the shattered cage, pale and twitching.
You can’t look away. You’re breathing hard now, chest tight, thighs clenching instinctively with each new fracture. Blood has begun to pool around Caleb’s knees. His heart is still beating. You can see it—fluttering erratically beneath torn muscle and split flesh.
Jimmy wipes sweat from his brow with the back of one bloodied hand. Then reaches in. No gloves. No hesitation. He slides his fingers beneath the lungs like a butcher. Careful. Glorifying. And begins to lift.
The lungs come up slowly, squelching and slick. They glisten like raw meat, still pulsing weakly, still trying to pull air despite the ruin around them. Blood spills in thick ropes over Jimmy’s wrists. He sets them gently—deliberately—atop the spread ribs, arranging them like wings.
The clearing goes still. Dead still. Even the fire seems to hold its breath. You feel it first in your spine—a crawling, cold sensation that prickles every nerve. Then in your chest—a thud, a skip, a stillness.
Then Jimmy speaks.
“This,” he says, standing behind Caleb’s mangled body, hands soaked, crown shining, spreading his own arms wide, “is the makin' o' angels.”
Behind him, Caleb’s broken body mimics the gesture—chest torn open, ribs flared, lungs splayed. A grotesque mirror. An angelic silhouette. The crowd begins to chant again. Not choose this time. Something else. Said with familiarity. History.
“He flies. He flies. He flies.”
You’re shaking. Not in fear. In awe. In heat. In understanding.
Jimmy steps away from the corpse. It no longer resembles Caleb. It no longer resembles a man.
It resembles a sacrifice.
You feel your pulse in your fingertips. In your throat. Between your legs. Your womb clenches, as if stirred by the ritual itself. As if something inside you heard the call and answered.
Jimmy turns to you. He's soaked. Gleaming. Beatific in the most horrifying way. And he smiles. Not the predator’s grin. Not the smug curl. But something holy.
He walks toward you slowly. You don't move. When he reaches you, he lifts one hand and cups your jaw. His thumb traces your cheekbone, leaving a streak of Caleb’s blood across your skin like a benediction. Then he lowers his hand and places it on your belly. Right over your womb.
“Now,” he says, voice like thunder behind silk, “we rise.”
You exhale.
The wings are spread. The angel is made. And so are you.
But the altar doesn't cool. Even long after the ritual ends, even after Caleb’s lungs cease their twitching and the chanting has faded into dogmatic hums, the air remains heavy and hot—thick with blood and breath and something older, something coiled in the belly of the land.
You stand in it.
Jimmy’s hand hasn't left your womb. The crown tilts gently on his curls. Blood paints him to the elbows. His chest rises and falls with steady rhythm, and there's something in his eyes now—not possession, not hunger, but certainty.
The angel's been made.
Now it’s time to name the mother.
A Jimmy steps forward, masked in a stitched blue suede and an orange and purple tracksuit. She holds something wrapped in crimson cloth. She doesn't speak. None of them do. Not now. Not during this part. Sir Jimmy takes the bundle from the Jimmy’s hands and peels the cloth away with slow, careful fingers.
Inside is a crown. Not of flowers this time. This one is wilder. Twisted from vine and ashwood. Adorned with small bone—finger bones, bird bones, delicate spines—all bleached white and woven into the shape of petals. Wildflowers are threaded between them, wilting slightly from the heat, still fragrant. The scent of lavender and blood.
He lifts it in both hands and turns back to you. His voice, when he speaks, carries through the glade like a wind through hollow places:
“She chose.”
The commune murmurs in response. Kneeling figures bow their heads as one. Some touch their foreheads to the earth. Others sway where they sit, hands pressed to their hearts or their bellies or the stone.
“She bled. She bloomed. She believed.”
Jimmy steps close again, bare feet silent in the dirt. The crown in his hands is sacred, trembling slightly with the weight of it. Or perhaps with the weight of you. “She was made sacred by pain. Chosen in flame. Bound in blood.”
He sets the crown upon your head. “And now she is Mother o' the Future.”
The commune rises. All of them—hundreds, maybe more—their bodies a sea of movement, their voices one seamless wave:
“Mother. Mother. Mother.”
Your breath catches. The bones press cold into your scalp. The flowers are still damp from the cloth. You smell death and soil and sweetness. You feel Jimmy’s hands on either side of your face, cradling your jaw like something fragile, like something holy.
He presses his forehead to yours.
And then, for the first time, he kneels. Before you. Head bowed. Arms lifted like wings.
The commune follows. Every Jimmy. Every member. Every voice. All of them on their knees, heads bowed before the woman made altar.
You aren't trembling. You're burning. You're the flame that doesn’t consume.
You're held in bloom.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The celebration begins slowly. Not with drums or dancing. With feasting. Communal plates are passed. Sweet mead. Fresh bread. Roasted root vegetables, honeyed fruit, wild things turned tender over fire. It isn't raucous. It isn't loud. There's laughter, yes—soft, stunned, grateful—but the tone remains worshipful.
Children bring you water. Women braid your hair. Men weep openly at your feet. You're touched, but not inappropriately. Not lustfully. You're untouchable now. You're theirs, yes—but not to claim. You're the mother of what comes next. And nothing is more sacred.
You don’t remember sitting down, but you're seated beside Jimmy now, on a stone shaped like a throne. He drinks from your cup and places it back in your hand. He tears bread for you and presses it gently to your lips.
You eat. You swallow. You're fed.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The body is gone by morning.
Caleb, that is.
The angel he became isn't. His wings remain. Not the lungs—they would decay too fast. But the ribs, the bones—they're charred, cleaned, bleached, rearranged. By the time the sun rises, they’ve been reshaped into a new arch beside the altar.
The commune calls it The First Flight.
You don't speak of him. Not anymore. There's no need.
Later—days, maybe, or moons—the sickness comes. Not a bad sickness. Not the way your mother meant it when she used to spit the word in warning. No. This is the sickness of becoming. Of quickening.
The scent of the fire no longer clings to your skin. It emanates from within. Your hips ache. Your chest tightens. Your stomach curls around something new.
Jimmy knows before you do. He touches your belly with both hands, presses his lips there like prayer. When you tell him you’ve missed your bleeding, he only smiles.
“I know.”
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
It isn't a goodbye. There is no leaving.
You forget the sound of traffic. You forget the shape of your apartment key. Your phone is buried in the woods somewhere, split in half, its battery drained.
Your name is no longer yours. You're only Mother now. Some days, Jimmy calls you Wife. Other days, Sacrament. Once, when you were naked in the river and he watched you with that smile he only wears in twilight, he whispered, “My cathedral.”
You felt it bloom then—that heat. That seed. That legacy.
You're never alone anymore. Not even in your sleep. Not even in your blood. He's with you. And inside you. And around you.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
They ask what you'll name the child.
You don't answer. You don’t have to. She already has a name.
You feel it like a heartbeat.
And when the time comes to give birth—beneath a harvest moon, the commune circled close, Jimmy holding your hand with blood still on his knuckles—you scream not in pain, but in purpose.
And when you're crowned once more, it isn't with bone or flower.
i've tasted love and it tasted sweet (god's country) • jud duplenticy
pairing: father jud duplenticy x f!housekeeper!reader
series synopsis: after monsignor wicks’ mess, the church gets popular real fast. you assumed this housekeeping job would be easy enough, but nobody thought to tell you about the hot priest on site.
content: nsfw, 18+ minors dni, wake up dead man spoilers, he's in love your honour, religious guilt, jud justifying why he needs to fuck reader nasty style, two freaks obsessed with each other, corruption but he's really okay with it so probably ooc jud, lust in the house of god, making out, jud's a big big kisser, dry humping, oral f!receiving, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, a hint of cockwarming, religion kink, college grad reader (not mentioned but implied in the series)
notes: hiiii everybody! thanks for being so patient with me, and for the love and support xoxo this is the final part, and i'm honestly blown away by the response. it's been so much fun, and i really enjoyed gettiing to write again even tho i didn't really have a plan for this series. apologies for any mistakes, it's 5am here T-T hope this chapter was worth the wait <3
disclaimer again that i respect all religions and this is entirely a work of fiction and i do apologise if i get anything wrong as i am not religious myself!
word count: 7.8k
read part one, two and three of 《 god’s country 》 here!
masterlist
as always, this is an 18+ blog, minors dni!
there’s a storm brewing in the distance when you pull up to the church for the start of your shift.
the morning starts downcast, and any hopes of the clouds breaking fizzle out by midday when you have to turn on all the lights in the main building just to avoid tripping over your feet, and not because it gets a little spooky when it’s dark.
it’s just as well that the ominous rumbling steadily closing in mirrors your sour mood.
jud’s avoiding you, and you just know it’s because you totally made him uncomfortable by coming on to him in the garage like that. it makes your heart twist in your chest to think that you fucked up so bad he thinks he has to hide.
the worst part is, you wouldn’t even have noticed, because even when he’s trying to avoid you, it’s in such a jud way. still too kind, too sparing of your feelings.
he still asks about your day, and nods periodically to let you know he’s listening, like always — nothing out of the ordinary.
until a lull in the conversation leads to you looking at him for a sustained five seconds. then he’s stammering a half-assed reason on why he has to leave, hightailing it out the door with the tips of his ears bright red.
but you could chalk that up to jud being in a rush yet still making time for you, even with so much on his plate. besides, he’d listened so attentively despite being unable to meet your eyes. surely, he was just busy.
he’s missing at lunch. the kitchen in the rectory is empty when you get inside, even though he’s always made it a point to align his schedule with yours. you find the note he leaves, stuck to the fridge door with a sacred heart magnet — rain check on lunch? duty calls :)
but why would jud lie? he’s never had a reason to, so it’s easy enough to tell yourself it’s fine. the first time, at least.
the next time gives you pause. jud has cleared out from the nave with suspicious efficiency before you can arrive to tidy up. the place is spotless, not even a crumb of communion on the altar. maybe you’re later than you realised, and he’d just cleaned up while waiting? but a glance at the time easily shoots down the flimsy attempt at rationalisation. you spend the rest of the day overanalysing every interaction you’ve had with jud, and it always ends up in the damned garage and your hand on his arm.
it’s really only by the end of today, when you’re on your way out, that these barely-formed suspicions are confirmed and transformed into a full-blown, gut-twisting guilt.
the sky is a grim shade of grey that bleeds into everything else. the rain gets heavier as soon as you step outside, threatening to soak into your socks — the least of your problems.
you’ve just gotten to your car, distracted by another day without jud offering to walk you out. as you stand there, fishing through your bag for your keys, there’s a flash of movement — slow and dark, just out of the corner of your eye.
instinctively, your head tips back to look. raindrops pelt at your cheeks, even with the church-loaned umbrella (jud’s) as you follow the blur all the way up to jud’s attic room. there, in the miniature stained glass window, is the face of none other than the father in question.
it’s dark enough that you need to squint, and the relentless sheet of rain is like static in your vision, but even with only the dim lamplight emitting from his room, jud is unmistakable.
on a good day, just seeing the shape of his back makes your heart stutter in your chest. finally catching a glimpse after two whole days of missing him sends a jolt down your spine, a feeling so palpable it makes you freeze in place as you stare, lips parted on an inhale.
the window obscures half of jud’s face, but what you can see — pinched brows, lips downturned as he worries it between his teeth.
his blue-green eyes look almost black from where you’re standing, and while the shadows cutting across his scruffy jaw make him look more stern than you’ve ever seen him, he doesn’t look angry.
no, you realise as he drags a hand over his mouth. he’s thinking. you know that pensive look, how his eyes tend to narrow and the creases in his forehead deepen as he gets further lost in thought.
that should make you feel better, knowing that jud’s not glaring through his bedroom window as you drive off.
you watch him watch you, and the weight in your chest pulls tight when something in his eyes shifts. the whites of his eyes become visible when they widen, comically large. even though you can’t hear it from the ground, you can make out the beginnings of his startled “oh, shit” just as he stumbles back from the window.
whatever bubble of relief you’d felt pops, right then and there. his silhouette gone entirely. the guilt and shame returns tenfold, making a home in the pit of your belly.
you don’t stay much longer after that.
—
he could’ve asked you to stay.
fuck. he should’ve asked you to stay.
the television in the living room is alive with the ongoing report on the storm landing in the area. jud has to turn up the volume just to hear past the drum of rain.
his cheeks had still been flushed from his blunder upstairs when he made it to the front steps, barely catching your taillights as you pulled off the property into the dark. he had half the mind to chase after you, on his bike and everything, but a window slamming shut somewhere in the house had jolted him back to reality.
he’s still dripping from when he’d rushed through the woods to close up the church, but the small puddle forming on the rug is inconsequential when it really dawns on him that you shouldn’t be driving in this weather.
a pang of frustration flares in jud’s chest — where did this storm even come from, anyway? if not for the torrential downpour, he might’ve been able to stop you before you drove off. then he could’ve apologised for gawking at you through the window like a creep.
but jud knows he’s not really pissed off at the rain. if he were you, he too would drive far, far away from the pervert priest who looks up your skirt and stares at you through windows.
jud buries his face in his hands as a wave of dizziness hits him with how tight his gut twists at the memory of it. he wrenches his mind away from anything relating to you since he’s proven to himself he cannot be trusted with it.
so he decides to keep busy, roaming through the house to triple check the windows and doors, before the paradoxical shame of his lack of it can make him keel over on the spot.
—
he’s only just slipped a dry shirt over his head when the knock comes.
three taps, and then silence. it’s a little eerie, and jud knows better than to let his imagination run wild, but he swears he’s seen a horror movie exactly like this.
the compassionate side of his brain outweighs the caution because what if it’s someone who got turned around in the woods, or someone hurt?
jud’s pulling the door open before he can think to brace himself for an axe-wielding killer.
he should’ve braced a little though, because the sight of you there on his doorstep — soaked to the bone with your wet hair plastered to your face — actually punches the air out of his lungs.
“i’m sorry,” your voice cracks, shoulders caving from the weight of your wet clothes. “i know you’re mad at me and you have every right but my- my car broke down and there’s a tree in the road and i didn’t know where else to go—“
jud can practically hear his heart shatter from the shakiness of your voice. your chin wobbles, and when he looks past your shoulder, he hopes against all hopes that your car will somehow manifest into existence because he can’t bear the thought of you walking through this storm. all the while he’d been safe and in warm shelter, standing there like an idiot debating whether to call you.
“jesus,” jud sucks in a breath through his teeth when you visibly shiver. “c’mere.”
he draws you into his chest with an arm hooked over your shoulder. doesn’t care that his fresh set of clothes are getting wet. his other arm winds around your waist, effectively locking you against him.
the relief is instant, the way you melt into his warmth. your cheek is pressed to his sternum — you can hear his heartbeat like this.
his long fingers stroke over the curve of your shoulder, as he speaks, lips just barely brushing over your hairline. “‘m not mad,” he murmurs, “could never be mad at you, angel.”
jud is almost bewildered by how you’d think that, but he finds himself reduced to the base instinct of needing desperately to make you feel better.
your head lifts, glassy eyes searching his, and when you find no deceit — that he’s not just lying for your benefit — your face crumples, because you simply don’t deserve him.
“hey,” jud’s voice is soft, and he has to try really hard to not smile at how you feel in his arms considering your tears are falling freely now. one hand comes to cradle your cheek, catching the tears in their tracks.
you sniffle, momentarily distracted by how his hand covers the entire side of your face. “are you sure you’re not mad? you’re not just saying that?”
jud can’t stop the soft laugh that escapes his chest. “promise i’m not mad,” he shakes his head, smiling to himself because he’s the farthest thing from it. “we can talk about that later, okay? let’s get you warm first.”
and part of you is still unconvinced, because he’s confirmed there is something to talk about. but he leads you up the stairs with his hand in yours, and he doesn’t let go, even as you come to a stop in front of his room.
you don’t have time to hesitate, nor do you even need to glance up at jud for his assent before he pulls you over the threshold, and there it is.
you don’t even bother trying to hide how you look around, taking in the space entirely his. the coat rack with a single coat, the empty duffle shoved underneath it, the pictures he’s stuck on the wall next to his bed.
you come to a stop in the centre of his room — sitting on his bed feels… overzealous.
jud’s eyes squint when he gives you a reassuring smile before he turns, letting you snoop in peace as he rifles through the small wardrobe.
it hits you then you’ve never actually seen jud in… normal clothes. the all-black is nice — you’d be the last to argue it isn’t — but something about the way his t-shirt sleeves pull tight across shoulders, and how the thin grey fabric does so little to hide the rippling of his back. his sweats hanging low on his hips, drawstring lopsided — it’s the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him.
he turns back to you with a stack of clothes in his hand and a towel in the other.
“i hope you don’t mind,” jud says, and he knows he could probably dig up something better fitting in the church basement, something that doesn’t belong solely to him, but, alas, the rain.
you shake your head, eyes still wide from trying to take everything in, like this is the last time you’ll be in this room. you’re glad he doesn’t know just how much you don’t mind.
“thank you, jud,” you tell him, moving to take the stack of fabric from him. your fingers brush his, and when you look up, his eyes are already on you. the intensity nearly makes you flinch, fingers tightening around the clothes just as he blinks quickly, jerking his hands back.
“sorry- i’ll, uh, i’ll be downstairs,” jud stutters, and nearly bumps into the doorframe in his haste to leave, cheeks dusted in a familiar shade of pink.
you’re left alone in his room with a stack of his clothes in hand, and the thought that maybe you should’ve just stayed in your car. but he’d held you against him so easily, and it had felt so right to be cradled against his chest.
his hand on yours, big and warm as he pulled you through the halls of his home, as if you didn’t know the place inside and out already.
and now you’re about to strip down and put on his clothes, in his room. and you know it’s wrong, so wrong, but you send up a thanks to god for the storm.
—
jud busies himself in the kitchen, working on autopilot as he flicks on the kettle and prepares your tea the way he remembers you like it.
he’s standing there, watching the water boil when the soft padding of footsteps come up behind him. you’re still blotting your hair dry with the towel, but you’re mostly dried and your cheeks have been washed of the mascara tracks.
now that jud knows you’re safe and sound, he should be relieved, but standing there, with a mug in hand, he feels as if he’s walked right into a trap of his own making.
you, in his clothes, nearly fells father jud.
god, and he’d hand-picked the clothes too — his old sleep shirt, worn thin from use and gingham boxers. the sleeves fall nearly to your elbows, and the collar’s long been stretched loose, revealing the dip where your neck meets your shoulder.
he should be better than this. jud curses whatever remnant caveman dna is making his mind go blank at the idea of you wearing him, smelling like him-
“tea?” jud chokes out, holding the mug out in a last-ditch effort of keeping himself from you at arms length.
mercifully, and to his disappointment, you take it from him – this time without your hands touching. he catches the edges of a smile across the steam billowing in front of your face, and when you turn towards the den, he’s following like a dog with a bone.
you settle on one end of the couch, and jud tucks his large frame into the other end, pointedly leaving a respectable gap between his leg and your bare one. jud doesn’t let himself linger on the sight of your soft skin, just curls his fingers into the fabric of his sweats and waits, because by now he knows it’s not a matter of if, but when.
your nail absentmindedly traces the lip of your mug. you pretend to watch the news for a little, trying to remember the words you’d practiced in the car, but with every shift in his seat, your attention flickers over to jud.
he perks up when your throat finally clears, and you set the mug down on the coffee table. he follows your every move, in the hopes he can get a better sense of what you’re thinking.
you twist to face him directly, leg bending as you scoot just the slightest bit closer in the guise of settling in. jud mirrors you, leaning his side into the couch as his arm come up to rest along the back. bridging the distance, yet still so far away.
“jud,” you start, and it feels a little pathetic how he wants to sigh at the sound of his name from your lips.
“i should apologise. i know you’ve been avoiding me–” you shoot him a look when his face scrunches, sheepish as his mouth opens to protest. “– i know you have, and i know why.”
jud’s heart drops to the depths of hell. do you know? did you overhear him in his bedroom that day? his face pales, mortified at the notion that you’ve been forced to work in proximity with your utterly corrupt priest every day since.
“you do?” jud’s voice is weak, dread filling his lungs.
“it was so wrong of me to corner you in the garage like that!” you blurt, hands coming up to cover your face, “-especially after you helped me with the ladder, and said all those kind things about me. i’m so sorry, jud, i was being completely inappropriate.”
jud’s mouth falls open, and the repenting on the tip of his tongue dissolves into thin air. his head tilts, eyes narrowing only slightly as your words sink in.
you’re frowning, hands wrung in your lap as your gaze fixes on his shirt, all too self-conscious to look him square in the face after naming the elephant in the room. all the while you’re none the wiser to the hiccuping delight spreading in jud’s gut because he thinks you might be the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.
this whole time, you’ve been worried you were inappropriate?
if only to assuage your guilt, he has the sudden urge to tell you the reason he’d had to avoid you in the kitchen every day was because all he could think of in there was pressing you against the counter and kissing you stupid. among other things.
like how he couldn’t be in the nave alone with you because it would’ve felt too raw, like picking at a fresh wound for him to be thinking of you in all the ways he shouldn’t under the watchful eye of christ on the cross.
jud worried it would’ve felt more sinful to deny these thoughts in front of him. because if the lord had put you in his path, not as a test, but as a blessing, would it be worse to turn away from the gift, than into it?
jud catches himself before he can lay it all out, even thought he knows he should. the only way out is through, this much he knows. it’s only his luck that his way out is staring up at him with watery eyes and a pink, guilt-ridden pout.
“it’s okay,” jud soothes, low and gentle like approaching a wounded animal.
your head shakes, sniffling as you protest, “it’s not okay. you’re a priest, i should know better, and- and this is your home! if i’m making you uncomfortable you have every right to fire me, or-“
“woah, hey,” jud can’t help it, he shifts closer down the length of the couch, hands coming over yours as they wave frantically through your spiral. “i’m not going to fire you. take a breath with me, c’mon.”
you follow as jud’s chest expands on a deep inhale. on the exhale, the weight of his hands on yours hits you, and your fingers curl tighter into him.
“that’s good,” he smiles, “listen to me for a second, okay?”
when you nod, albeit reluctantly, he sweeps a thumb over your knuckles in reward.
“i’m not mad,” jud tells you, with all the certainty in the world. your shoulders drop a little as relief starts to take hold.
“you didn’t make me… uncomfortable, either.” jud shakes his head. quite the opposite, he thinks, and feels his ears burn in consequence. he tries to conjure the right word for what exactly you made him feel — everything comes up too simple. no single word to explain how he’s been kept up for nights on end because he can’t stop replaying every conversation he’s had with you. how can just one word describe the devout, pathetically hopeful way he scans the pews at every service, hoping to see your face among the rest, even when he knows he won’t?
jud’s always considered himself a man of faith. faith in himself to pull himself out of the ring, all blood and teeth and gore; faith in the lord to embrace him when he least deserves it. and now, with your hand in his, he believes in his very core that the decision he’s making is the right one.
“i should be the one apologising.”
your brows furrow as your expression quickly grows puzzled. you can’t imagine he’s done anything to you to warrant an apology.
“i haven’t been honest,” jud’s voice is uncharacteristically small, and you lean in to hear him better because god forbid you miss a single word. your fingers squeeze his, as though urging him to spill his deepest secrets. if you asked, he would.
“about what?”
the question lands like a punch. jud knows how to take one, but this one feels like there’s no getting back up from it.
your heart is hammering hard and fast in your chest. a hopeful thread begins to unfurl somewhere deep, and the rational part of your brain that screams to not get ahead of yourself, to expect disappointment, is smothered by jud’s thigh bumping into yours. when had you gotten so close?
jud’s chin dips, steeling himself with a breath as the last vestiges of sense lose its grip on him.
“since the day i met you, i’ve been lying through my teeth,” truth pours from him, and he feels himself getting lighter with every word that escapes.
“to you, and to myself. and i’m tired,” jud laughs quietly, because damn, does it feel good to finally breathe his feelings to life.
you’re only slightly concerned, just for a moment, that he could be building to something bad, because it sounds bad. but then—
“i’m tired of pretending i’m not in love with you.”
your ears ring with the confession. love, love, love. jud is in love. jud is in love with you. your head swims as his face softens, lines smoothed in relief. he sits a little taller, filling out his end of the couch as the weight visibly leaves his shoulders.
it’s only when one moment passes into another, and you’re still rooted to your spot, eyes wide and darting all over his face that he begins to feel a little worry.
his hand drags against yours, half like he’s trying to snap you out of it and a little too much like he’s pulling back. both your hands fly to keep him where he is, cradled in your lap.
his eyes flicker up to your face, where you’ve thawed and your mouth is moving with barely-formed sentences.
“you- this whole time? when did- are you-” you stumble over the words, and jud lets you with an perpetual fondness that he’s only now freely letting show.
“are you sure?” you manage, searching for any hesitation in the man sitting before you, knee tucked against yours, letting you take his hand hostage.
jud’s face brightens in a grin, laughing like it’s the easiest question in the world. “yes, i’m sure.”
the corners of your lips droop, unable to stop the doubt from creeping in, even with how quick he’d been to answer. and you really don’t want to ask, afraid to pop the lovesick bubble you’ve found yourself in, but no part of you wants jud to suffer in the face of your actions.
“what about…” your hand waves weakly towards the ceiling.
before he can think better of it, jud’s arm resting on the back of the couch lifts, coming to cup your cheek instead. makes it so you can’t look away when he sighs your name, soft around the edges.
“the lord knows what i feel,” jud tells you, voice hushed but firm with certainty. it reminds you of when he’s up in the pulpit, speaking with gentle conviction. “i’ve asked for signs, for guidance, and every single time, there you are.”
you worry your lip as the possibilities bounce around your head. he could be defrocked, excommunicated, shunned from the community he’s spent so long cultivating. everything he has, put on the line for you.
but he doesn’t seem worried, not the way you are. he looks at you with the peace of a man who’s made up his mind, regardless of the consequences.
like he can read your mind, he lowers his face, all that much closer to yours, and murmurs, “whatever happens to me, it’ll have been worth it.”
nobody could blame you for surrendering. not when the pad of his thumb pulls at your bottom lip, smoothing over the indents left by your teeth. his forehead presses to yours, slow, like you might bolt if he moves any faster.
“i don’t want you to regret this,” you whisper. to regret me.
jud’s head shakes — the barest turn of his face that nudges his nose against yours. you shudder on an inhale as his breath warms your lips.
the last thing you see is jud’s lashes fluttering as his eyes shut, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he speaks. “never going to happen.”
your lips quirk on the ghost of a laugh. for a moment, neither of you move. the house is still, and even the rain seems to have calmed, if only to hear the shared breaths in the space between waiting lips.
you’ll never be able to tell who closed the gap, but does it really matter, when jud’s mouth is finally on yours? his lips press into yours softly, as if he’s scared of getting it wrong. just a little self-conscious, because he’s more than a little out of practice.
but you’re moving with him, falling into it — easy as breathing. that’s all he needs. he kisses you like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. pulling you in with a hand on the side of your neck, your pulse jumps under his digits with every slot of his lips between yours.
your hands lift from your lap, finding a new home in jud’s hair. fingers curling against his scalp, his mouth opens against you with a groan. to his utter delight, you waste no time in licking into his open mouth, tongue sliding against his as you shuffle closer.
braced on your knee, you lean over jud like this, and he’s quick to grab you by the waist to haul you into his lap. he doesn’t even bother with the pretense of pulling away — not when you’re practically melting into him, lips soft and wet and tasting like a fucking dream. jud’s dignity disintegrated the second he saw you in his clothes, and now he’s greedy, tugging at you like he can’t get enough.
“jud,” you sigh, settling your weight comfortably atop his strong thighs. his lips chase yours, and he manages to sneak two kisses before you’re parting again. blue eyes blink open at the lack of you, but when he’s met with the sight of you atop him, panting and lips swollen, his mind goes blank.
“say it again,” your request follows your fingers lacing at the nape of his neck. jud looks up at you, eyes glazed and blinking slow. his answering smile is content, and just a little too pleased.
“‘m in love with you.” jud murmurs, and before he can finish his sentence, you’re descending upon him again.
his own hands draw a lazy path up and down your sides, less frantic than he had been just moments ago. he wonders briefly if this is a dream, because it wouldn’t be the first time. he kisses you slow and deep, memorising the taste of you just in case it is. jud thinks he could do this forever.
your hips shift just so, and the flimsy boxers do little to disguise the growing hardness beneath you. you feel more than hear jud’s sharp inhale, the sound adding to the heat stirring in your core. his fingers grip at your hips, locking you firmly in place so he can grind up. his head is thrown back, a shameful moan tearing from his throat as his semi nudges at you through the layers of fabric.
“shit-” jud’s voice cracks when you offer one in return, hips drawing slow circles if only to coax more of those sounds out of him. the seam of your boxers nudges at your clit when you drag yourself along his length just right, and you’re whimpering into his ear as you lower your chest to his.
“jud,” you pant, unabashedly riding your priest through his clothes. he chokes back a sigh at the breathy sigh of his name, and slips his fingers up the back of your shirt.
“you’re sure about this?” you ask again, dizzy with the effort it takes to form a coherent sentence as your inner thighs grow sticky.
jud nearly whines, a huff of exasperation as his hardened cock juts into your thigh. “yes,” his big hands span the length of your spine, and you actually feel him twitch when he realises you’re not wearing a bra under his shirt. “you don’t feel how sure i am?”
your eyes roll, capturing his lips with yours once more. when you part, jud’s eyes sober for a moment as he catches your chin, and asks earnestly, “do you want this?”
your fingers play with his hair at the nape of his neck as you pretend to mull it over. jud’s face scrunches at your exaggerated expressions, because if he still can’t tell, then you’ll just have to show him. you tell him as much, pecking him once. “i want you, jud.”
the smile that breaks across jud’s face is like the sun. he carries you up the stairs, and you have to hide the way the easy display of strength has your cheeks heating.
jud’s bedroom door is kicked open, just as your lips latch onto his neck, tracing the tattoo with your tongue the way you’ve always wanted. his grip on you tightens, digging into the backs of your thighs when he feels the light drag of teeth against the sensitive skin.
you finally get to see the tattoo in its entirety, now that jud’s out of his clerical collar. the cherub and its devil counterpart, serendipity inked underneath. jud shivers when you make a happy sort of hum, because serendipity is exactly it. moving back home, taking the job nobody else wanted — it all led you here, straight through those church doors and into jud’s arms.
something possessive swirls in your heart when you’re struck by the desire to leave your mark alongside the permanent. lips sealing just under the angel, you suck at his neck until he whines, or bruises — whichever happens first.
you hadn’t noticed when jud lowered you onto his bed. it smells like him, clean and soft with the mingling of his soap and the old spice deodorant sitting on the nightstand. you shuffle back to give jud space, but the man lowers onto his knees. you’re rendered speechless at the sight of him knelt between your thighs.
“will you let me make you feel good?” jud all but whispers, cheek pressed to the inside of your knee. his pupils have taken over the pretty blue-greens you so love, reverent gaze entirely darkened as he peers up, faltering at your covered core. it makes you clench around nothing, watching him try to drag his eyes up to yours only to flicker back down.
“please.” it comes out a little desperate, and when jud doesn’t move, you think for a split second to be embarrassed. until his entire chest heaves with a deep moan, and presses his face into the inside of your thigh. he leaves a lingering kiss there, murmuring under his breath — thank you, thank you, thank you.
his hands slide up your legs, smiling at the gooseflesh that follows. he finds your eyes, glassy and hopeful, when his fingers tug at the leg of your boxers. “can i take these off?”
your hips lift in response, and he muffles a grateful chuckle that sends heat to your face. “always so helpful,” he hums. the fabric is tossed somewhere behind him, and your head goes fuzzy with anticipation. jud’s warm breaths fan over your core, entranced.
his head dips, and then his mouth is on you. glides his tongue up your folds, and jud thinks he’s died and gone to heaven because you taste better than he ever dreamed. tells you exactly that with his brows pulled tight, muffled by how he can’t seem to drag himself away from your weeping pussy.
he suckles at your clit, and smiles to himself when your hips lift off the bed. any worries of his inexperience quashed as your heavy breaths delve into drawn-out keening. jud eats at you like a man starved, drawing out more of your slick and those pretty moans.
“s’fucking sweet,” he’s practically purring into your pussy, vibrations shooting up your spine when he groans at the feel of your fingers winding through his hair and tugging.
“fuck,” you choke on a moan when that familiar heat begins to stir in your tummy. your head lifts to say something, anything to warn him, but whatever words on the tip of your tug die on a gasp when the tip of jud’s finger sinks inside and curls.
the cry of his name is cracked and utterly broken.
“there?”
you can practically hear the cheeky smirk in his voice and nudge him admonishingly with your knee. he does it again, and your walls clamping down around him is answer enough.
jud doesn’t even need to look to know there’s a growing wet patch on the front of his sweats. it feels so fucking right to be exactly on his knees for you, drinking you in — not even god could drag him away now.
“jud, i think ‘m gonna-”
he pulls away only long enough to say, “let me have it, honey.” he leaves a sweet kiss at your hipbone, mouth shining in the dim lamplight. “please cum for me.”
when you do, you can barely tell apart the rain outside from the rushing in your ears. jud clutches at your hips when your back arches, instinctively trying to move away from the source of your blinding pleasure but he doesn’t let up. lapping at your release with a grateful sigh, he rides you through your high until you’re tugging his head away with your nails in his scalp.
jud looks entirely pussydrunk — dazed eyes, hair mussed, mouth and chin glistening with you and those signature red-tipped ears. his tongue darts out, tasting the remnants of you and wanting more.
“was that- did i do okay?”
you watch, bewildered, as jud rubs at the back of his neck — the same man that had you clawing at his sheets. your hands cover your face, because you can’t stop the giggle bubbling in your chest.
“i’ll take that as a compliment,” jud pulls your hands away with a grin, and face-to-face again, suddenly you’re shy. cheeks blazing, you pull his face to yours and kiss him hard, if only so he doesn’t get the chance to tease you.
you can taste yourself on him, licking into his mouth for more. jud sighs, content to just lay atop you like this and kiss you for hours.
his mind is quickly changed when your hand starts a path down, palming at his cock through his sweats. jud’s mouth drops open, physically unable to keep up with kissing as you loosen the drawstrings and slide under the waistband.
jud pulses in your grip, skin so feverish and soft as you give him an experimental squeeze. his breath stutters as his body draws tight, like he’s bracing for a hit.
your thumb glides over his tip, and the reaction is instant. jud flinches with a surprised groan, head falling into the crook of your neck to hide the way his face tightens at the building pleasure, all from your hand alone. his stubble tickles, but the wet breaths he’s gasping against your jugular is worth it.
you stroke him slow and long with one hand, the other coming up to card through his messy locks. “what do you want, jud?” you whisper, lips brushing his ear while his hips twitch with little thrusts. “-hm? we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
maybe it’s something about the tone of your voice. how you’re cooing at him as you cradle his head to your neck, so tender and patient even as he fucks into your hand. jud’s brain goes static, images of everything he does want to do flashing before his eyes. but he knows he doesn’t want to cum like this, with only your hand and layers of clothes separating you.
so he lifts his head, kisses you once and presses his forehead to yours. “i want all of you.”
“you have me.”
something in the air shifts. jud moves against you, still hungry but lacking the hurry, the greed. hearing you say it out loud makes something click in his brain, slows him down. like this, with you in his bed and the storm outside, he can fool himself into thinking he has all the time in the world.
his shirt comes off, and he lets you trace the tattoo across his chest, run your fingers down the planes of his abdomen. in turn, your hands raise for jud to drag the shirt up and over your head.
“you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, lowering his lips to your sternum and kisses his path down. savours the low mewl he earns when he drags a nipple into his wet mouth, and another when he flicks the other between calloused fingertips.
“jud,” now you’re the impatient one, shoving at the band of his sweats as he stays blissfully lost in your chest, sucking lovebites into the tops of your tits. mumbling more to himself, “been dreaming ‘bout this.”
jud hums placatingly at the call of his name, distracted, oblivious to your struggle to not flip him over and have your way. you push up on your heels in search of friction. trying again, this time lacing your plea with a needy whine. “jud.”
“yeah, baby?”
“are you going to fuck me or not?”
it’s bratty enough for jud to pinch your side — not hard, just enough to make you arch even further into him with a surprised yelp,
“i was getting to that,” he tells you with a soft laugh, and finally kicks off his sweats. his cock, flushed an angry red hangs heavy against his thigh. on top of everything else, jud is big.
the sight of all of him bare steals your breath. his body tells a story, scars and ink and lithe muscles coming together to form the man kneeling over you now — your jud. kind, sweet, good jud duplenticy.
he tries his best not to blush, but it’s hard not to when your eyes are roaming over every exposed inch of him. nobody’s looked at him like this in years, and he’d wholly believed nobody would again.
“you’re perfect, jud,” you say it like it’s a fact. he shakes his head, smiling as he looks away, like you’ve just told him something funny. that only strengthens your resolve.
“hey, i mean it,” frowning slightly at his albeit gorgeous side profile, “look at me.”
jud follows obediently, fondly. leans into it when your palm comes up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking under his eye.
“i love you,” you say, because you want him to know. if within these walls, now, is the only time you get to be with jud, you need him to know.
jud’s head lowers in the softest kiss you’ve shared so far. it’s chaste, and somehow feels like the first ever. jud pours all his heart into it — he’s always been better with action than with words. he thinks about every time his heart’s stuttered because of you, the hours he’d counted until he could see you again, and seals each silent confession with a kiss.
the weight of jud’s body above yours is grounding, because with the way he’s parting your lips with his tongue, you feel like you might actually float. the tension in the room thickens, the sloppy sounds of his kisses reaching your ears.
you’re all too aware of his length between your bodies, slotted by the seam of your inner thigh. he’s so warm, and coats your skin in slick — you don’t think he even realises how he’s rutting against your leg, too engrossed in tasting your spit.
“want you inside,” you pull away for breath, murmuring against his open mouth. his cock twitches on your thigh, and you can see the moment it all hits jud. he thinks there’s something magic about your lips, because the throbbing between his legs returns tenfold the second he’s separated from you.
“mmph- shit,” jud bites his lip to muffle the surprised moan when your leg shifts and his length comes to rest atop your mound. his tip nudges at your clit, and just the slightest contact reduces you to near tears. you’re so wet it hurts, and the sight of his leaking cock so close to where you need him has you clenching around nothing in anticipation.
“please, oh my god, jud,” you cry, chasing the sensation with your hips, “need you– pleasepleaseplease.”
jud’s head clears, tunnel-visioned on how you need him, and how he can make it better. driven by the primal need to take care of you. he nods soothingly, smoothing the sweaty strands of hair out of your face and parting your thighs to slot himself between them.
“don’t have to beg, angel, i got you,” he hums, taking his length in hand and notching it at your entrance. he watches you for any hesitation, and when you call out for him again, he pushes in — slow, for both your benefit.
the stretch is intense, even with your first orgasm. but jud is moaning, loud and unabashed in your ear, and you can feel yourself getting wetter — with each broken whimper, the deeper he sinks.
“oh, god,” jud’s voice trembles when his gaze lowers to where you end and he begins. eyes the way your lips stretch to take him, and the next thrust is involuntary, driving himself almost all the way to the hilt. “you feel so good-”
your fingers fly to his biceps, digging your nails in as he carves a space for himself within you. he’s so big, you feel his blunt cockhead nudging at the spot inside that you’ve always struggled to reach yourself. he watches you go speechless, eyes rolled back into your head.
“taking me so well, honey,” jud whispers, head falling to your collarbone with a guttural groan when he bottoms out. he can feel you pulsing around him, and the gripping wet heat makes him falter before he can even begin to move.
“i’m sorry, i- it’s been a while. don’t think i’ll last long,” jud whines, breathing hard as your nails trail down his shoulder blades. he shudders, and his hips roll experimentally. the drag out makes him see stars, the way your pussy clings to him like you don’t want him to go.
“it’s okay,” you reassure him. a gush of wetness soaks his cock at the image, and jud thinks you really are an angel.
his thrusts start slow, shallow thrusts that give him a fighting chance. when your thighs twitch, he lifts them to his waist. it pulls him in further, and as each thrust grows quicker, harder, your breathing grows more ragged.
jud swears freely under his breath, drawing you up in his arms as he locks you against his chest.
“mhmm- like that,” you whimper, face smushed against his shoulder. he hits that spot with every push inside, and the sticky sounds of his balls hitting your ass makes your ears burn.
“shit- i’m close, so close- i’m sorry,” jud whimpers, sniffling as he actually goes a little misty-eyed from how good it feels. he’s trying so fucking hard not to cum before he can get you there again, but you’re not making it easy with how you keep panting his name like it’s the only thing you can think of.
his fingers drop to your clit, rubbing tight circles in a last-ditch attempt as he feels his orgasm closing in on him. you’re drooling on his shoulder as you jolt, bucking in time with his staccato thrusts.
jud moves to pull out, but your legs stay locked tight around his waist. his brows pinch in panic, but he doesn’t stop. “baby, i have to- need to pull out-”
your head shakes, a hair away from tipping over the edge yourself. staring up at him with tears in your eyes, so, so close. “inside,” you whimper, “‘m safe. want to feel you fill me up.”
jud’s vision goes white, burying himself as deep as he can go when he cums, releasing rope after rope into you. you’re all too happy to soak it all up, milking it out of him as your orgasm hits in quick succession. your back arches, nails cutting into his shoulders as you cling onto him for dear life.
he moans sharp and raw, riding out the aftershocks with gentle thrusts, pushing his release deeper inside your womb as you shudder below him. it all gets too much, and his arms give out, bringing his chest to yours.
the remaining air in your lung whooshes out of you, because jud is heavier than he looks. he laughs, equally breathless. he rolls off of you, still nestled in your heat as he drags you atop him.
“hi,” you grin, leaning in to kiss him, relaxed and familiar. he smiles into it, running a soothing hand up and down your back.
“hello,” jud chuckles. you’re both sweaty, and more than a little sticky, but neither of you can even fathom moving right now.
“that was fun,” you hum, tucking your chin under his as his arms curl around your waist. jud huffs in amusement, lips pressed to your hair.
“that’s one way to put it,” jud’s chest rumbles, and it’s so comfortable like this, curled under the covers, you feel your eyelids drooping against your will.
he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, and lets himself blatantly stare. he still can’t believe this is real, a little scared to fall asleep in case it really is all just a dream. he wonders if he could go back to before, when having you like this was nothing but a doomed, sinful fantasy.
jud gets his answer when you mumble, “have to get my car.” words jumbled together as you fight the edges of sleep, he knows there’s no going back.
“i’ll take care of it,” he promises.
jud must drift off too, because the next time he wakes, the room is cloaked in darkness. you’re still clinging to him, out cold and snoring softly. it’s still raining, and the world is still turning. he thanks god for the path created for him, and with an angel holding his heart in her hands, jud thinks he’s where he was always meant to be.
synopsis: you find yourself at Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude three times: once for your cousin's wedding, once for a relative's funeral, and once for...well, maybe you shouldn't say.
word count: 3k
need to knows/warnings: jud x reader, reader isn't particularly religious, jud teaches reader self-defense/how to box 😏, yearning, smutty but not full smut.
author's note: i feel the jud community getting larger each day ;) thank you sooo much for reading. <3
The first time you stepped foot in Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, there were certainly no holy thoughts crossing your mind.
Your favorite cousin was getting married, and you wished that this event was something to feel more sentimental about. To put it simply, her husband-to-be was a complete asshole, consoling only in his hefty bank account. You respected her hustle, frankly, but it was still difficult to watch a person you loved so much commit to someone so undeserving of her heart.
In protest, you wore all black.
The ceremony—as most Catholic weddings are—was ordained by a priest, one dressed in a large green robe with gold detailing. Throughout the long pre-nuptial mass, your eyes wandered towards the ceiling, then around the sides at a reading room and confessional stall. You'd never taken much of an interest in religion, but had to admit the church's architecture was a sight to behold.
Vows were exchanged, and in a flash, the ceremony was over.
There was a reception nearby, one which you chose to attend only for the open bar. Family was family, but sometimes it seemed more peaceful to avoid them. All they asked these days was if you had a boyfriend, and it was getting tiring. This was the 21st century, for christ's sake, and you had no interest answering to the elderly about your relationship status.
Before heading over to the party, you hung back in the pews. Looking around at the stained-glass windows and silent echo of the walls, you could see how someone might feel drawn to come here every week. If only they hosted a book club in this place, you mused.
Ten minutes or so passed in the comfortable quiet, and then a figure approached you from the altar. It was the priest from the wedding, now changed into a more casual uniform: black blacks, a black knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and a clerical collar. A tattoo accompanied his left wrist, and from the corner of your eye, you could make out more hidden black marks on the side of his neck.
Suddenly, your cheeks felt warm. Since when did they make priests like that? Surely that only happened in Fleabag.
"Hi, were you here for the wedding?"
You cleared your throat, tucking a lose strand of hair behind your ear and smoothing down the skirt of your dress.
"Yeah, I'm so sorry, am I in your way?"
The priest shook his head.
"Not at all. Stay as long as you want. I think there's a party, though. And I heard something about an open bar."
You liked him already, which made things much more difficult.
"Oh, yeah, I'll make it there eventually...I just, I don't know."
The priest motioned towards the empty spot beside you. Your nod in the affirmative was perhaps a little too quick.
"I'm not really religious," you prefaced. "But this place is really good at peace and quiet, I've got to say."
The priest laughed softly, and nodded in agreement.
"Yeah, it definitely is."
A beat of comfortable silence passed, and then he asked:
"Something on your mind I could help you with? Not as a priest or anything, if you're not into that. Just as a regular person."
You thought briefly that you were into it for a very different reason, but gave yourself a mental slap in the face.
"Oh, not really. It just sucks to watch the people you love marry such assholes."
He smiled—just barely—and made an agreeing hum.
"Yeah, I could sense some kind of friction. Like they weren't exactly marrying for love."
You sighed dramatically.
"It's a shame. My cousin, she's the bride. She is so full of love, and I wish she'd chosen to marry someone who could give that back to her. I think she's just trying to please my aunt and uncle."
"Family can be tricky. You want them to be your number one source of comfort, but a lot of the time..."
"They're the biggest fuck-ups of all?"
The priest looked at you, a little charmed, and laughed.
"Yeah, you could say that."
"Sorry, you're off the clock and I'm a stranger. I don't mean to dump all this onto you."
"Oh, I'm never off the clock. And I really don't mind. It's nice to talk to someone who says it as it is. Sometimes I wish I could teach the people here to be a little more honest with themselves. But it's really not my place to pass judgement," he said.
You nodded in understanding, and then he spoke again.
"And now here I am, dumping problems onto you. Sorry. It's not very proper etiquette in my position."
Shaking your head, you smiled ever-so-slightly.
"Well, I'm not a Catholic. So that kind of etiquette doesn't really apply to me."
Then, the priest gave you an unreadable look. Had you offended him? No, it was something else. Sort of like he was at war with the thoughts in his head.
You checked the time, and let out a tired huff of air. This was the first moment you'd wanted to live in since this morning, but your absence at the reception was probably starting to become obvious.
"I should go, my family is probably looking for me. Thank you for the company, really."
"Anytime," the priest replied.
It seemed like he really meant it earnestly.
You stood from the pew, heading toward the aisle, when the kneeler underneath the seat caught on your shoe.
One foot tripped over the other, and it seemed like you were doomed to fall over—until the priest's tattooed arm gently steadied at your hip for balance. You felt it right in your stomach.
Both of you stood in the aisle then, and he cleared his throat. Was he blushing?
"I'm sorry, I didn't meant to, uh..."
You shook your head swiftly.
"No, don't be sorry. You just saved me from falling flat on my face."
Like a true gentleman, he walked you to the church door and held it open. Before walking out into the warm, humid summer air, you turned to face him.
"Father, I never got your name."
He swallowed thickly.
"I'm Jud. No Father necessary."
"Well, Jud, I hope to see you around."
~
The second time you stepped foot in Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, you felt completely immoral.
A highly removed elderly relative of yours had passed away of old age. He wasn't particularly kind to you, and had a very archaic way of thinking. There was no reason for you to be in attendance, really, but when your parents had forwarded the address, it was impossible to say no.
You felt slightly embarrassed to admit that the subject of your desires had not changed once since the wedding, but it was the truth. Jud consumed all of your thoughts: sometimes innocently, and occasionally not so much. It was exactly like you to have a crush that was completely unattainable, but it wasn't something that could be helped.
He was accepting and kind and so hot and unlike anyone you'd ever met, but you sensed there were secrets he kept close to his chest. Jud was like a painting, the kind that made you notice something new at each glance.
You sat in the same pew as last time, dressed in the same black ensemble.
Jud noticed you amongst the crowd quicker than he'd like to admit. After the wedding, Jud hosted mass every week with his eyes glued to the very pew you'd met on, guiltily replaying the interaction in his mind.
He thought your presence must have been God testing his resistance to temptation, chastising him for all the thoughts he'd had about you before going to sleep.
After the funeral ended, something hit your love-sick brain like a brick: what if he didn't even remember you? It had been over a month. Surely, with charm like his, there was a lot of foot traffic in this place.
Slowly collecting your things, you stalled an exit, giving Jud the chance to approach you first.
Once the crowd shuffled out, your eyes met his. Jud smiled slightly and approached your pew.
You were having some major deja vu.
"Hi, Father."
He winced, just barely.
"You really don't have to call me that. Unless you forgot my name, which I would understand."
"Definitely not."
Then, you nervously bit the bottom of your lip, like maybe even that was too suggestive a reply.
"I'm really sorry to have you back here on such difficult terms," Jud said sympathetically.
You furrowed an eyebrow, then looked at your black clothes in acknowledgment.
"Oh, yeah. Don't be, he was bound to kick the bucket. He was, like, 1000 years old and kind of misogynistic."
He laughed, this time more indulgently than you'd seen from him before.
It was now or never, you realized. Visiting this church by coincidence a third time would be stalker-ish.
"Well, listen, you've done a lot for my family this past month. Can I buy you coffee?"
Jud ran a hand over his face.
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea."
You put a hand on your hip.
"What, priests aren't allowed some caffeine every once in a while? Or am I really that bad."
"No, it's not—you're not..."
Jud looked up at the ceiling in some kind of silent communication with God, and then said:
"You know what, sure. That's what I should have said. Thank you for offering."
~
Coffee turned into dinner, which turned into drinks. It was dangerous how much it felt like a date, and Jud fought with himself to let go of the very same sentiment. But just as he'd feared, it would be impossible to quit you.
"I'm surprised you're drinking," you said, seated across from him in a booth. "I thought there was some kind of rule against that."
"There is, but I'm not always so traditional."
You hated the part of you which wondered how lenient he might be about other aspects of his life, especially after the disappointing internet search you'd made last night.
Are priests allowed to date?
The answer was a resounding no.
"Can I ask what you did before becoming a priest? Tell me if I'm being too nosy."
Jud gestured with his hands like he didn't mind.
"I was a boxer."
You regretted asking. This was all getting way too horny. Why couldn't he have said something that didn't give such a vivid visual image?
"Wow," you said stupidly. Then: "What made you leave that behind?"
It seemed like he didn't want to elaborate.
"You don't have to tell me. I've kind of wanted to learn, maybe not boxing, but some kind of self-defense. I just don't want to feel susceptible to being fucked with, you know?"
Jud nodded.
"I get that."
You realized you'd probably had one Aperol Spritz too many after asking:
"Could you give me some tips sometime? Teach me some technique, or something?
Jud realized a similar thing when he replied:
"Yeah, of course."
The evening passed quicker than it came, and although he'd technically offered to be your self-defense coach, you sensed sadly that this might be your last night together.
The two of you walked back to the church, where your car was parked by its lonesome in the dirt.
"Well, this is me," you gestured.
Jud furrowed an eyebrow, like he suddenly remembered alcohol had consequences.
"You really shouldn't be driving home."
And you probably, definitely shouldn't be, but just to be polite, said:
"Oh, I'll be okay. I'm staying at my parent's for the weekend, it's not far."
Jud shook his head.
"No, really, it's dark, and I think we both had too much to drink. I can make up a bed for you in the church."
"I really wouldn't want to put you out."
"It's really not a bother. You'd be putting me out a lot more by making me worry about you out on the road."
It was settled.
By "making up a bed," Jud had just meant giving you his, which caused another half-hearted, tipsy argument.
"Noooo, please, I'll take the couch. You've done enough for me."
"Y/N, you're not taking the couch."
Your heart fluttered at the sound of your name coming from his mouth.
"Well, can't we just...share the bed then?"
You regretted it immediately.
Jud looked at you with widened eyes, dropping the pillow he'd pulled from the closet for you.
"Um, I—"
You were mortified.
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I should not have said that. I've had a little too much to drink and—"
Jud gave you a familiar contemplative expression, the kind you'd seen many times since meeting him in the church but still couldn't seem to crack.
"I'll put a glass of water and an Advil by the nightstand. I have the heater running, but let me know if you need any extra blankets."
Once Jud left for the kitchen, you screamed into the pillow. Just to make matters worse, it smelled just like him.
~
The next morning, you had a minor headache but felt surprisingly spry.
Your eyes fluttered open, scanning the room around you. After a moment of tired dazing, your mind caught up to your body.
"Oh my God," you whispered to yourself.
Before you could race out of bed and run towards the door, Jud knocked lightly.
"Want any coffee?," he asked.
Too late to avoid the embarrassment now. It was slightly surprising he wasn't already ushering you out the door. Very polite, you thought.
"Sure," you said hesitantly, and then: "I'm sorry, I must have been acting so inappropriately last night, I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable or—"
Jud brushed the air with his hand, dismissing your worries.
"Not at all. I'm a little hungover myself, I have to say."
Twenty-four hours ago, you were certainly not expecting to be eating breakfast in Jud's kitchen. You wondered desperately what he was thinking, but felt for some reason that it wouldn't be right to ask.
When you finished your mug of coffee, Jud took it from the counter for a refill.
"Were you serious about learning self-defense?," he asked with his back facing you.
You were surprised he remembered at all.
"Honestly, yeah. Were you serious about giving me a crash course?"
~
Around noon, you met Jud outside the church, stopping home to change into more appropriate clothes.
If you did say so yourself, you were quite the natural.
"Okay, make sure your thumbs aren't tucked in. Pretend I'm...someone you really hate, someone who's really fucked with you."
You wanted to tell him that it was probably impossible to hate him, even hypothetically, but tried your best, throwing a punch at his raised, open palms.
"Good," he said. "Just try to keep your arms up to protect your face. Not that I don't enjoy looking at it."
And that went straight to your core, so you threw another good punch to force the feeling away.
After a few more rounds of punching practice, Jud moved on to another skill.
"Now, tackle me to the ground."
You furrowed your brow.
"Oh, I don't know if I have the strength to—"
"Yes, you do. Just tackle me onto the ground, and once you're on top, thrust your knee in between mine. A kick to the groin is an immediate kill, at least for a guy."
Thrust, groin, on top. You felt like some kind of sex-obsessed frat guy, unable to focus on anything but Jud's figure, sleeves pushed up with a little sweat on the bicep on his arm.
Get a grip, you said to yourself like a mantra.
You made your advance, trying to remember that this was a useful skill which should garner more serious attention.
Running forward, you tackled Jud to the ground, hovering over him and slotting your knee between his, just as he instructed. You decided to cut him some slack and be gentle with the leg.
"Yeah, good. I definitely wouldn't want to fuck with you," Jud said, slightly out of breath.
Then, you're hovered over him for much too long, neither of you making a move to untangle from each other.
The air was quiet, aside from the sound of your labored breathing. You could only imagine what the neighbors would think if they saw this.
A piece of hair fell in front of your face, and Jud reached up—the veins in his forearm slightly flexing—and tucked the strand behind your ear.
Your noses were practically touching at this point, and it would take only the slightest movement for your lips to be touching, too.
"I don't know if this was a good idea," Jud practically whispered.
"Why?"
It was barely above a breath.
Then his lips grazed yours, ever-so-cautiously at first.
"I'm sorry," he starts. "I shouldn't have—"
Before he could finish his sentence, you kissed him back feverishly. One thing led to another, and you'd flipped onto your back.
"Not out here," Jud said in between kisses.
He helped you up from the ground, brushing a few leaves out of your hair.
Once you were inside the church, your lips collided again. You bunched up his shirt in your hand, and he pulled your hips closer to his.
"You have no idea how many times I've thought about this," you sighed.
"You have no idea how much I've tried not to think about this. It's impossible."
You started to make a move toward a pew, laying on your back.
"No, I'm sorry, I can't fuck you on this wooden pew. There's no way it's comfortable on your back."
You wanted to say that it really was no matter, and you would have been open to fucking him in a ditch somewhere, but refrained.
The walk to his bedroom felt unbearably long, and you were hardly able to keep your hands off of each other. It was a wonder that this hadn't happened sooner.
You pulled Jud's sweater over his head, and guided his hands to pull down your shorts.
As he continued to undress, you pulled your shirt off and laid in his bed with your elbows propped up.
He looked at you, and made the same repressed expression from your first meeting. So that's what that was all about.
Jud swallowed thickly.
"What have you done to me?," he sighed, more to himself than to you.
You moved onto your knees and pulled him on top of you. He kissed your neck down onto your chest, and your hand traveled to his trousers.
"Oh, Jesus Christ."
"Would he appreciate you using his name in vain?," you asked, maybe just to bait him a little.
Jud smiled against you, continuing to kiss down your stomach and then to the place you needed him most.
~
The next morning, Jud planned on a lengthy confession, but recounting the prior night only ended up giving him more to admit.
And each Sunday after Mass, you paid him a visit.
"See you next week, Father."
"Don't call me that," he said, before kissing you against the altar.
summary: You enter a world that treats you as an omen, yet one man sees you with a softness that borders on hunger. Your bond rises like mist from the earth, trembling between fear and desire, and the village’s ruthless scrutiny.
Walter Thirsk (Harvest, 2024) x female!reader
chapter 1
🌾🌾🌾
His lips part just a notch. “You alright?” he asks. His voice is quiet and nearly hoarse.
You nod, though the motion barely makes it past your shoulders. “Are you?”
He gives a breath of a laugh. It is shy and astonished. “Not sure,” he admits. “Not sure at all.”
The honesty unsettles deep inside you, loosens your apprehension, and warms you to the core. Before either of you fully understands who’s moved first, the distance closes.
His mouth meets yours, and the kiss is taken.
It finds you the same way water finds the shore. So slow, so warm, so inevitable, so good. His lips press softly into yours, brushing in small, testing motions. His breath mingles with yours in a tremble of intimate air. His hands shift to steady you, sliding subtly higher along your ribs, and you realize—he’s learning the shape of your breath. You place your hand on his forearm in return, and your fingers curl around the warm, sun-browned skin, guiding him closer.
His lips part just enough to deepen the warmth without breaking the shyness, or losing the sweetness that hovers between you like a stolen breath.
The world, oh the world blurs for once.
Grass rustles around your bare calves, pressing against you as the wind moves through it. The lake glimmers at the edge of your vision. The light trembles on its surface, and you nearly feel the water reacting to the touch you share with your companion. Birds call softly from the woods, their distant cries weaving into the hush of your joined breaths.
Cw: you’re tired of being alone, so you cast a spell to find love. 7.3k words, witch!f!reader x Eddie, magic, fluff, mild angst, smut, unprotected sex, creampie.
“I just feel so lonely.” You sigh.
Robin, Nancy, Max, and Joyce, all collectively nod their heads as you’re all gathered at the Coven house. They can’t help but feel a small amount of pity, they have all found their partners. You’re the last witch standing.
“What about the amorem enchantment?” Joyce, the coven mother suggested.
She is a wise witch, the townspeople call her eccentric, however she is very knowledgeable when it comes to the craft.
“That seemed a bit desperate” you sigh.
“You’re a beautiful witch in your prime, it is time to find your match before it is too late.” Joyce points out.
It is very unfortunate when a witch loses their match due to natural selection because there is a very small window to do something about it.
The supernatural forces are lenient to keep your human longer than their body allows if you claim them in time. It only works if the match is in their mid-twenties. No one knows why, but it is when you need to act. You’re already in your twenty-fifth year, you can’t push it any longer.
With a sigh of defeat you begrudgingly agree that it was what has to be done.
“Ego invocabo Freyja ad auxilium me invenire amorem” your chant starts softly. Alone at your altar, deep in the meadow with the wildflowers and dew. Your altar is set up against a weeping willow with all you have gathered for your enchantment.
Amorem enchantments, or love enchantments, are a powerful thing. The magic cannot make someone fall in love with you; that’s not how it works. The magic is to draw the source of love towards you, to help guide the individuals together.
You think of your ideal partner- charismatic, funny, loyal, trustworthy, doting, physical, handsome, artistically inclined, and imaginative. All of those things race on your mind as you chant.
You can feel your magic building. The warmth builds in the depth of your chest and spreads through your arms to your fingertips as you continue the chant.
“Ego invocabo Freyja ad auxilium me invenire amorem. Dea amoris, adiuva me invenire unum, dea amoris, invocabo Freyja ad auxilium me invenire amorem. Ego invocabo Freyja ad auxilium me invenire amorem”
The moon is at its highest, the wind is whistling. “Ego invocabo Freyja ad auxilium me invenire amorem. Adiuva me invenire unum, dea amoris, adiuva me invenire unum dea amoris, adiuva me invenire unum ego. One last final chant and it was complete.
You feel a soft brush against your hand. Looking down, you smile at the little ball of fluff—Clover, your familiar. She is a calico rabbit you’ve had since your magic presented itself at eight years of age.
You glamour your altar so no one would disrupt it- not that anyone comes out here, but you can never be too careful keeping the witches' secret….
A few miles away, tucked up in bed was a man, unbeknownst to him, whose life was about to change.
Eddie isn’t too sure why he is here. He was in his apartment strumming, trying to find the right chords, when he had a sudden urge to go out. Where? He didn’t know, but if he didn’t, his gut told him he would miss out on something… something big.
Now he’s found himself in this kitschy store next to Melvald’s. He’s never noticed or paid much attention to it, but he found himself pulled up in front of it and being drawn in.
The wind chimes let you know that a potential customer has entered your little shop whilst you are in the back sorting stock, so you poke your head out to see who’s arrived
“Let me know if you need anything” you politely say before seeing who was there.
“Uh… thanks” You see the man scratch his head looking clueless until his eyes meet yours.
“Oh. Hi,” you step out when you realize who is in your presence.
Eddie Munson, of all people.
“Hey,” he awkwardly waves.
You haven’t seen him since you graduated high school, nearly seven years ago. You had heard he was held back a few times, but you hadn’t given him a second thought.
“Let me know if you’re looking for something specific, I can help you out,” you smile and try and act busy.
When he turns his back you can’t help but observe him as he searches the shelves.
“What kind of place is this?” He looks over his shoulder.
“Well we are called Mystic Apothecary, what do you think?” You raise a brow biting back a snarky giggle, the touches of sarcasm rolling off your tongue.
“Ah,” he nods and continues browsing.
You curse yourself for being snarky. This is a potential customer, you need to be more approachable.
“So that makes you? What? A Sorceress?” He smirks and you can’t help but blush.
“You could say that.”
Eddie spends about ten minutes browsing and picking up little trinkets and other items before bringing them to your counter.
“Looks like someone wants to get into spell work,” you smile. He has a pentagram pendant, a tapestry, some empty spell jars, so pre filled spell jars, a black obsidian tower, and a cauldron.
“Uh-I needed some props”
“Props, huh?” Your pointed aubergine nails clack on the register keys to input the prices.
“I play this game, it’s silly.” He shrugs.
Eddie wasn’t sure why he was being so bashful. He’s always been so proud to be himself, so why is he nervous in front of you?
He semi-remembers you from school. You were more subdued and kept to yourself or your girl group. Everyone called you guys the Hawkins Coven, not that you were actually witches, but now he is rethinking that…
It also doesn’t escape him that you’re really pretty—like otherworldly pretty. He was really digging your style. Your peasant skirt and half corset are really doing it for him; very ren fair of you.
“So, is this like your uniform, or do you always dress like this?” Where did that come from? Eddie curses himself, but you just giggle.
“Why? You want one for yourself?” You smirk.
“What? You don’t think I could pull it off?”
“You would look lovely”
“Thank you, my lady” he curtseyed.
This made you giggle some more. This interaction was cute flirty and fun. You have never spoken to him this much, who knew he was so charming?
“Thanks for shopping.” You pass him his goodies in a paper bag.
“I guess I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah,” you smile.
You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding once the chimes for the door let you know Eddie was out of the store.
What the Hecate was that?
Clover hops over onto the counter giving you a knowing look.
“No… you don’t think?”
She twitches her nose.
“You’re crazy”
She stomps her little back foot and you roll your eyes.
“Let’s see.”
Days passed without any interaction with Eddie, until today. While at the food court with the coven, Max caught sight of Lucas, her boyfriend, sitting with his friends. As you approached their table, you unfortunately stumbled after stepping on your bootlace. With a small squeal, you found yourself tripping and falling onto someone's lap.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" you exclaimed.
Looking up, you noticed a smirk on his face as he replied,
"Not every day I have a pretty girl falling into my lap." Your cheeks flushed with heat as you realized it was Eddie Munson.
Quickly regaining your composure, you got up, apologized once more, and walked away.
“Pretty, huh? Anything come of the Amorem Enchantment?” Max asks as the group of you walk away.
“I’m, not sure. Clover thinks she has it all figured out on who it is but I’m skeptical”
“Okay” you see Max give the others a knowing look but you bite your tongue. You don’t want to jump to conclusions.
The next day, you and Robin are out running errands, preparing for the upcoming full moon in a few days. Your coven always gathers during the highest point of the moon to draw magic from the earth, strengthening your bond and powers. It's like recharging a battery; it's not necessary, as magic never fades, but it can lie dormant if not utilized correctly.
"Hey, isn't that Munson?" Robin acknowledges, catching your attention. Surprised to see him again so soon, after seven years of not crossing paths, now encountering him for the third time in 2 weeks. "I suppose it is," you respond.
"I hardly see him," Robin remarks, her tone implying something you don't appreciate.
"And?" you question, raising an eyebrow.
"And nothing," she replies in a defensive tone.
"Has Brutus been talking to Clover?" you ask, disliking the familiars' gossiping habits.
"I'm not a snitch," Robin retorts, prompting you to roll your eyes.
Her owl never seems to know when to stay quiet.
"Are you stalking me, Sorceress?" Eddie startles you as he approaches from behind. "Going to fall for me again?" he teases, making you clear your throat.
Eddie seems unsure why he left the shop. That feeling of being drawn to a particular place during his lunch break, was gnawing that the back of his head, which led him straight to you.
"Damn, Munson, creeping up on all the ladies?" Robin scolds, to which Eddie replies,
"Nah, just Sorceress here," tilting his head as you feel a blush rising on your cheeks.
“Sorceress, huh?” Robin raises her brows at you.
“He came to the Apothecary.” You defend.
“Uh-huh,” she nods and smiles. Only confirming Clover and Brutus’ accusations.
“Yep, well we better get going. Joyce is waiting. Good to see you.” You grab Robin and take off before Eddie can ask you what he’s been wanting to do since yesterday.
The Halloween Fall festival is usually your favourite event of the year. However this year you’ve been working more than enjoying the festivities. You’ve been in the tent most of the day, doing tarot readings and “fortune telling.” You’re exhausted and about to close up when a deep voice catches your attention.
“Guys I’m not doing it, it’s dumb.”
“Too bad you lost the bet now go in there!” A younger-sounding guy demands.
“It’s all hocus poc- woah” The man is pushed into view and you can’t believe your luck when it’s Eddie.
“All a bunch of Hocus Pocus, huh?”
Of course, he would be a non-believer.
“Flip that sign to say Closed for me would ya?” You ask whilst shuffling the deck for hopefully the last time today.
“You trying to get me alone or something,” Eddie suggests but you ignore it.
“Sit.”
“Yes ma’am” Eddie smirks, pulling out the chair.
With a big sigh, you shuffle the deck with your eyes closed.
“What is it you want to know?”
“Uh…”
“A general reading it is. Fifteen dollars.” You motion to the glass jar and he scrambles to put the cash in.
You feel that the cards are aligned so you go ahead a pull. The six cards are placed face down between you and Eddie.
“Ready?” You smirk.
“I guess.” He shrugs.
You flip the first card.
“Chariot in Reverse. You feel like there is a lack of direction in your life. Like you’re on the right path but maybe a little lost. Like you took the wrong turn down the road.”
You flip the second card.
“Death.”
Eddie looks up at you. He looks scared, but you giggle.
“It’s not literal, it means new beginnings, change, metamorphosis. Like you’re finally finding your path.” You look up at him through your lashes and he lets out the breath he was holding in.
“The lovers” you continue with a gulp and flip the next card, The Eight of Stars.
“There is hope for a new relationship forming.” You continue to flip the fifth card and of course, it’s The Empress.
“More growth and beauty to enter into this new relationship. “
“How do you know it’s new?” Eddie interrupts.
This catches you off guard. It’s not like you can come out a say ‘I cast a love enchantment and you’re the only one who is consistently popping up in my life.’
“I’m a fortune teller. Duh”
This makes Eddie giggle and relax a bit more, so you continue to the final card.
“The Devil.” You sigh, and Eddie’s eyes blow wide again with wonder.
“It’s because I’m the town Satanist, isn’t it?” He accuses.
Once again you ignore him and continue.
“This relationship will be addictive, lustrous, seductive. You won’t be able to keep your hands off one another. You’re both going to fall and fall hard” Your eyes are locked in on one another. You want to look away but you can’t, you think he feels it too, the pull…
When did you start leaning into one another? Your faces are so close, just a centimetre more and- you pull back immediately as the sound of the timer makes you both jump.
“Well, times up thanks for coming” You stand and rush him out.
“What? That’s it?”
“Yep. Have fun at the festival!” You close the curtain in front of him before he can say another word.
Eddie can’t believe what has just happened. He stood there awestruck but also very confused.
“Dude, what happened?” Eddie’s friend Jeff shakes him.
“Uh,” he scratches the back of his head “I have no fucking idea.” Eddie looked back over his shoulder at the tent but there was no movement at all.
The situation with Eddie was consuming your day-to-day. Weeks have passed since the festival, and all you thought about was him. You finally are coming to terms that the enchantment is what is leading the two of you together, why deny it?
Eddie and you haven’t bumped into one another since the Halloween Festival and it’s been eating at you. After the tarot reading you realized you shouldn’t have pushed him away like that. What if you had scared him off? The magic can only do so much.
Instead of moping around your house after work, hoping you bump into him. You decided to go to the grocery store strolling for some spices, your arsenal had been dwindling.
Drifting off in your own little world, you hum with your headphones on as you try and reach for the cinnamon, of course, at the very back on the top shelf, you try and get it. You reach and reach on your highest tip toes looking like a fool, unable to use a summoning spell in public you curse whoever built these deep shelves. Just as you were about to look around to see if the coast was clear enough to use a little unharmful magic, you see a bare arm decorated with bats come from behind you grabbing the cinnamon sticks.
“Hey do you mind-“ but you stop mid-sentence when they drop their hand down signalling for you to take it.
“Thanks” You turn to see your knight in shining armour. Eddie.
“No big deal” he smiles. It’s a good smile. You observe him, losing focus you let down your guard.
Eddie’s eyes widen with shock and you instantly put your guard back up. Your eyes must have given it away…
“You okay?” He asks placing a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“Yeah,” you laugh it off, “why wouldn’t I be?”
“Your eyes… they uh… they looked pink”
Pink?! Pink of all things! You mentally scold yourself.
“Oh uh. My contacts make your eyes irritated sometimes.” You play it cool… but Eddie and you both knew your irises were what changed colour, not the whites.
“Uh-Hu” he nods, totally trying to not be freaked out, but also a little turned on?
“Um,” you stand in awkward silence for half a minute. “Thank you for the help” You motion to the cinnamon and turn on your heel.
“Wait!” He grazes your elbow now holding on too tight.
“Can we, uh- I um.” He curses under his breath, “Would you like to go out with me?” He almost shouts and you. “Sorry. That was. You don’t have to…I just thought-“
“Eddie!” you cut him off.
He pauses realizing he never gave you a second to answer.
“I would love to.” You smile. Trying extra hard to stay focused because you know your eyes are a deep magenta under the glamour you hold.
“Great! Okay,” he claps his hands together. “I‘ll call you!” He gestures his hand to make a phone by his ear and starts to walk away.
“Wait! You don’t have my number!” You giggle.
“Oh right,” he mentally scolds himself shaking his head shyly.
After you gave Eddie your number, you cast a little memory spell just in case he misplaces the paper, (only for insurance purposes) did you make your way to Robin’s place.
“Pink!” Robin screams.
“Keep your voice down!”
Robin totally knew from the beginning that Eddie was the one you summoned. She was excited for you! She knows what love can bring to a person’s life. She and Nancy are lucky to experience it together, and she just wants you to be as happy as they are.
“You got it B-A-D” she spells out.
“I do not! I don’t even know him!”
“Pinnnnnnk” she leans in.
“Ugh.” You throw your hands up in defeat and you feel Clover snuggle herself into your lap.
“Yeah, yeah, you were right.” You pet Clover's back.
“So now what?”
“He asked me out” You can’t help but smile,
“Oh!” Robin points at you again. “Pink!” She points at you. “I’m talking P-I-N-K!”
You never use your glamour around the coven because why would you? Your emotions could be read from a mile away.
“What are you guys going to do?”
“I’m not sure, guess we wait to see where the magic takes us”
Nervously, you mix a soothing tonic to ease your racing heart. Deep down, you know that the fates have intertwined your paths for a reason... He feels like the one, yet the mystery surrounding him is overwhelming. This uncertainty fuels your anxiety.
This is the final first date you’ll ever experience, the last time you’ll open your heart to someone new. And for the first time, it feels as if everything is aligning perfectly. But lurking in the back of your mind is the daunting truth that you’ll eventually need to reveal your not-so-little secret.
What if he’s frightened by who you really are? What if he can’t accept it?
The thought of erasing his memories and losing the love of your life is almost too much to bear.
Getting ahead of yourself, lost in thought your attention is checked back into reality when your doorbell rings. With a beep breath, you answer the door. Stood there on your wooden porch was Eddie, looking so handsome. His hair was freshly washed, his shirt freshly ironed and tucked into his pants. He held a bouquet of small purple daisies and a nervous smile.
“Woah,” he spoke as you opened the door. “You look incredible.”
“Thank you, and so do you” You feel your cheeks fill with heat, and you pay extra attention to the glamour for your eyes.
“Shall we?”
“Let’s” You hook your arm in his and he leads the way.
“So where are you taking me?” You ask as you strap yourself in.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, other than witchy stuff” he blushed, “so I thought it was safe to go to the Christmas market.”
That you were not expecting, and unfortunately for Eddie, he could read it in your face
“Oh, god, you hate it. I swore all girls love Christmas-“
“No Eddie it’s sweet, it’s just I don’t celebrate Christmas. Well I do, but it’s not what you would think. We, my friends and I, celebrate Yule. It’s Pagan.”
“Pagan,” He hums to himself, “that’s badass.”
This makes you giggle, and Eddie sighs with relief that you’re not annoyed at him.
“There are a lot of Pagan holidays that the Christians stole from us and made their own, but I don’t want to bore you with the details.” You wave your hand dismissively.
“No, I’d love to learn.” He looks at you earnestly.
“You sure? I kind of ruined your plans, I still don’t mind going! I do love a good gingerbread cookie and hot chocolate.” You smile.
“You sure?”
“I am!”
“I’m honoured, Sorceress” he smiles and puts his truck into drive.
You had an expectedly wonderful time at the Christmas festival, all thanks to Eddie. He made sure you were snug and warm, wrapping you up so the chill wouldn’t bite. As soon as you stepped through the gates, he treated you to hot chocolate and a gingerbread man.
The two of you shared endless laughter while attempting to ice skate, your conversations flowing effortlessly. Hours slipped by, and before you knew it, your toes were numb, signalling it was time to head home.
Parting ways felt bittersweet; you longed to keep the conversation going all night, but deep down, you knew that would be too much for a first date. The bond you shared was unlike anything you had ever experienced, and it was clear Eddie felt it, too. You could almost see the enchanting connection that drew you together, like shimmering golden dust swirling in the air, creating an invisible thread that linked your hearts.
As Eddie bid you goodnight, he bravely leaned in for a gentle kiss. It was like time stopped, all the puzzle pieces had failed into place. Even it if it was chaste, it was sweet and tender, and you could sense his nervousness, but you let him take his time, savouring the moment. A broad smile spread across your face, silently assuring him that you felt the same spark he did.
“I’ll call you.” he winks as he walks down the dirt driveway.
You pray to Hecate he does.
You’ve lost count of the amount of dates you and Eddie have been on. It’s been almost three months and you couldn’t be happier, but the anxiety of telling him about who you are has been clawing at the back of your mind and it needs to be soon. Joyce had warned you that if you don’t take action within the next few weeks then the window of opportunity will be sealed forever.
It seemed too soon like you were rushing into it. You hadn’t even said I love you, and yet you were expecting him to agree to a life of immortality with you?
Tonight, you had built up the courage to tell him about yourself. You invited Eddie over to your place. He has been here many times, but you glamoured most of the house to look somewhat normal. You hid your runes and sigils that were carved into your door frames, your potions room was made to look like a dining room, and your altar was locked away in the basement.
But tonight all of that would be revealed, hopefully, it would be a small amount of magic that would t make him go running for the hills.
As you looked around one last time, you heard Eddie approach the door.
With a deep breath, you feel Clover rub against your leg for reassurance.
“Thanks, babe.” You pick her up and open the door to see Eddie with his hand in a fist, like he was about to knock.
“How do you always do that” he smiles pulling you in for a kiss. You’re not sure how but he always makes your head spin with even the simplest of kisses.
“Call it intuition…”
You guide him into the kitchen and offer him a drink. He asked for a beer, and as you pour it into a glass, you may or may not have slipped a drop of that relaxing tonic you conjured up into it, just for insurance purposes.
“Mmm thank you, babe” Eddie smiles and you giggle at the a beer foam moustache on his face.
“What? Do I have something on my face?” You lean in a kiss it away.
“There, all better.” You lean back up to fix yourself a drink, a strong one.
You’re unusually quiet as the night goes on, and Eddie can sense something is up.
“You okay sweetheart?” He pushes your hair behind your shoulder as you both are curled up on the couch.
“Yea… it’s just. I have to tell you something, and I’m not sure how you’re going to take it.” You twiddle with your almost empty glass in hand.
“You can tell me anything, you know that? Eddie’s reassurance wasn’t helping, but it was nice that he truly thought that.
You take a big, deep breath in, trying to think back to how you rehearsed your lines in your head, and you begin.
“I want you to know that I care about you a lot.” You don’t miss Eddie’s eyes light up as you continue, “and I know what I am about to share is not what you’re going to expect, but you have to believe me that it changes nothing.” You look him deep in the eyes.
“You’re freaking me out, babe.” He laughs nervously, so you take both his hands in yours.
“It’s nothing bad, I promise.”
He chuckles uncomfortably once again.
“I’m not… like… other women.”
“No, you are not.” He wiggles his brows trying to lighten the mood.”
“Eddieeee” you draw out his name, “I’m serious.”
“Sorry, I‘ll be a good boy… for now.” You can’t help but roll your eyes.
Eddie laughs at your dramatics, but when your eyes roll back, making eye contact with him, he notices they’re not the same colour. They’re deep orange, almost auburn.
“Sweetheart, what’s going on” he tries to pull his hands away but you hold them tight.
“I told you, baby, I’m not like other women, I’m… different.” You thought letting the glamour of your eyes would help soften the blow but now you’re not so sure.
“Your eyes! They.. they’re orange!”
Eddie can’t look away, his face contorted with confusion.
“It’s because I’m anxious.”
“What does that mean?” He can’t look away. “Please, I want to understand.”
It wasn’t like he was scared more confused than anything.
“I’m a Witch, Eddie.” And with that you let the house revert to how it is supposed to be.
A guest of wind blew through the house and with it was unveiled the old wood, deep rich jewel tones painted on the walls, tapestries, the portraits of old coven members long gone, the broom sweeping by itself, the clean dishes being levitated to their correct spots.
Eddie was frozen, his jaw was moving up and down but no words were coming out. He looked around the changed room frantically but also did not want to look away from you. It’s not that he thought you would hurt him, no. He felt things for you that he’s never felt for one singular person… but now he isn’t so sure.
“This is insane” Eddie stood and your heart broke a little as you saw him start walking. Almost running to the door.
“Eddie, please! Let me explain! Don’t be scared!”
“Don’t be scared?! There is a broom moving by itself” he shouts.
“Please” you beg but it was of no use.
“Just, give me a second” he spoke before slamming the door behind him he leaves you alone in your big empty house.
Your eyes well up as you feel clover brush your ankles. Nudging you towards the door.
She was telling you to go after him, but how could you? You terrified him, your worst fears coming to reality.
“Clove, I can’t”
Yes, you can. She spoke to you telepathically.
As your familiar nudged you with her fluffy little head you stepped closer and closer toward the door.
Through the stained glass you could see a figure pacing up and down the dirt driveway.
“He didn’t leave” you whispered out loud.
See, you look down and Clover is eying you.
You decided to put the glamour back up, in case your eyes still freaked him out.
“Eddie” you call out tentatively.
“Babe, just… I need a minute” his breathing was heavy, his face contorted with confusion and he was mumbling to himself.
To think you’re the crazy one in this situation…
On the bright side, he still called you babe, and not by your name.
“Okay,” you stand awkwardly on the porch and wait for him to calm down.
After what felt like hours Eddie built up the courage to glance at you. His heart fluttered at the sight of you. Not because he was scared or nervous but because he knew you were it for him. Even after he digested the bomb you just dropped on him, he knew he wanted to be with you.
“You are one freaky girl” he pointed as he walked towards the porch steps.
“I thought you liked freaky” You can’t help but flirt. It came so naturally to him.
“You have no idea” he pulled you in for a hug. A suffocating, bone-crushing hug. One that told you he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Ok let’s talk,” he pulled away and you led him back in the house.
You started from the beginning, explaining the coven, how your parents were also magical, but had been off gallivanting through the Betwixed realm for years now.
“So, are you like 100 years old?” He smirks, and you smack his bicep.
“No, I’m exactly how old I told you I am”
“Sorry,” he laughed.
You explain how the magic works, and he asks you if you’ve ever used any on him.
“The only thing I have used in you is a tonic to calm you but it obviously didn’t work. Guess I needed more for you,” you half laugh to yourself.
“That’s it? Really?”
“Technically, yes.” you pause. and he waits silently for you to explain. “I performed an enchantment to find you.” You twiddle the hem of your skirt nervously.
“Oh?”
“It wasn’t you, specifically, more like a nudge to point us both in the right direction.”
“So that’s why I had that feeling to go somewhere and I hadn’t known why? That’s why I walked into your shop!” He snapped his fingers as he put the pieces together.
“Yeah,” you smile.
“So you desperately wanted me?” He moved closer, inviting your space.
“Desperate?” You gasp.
“Yes, little Witch” he placed a gentle finger on your chin, nudging you to look at him.
“We would have found one another eventually, it was written in the starts. Isn’t that what your cards told us?”
“But we are running out of time” you confess.
“What?” Eddie pulled back.
“There is this… rule, I guess you could call it? If a witch finds a mortal match, then they only have a small window to perform a ritual to make their loved one immortal, like them.”
“Immortal?”
“Yes, Eddie.” You sigh, “I can live forever if I want. We have life-extending magic, I don’t age the same. Our aging slows down as of the twentieth year of a witch’s life. I will look like this for the next sixty-five years probably.”
“Woah” Eddie whispers.
“And the thought of us going through life together with you growing old and dying.” You choke back tears.
“Hey, hey” Eddie soothed, and you took a deep breath.
“But there is something we can do.” You sniffle.
“I know it’s so soon, and a bit crazy. But I can promise you forever with me if that’s what you choose”
Eddie’s eyes widen at the offering, “you don’t have to give me an answer now, but I will need to know soon, maybe a month or so.”
“Then what?”
“Then I perform the ritual, or I wipe your memory clean of any of this” You can’t help your voice from cracking.
“Oh,” Eddie looks down in disappointment.
“Yeah….” A single purple tear falls down your cheek.
You look up at Eddie and he sees your eyes are a deep blue, so blue Eddie knows what that feeling means. Sadness, despair, suffering.
“So I live forever with you, or we break up?”
“Yeah,” you sombrely nod your head.
“What if I choose to live forever then, let’s say in a hundred years we decide to break up… then what?”
“That won’t happen, it doesn’t work like that.”
“How do you know?”
“The fates decided Eddie. When I cast the Amorem enchantment it draws the best two people suited for one another. Think of it like a soul mate match. We will never find another one suited for us.”
“What if I just want to live a normal life with you and not be immortal?”
“Then I’m going to look like this and you’ll be a wrinkled old prune… and eventually I would watch you die and know that I’ll never have another love like ours.”
“That dosen’t seem any better.” He sighs
“No, it’s much worse actually” You play with Eddie’s fingers as he contemplates his future.
“I think I’m going to need something a bit stronger than this beer” he laughs half heartedly.
“I have just the thing”
After you whipped up a mood-boosting elixir, your night with Eddie became much easier to get through. The damper had been lifted as you and Eddie got drunk off the potion, boosting your serotonin levels.
Eddie had never been so carefree and you were begging to feel much more positive about your future with Eddie. Maybe it was false hope in the fates, but you also trusted your magic.
“Can I ask you something?” Eddie and you were in your bed, tucked in after a long night of just wanting to be close to each other.
“Sure” Eddie scoops you into his chest.
“Are mermaids real? Because I would love to— ouch!”
“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence” you had pinched his nipple. Were you jealous? Maybe a little, but mermaids were vile creatures, nothing like Disney cracked them up to be.
“Are they real?” Eddie flinched.
“Unfortunately”
“Cool!”
“What about Vampires?”
“Yep.”
“Werewolves?”
“Yep.”
“Unicorns?”
“Come on Eddie don’t be ridiculous” you snort.
“What? So witches, vampires, mermaids and werewolves are all real but the universe draws the line at unicorns?!”
You burst out into a fit of giggles and before Eddie can even stop to think about what he is staying the words come tumbling out.
“God, I love you.”
The room falls quiet, no longer are you laughing.
“I uh- I mean-“
“I love you, too” You lean down to kiss him.
That nearly invisible force connecting you was now clear as day, to you at least. The magical pull that binds the two of you is now completed, and will never be broken.
A faint glow filled the room as Eddie and your lips connected, a warmth was felt throughout your whole body, you were sure Eddie felt it too. The magical thread that connected you, whether Eddie accepted the fates or not… even if you wiped his memory of you, you both would still be able to feel it. No matter how long or how far apart you were.
“Really? You love me?” Eddie asks.
“I just asked you to spend forever with me, and you’re questioning if I love you?”
“I just wanted to hear you say it again.” His lips brushed yours ever so slightly.
“I love you, Eddie Munson”
“I love you, little Witch.”
You let down your guard, the magic swirled in flecks of silver and gold light around the two of you as you lay on top of Eddie’s chest. His eyes widen at the sight above him. You were the most beautiful thing he had ever encountered.
“Woah” he gasped, awestruck at the floating lights. “I think I could get used to this magic thing”
You let out a breath you weren’t aware you were holding. Like a weight was lifted once you heard Eddie’s acceptance. Finally, you felt hopeful about your future.
It’s been a week and a half since your confession to Eddie and things are going surprisingly well. His fascination is ever-growing as he keeps coming up with questions to ask you. The nature of your reality was sinking in, he was enamoured with the thought of you being supernatural. He wanted to learn, and you were happy to teach you were happy he accepted you for who you are and not pushing you away from fear.
You hadn’t brought up the offer since that night, you were waiting for him to let you know his decision, but you were hopeful because of his fascination.
Today was a lazy day, you both have the rare day off at the same time, so Eddie was over and you were cuddling on the couch when he spoke up.
“I want to do it.”
“Do what, babe?”
“Forever with you.”
“Really?” a broad smile spreads across your face. nothing could keep you from your eyes turning yellow.
Eddie still wasn’t quite used to all your magical quirks. However, he loved that your true mood could be read just by looking into your eyes. He loved learning what each colour meant, especially when they were red.
“Really.” Eddie gave you a chaste kiss before pulling away to ask how the whole spell thing worked.
“I think you’re going to like it.” You smirk knowingly.
Sometime later, you were finally finished downstairs in your altar room. The circle of protection chalked on the floor. The muddled herbs, bark and flowers boiled down into a paste, and your grimour propped open onto the spell you needed.
The room was only lit by candlelight, twenty or so, spread across the room.
You reach for Eddie’s hand and guide him down the stairs.
“You must be sure this is one hundred percent what you want. It will not work if you are not willing to give up your mortality.”
“I’ve never been so sure about anyone.”
“Okay, let us begin” You smirk, knowing Eddie has no idea what he is getting himself into.
“Strip, please”
“Oh,” he raises a brow. Then he sees it. Your red eyes. “Ohhh” He quickly discards his clothing.
You watch as his cock is already stiffening.
“Now be a good boy and step into the circle and lay down,” you ask while also discarding your garments.
Eddie quickly obeys your orders.
“Would you like me to explain the steps before or do you want it to be a surprise?”
“Will it hurt?”
“No”
“Surprise me.” Eddie didn’t think his cock could be any harder. The anticipation was foreplay enough.
You begin the ritual with a deep breath, stepping into the circle with your crystal bowl you straddle Eddie. You scoop the paste you created and create sigils over eddies chest with them while chanting in a language Eddie didn’t recognize.
“Fata, cape hoc humanum meum scrinium amoris. Immortalis est sicut ego. Meus amor, mea lux. Vitam aeternam tribuo ei. Da ei eterinty.”
Your hips start to gride on Eddie’s as you get lost in the chant. Your magic starts to take over your body as you get lost in all of it. The feeling, the love, the magic. Your red eyes were now glowing pure white. Eddie gazed up at you in awe as you continued chanting. He was not sure if you were still here with him or if something had taken over your body.
“Fuck.” Eddie slips and your hand covers his mouth before your pussy slips his cock inside.
Possessed by the magic you were channelling, your body performs the spell. The faster you chanted, the faster you fucked Eddie.
Sex with you had been amazing, but nothing had compared to this. He loved the thrill of this, there was no way he would change his mind.
Eddie tried to tell you he was going to come, unsure if he was allowed to yet. But your hand still muffled his mouth.
You felt him deep in your gut, His thick cock stretching your walls, hitting every spot you needed. Euphoria was essential to the spell and Eddie sure was holding up his end of it.
You heard muffled mumbles come for Eddie and you released your hand from his mouth. You were so far into the chanting that you couldn’t be stopped now even if Eddie tried to interrupt.
“Fata, cape hoc humanum meum scrinium amoris. Immortalis est sicut ego. Meus amor, mea lux. Vitam aeternam tribuo ei. Da ei eterinty. Fata, cape hoc humanum meum scrinium amoris. Immortalis est sicut ego. Meus amor, mea lux. Vitam aeternam tribuo ei. Da ei eterinty.”
Eddie thinks those words will be etched into his memory forever.
His hands roam your body before planting them on your hips. He couldn’t help himself he had to have it harder. Planting his feet on the ground, Eddie snaps his hips up into you, meeting your pace. The wet sounds of skin-on-skin echo through the basement walls, faster and faster, louder and louder. Your voice trumps the delicious sounds of sex, and then it hits you both. Your mind-numbing, explosive orgasms rip through each of you. Your bodies shake, and you let out a loud cry of pure bliss.
A blinding white light fills the room, blowing out all the candles you lit before they relate themselves. You collapse on top of Eddie, exhausted by the amount of magic youve performed.
Breathless you and Eddie stay connected.
“It is done?” Eddie asks in a daze, not sure if he is supposed to feel any different.
Without enough energy to speak, you nod your head against Eddie’s chest.
“You’re incredible, little Witch.” and that is the last thing you remember before falling asleep.
You wake up, your cheek cemented to Eddie’s tattoo-clad chest.
“There she is.” Eddie storks your hair.
“How long was I out?” you mumble, rubbing the sleep from our eyes.
“An hour, I can only guess.”
Eddie shifted and you felt him still inside of you so you grind your soar hips so he slips further in.
“You’re a succubus.”
“You wish” You kiss his neck. “How do you feel?”
“Like I could move a mountian.” Eddie sighs as you grind down on him, cock growing with each push.
“Mmmm, good” you hum.
Eddie could no longer take it, even though he had the best orgasm of his life an hour ago, you were like a drug to him. He wanted more.
Flipping you around so you are on your back, Eddie spreads your legs further apart, watching how his cock buried deep within you.
You admire the now permanent sigil etched into his skin like a tattoo. You didn’t even know if Eddie was aware of the new ink that came with forever existence, but that all gets erased when his hips jerk so deeply within you that your eyes turn a colour Eddie has never seen before. The most beautiful deep purple.
“Baby" you moan.
“Fuck, little Witch,” you can’t help but clamp down on him.
“Oh you like that don’t you, Sorceress.”
“Y-yes” you tremble.”
Eddie can’t believe how powerful he feels; you’ve granted him this gift and he needs to show his appreciation in return.
He pulls out, and you plead, but not for long because he buries his face between your legs. Your sweet slick coats his tongue as it dances around your clit.
“More” You plead. Your hips gride down on his chin, and the stubble on his cheeks scrapes your inner thighs.
“I’ll give you anything you want.” He was yours to serve. His tounge swirls around your extra sensitive clit.
“Make me cum.”
A wave of pleasure hits you hard when Eddie pushes his cock back inside your needy cunt. With each thrust, he works himself through your orgasm, making your head spin; wave after wave consumes your body. You feel his hands graze your nipples, tweaking them and making you clench down on him even tighter.
With Eddie’s head thrown back, sweat dripping down his chest glittering the candle light he looked like a deity.
After one more final thrust Eddie collapses on top of you.
“That was amazing.” He nuzzles into your neck and you can’t help but agree.
When Eddie finally pulls out, you feel a rush of release come out with him.
“You’re a messy little Witch, aren’t you?”
“Me?”
“Yes” he slips a finger through your slit collecting your combined cum and you jerk away, your cunt all so sensitive.
“Well, you’re the one who asked for it” you smirk.
“I would be an idiot to deny being with you like this for eternity”
When your 7th grade class is selected to participate in a prison pen pal program, you're unexpectedly thrust into the mix when the number of inmates is more than students in your class. After a bit of persuading, you take on a pen pal yourself. Little did you know that accepting that offer would change your life...for the better.
series cw: FLUFF, ANGST, SMUT. eddie and reader are implied to be around 28/29, implied drinking problem (reader), descriptions of domestic abuse towards reader, reader is divorced, reader was in an age gap relationship, talks of miscarriages and infertility, protected and unprotected sex, blood is mentioned at times. each year has it's own content warnings.
a/n: this morning i felt a sudden urge to complete this bit i had saved in my notes app. with this part the way i had updated these short stories is no longer chronological, but i had always wanted to discover more about these two during the festivites
description: Set during the Midsommer festivities, Pelle introduces the reader to his culture as she takes care of Dani.
warnings: heavy cult leader behaviour,
word count: 1815
read this fic on ao3, part five of my flower crown series. but if you had seen the movie this can be read on its own.
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
