SUMMARY: The five times Dean realizes you're more than just his childhood best friend, and the one time he finally does something about it.
WARNINGS: Friends to eventual lovers, idiots in love, slow burn romance, psychology!student, fluff, slight angst, non-graphic descriptions of an injury, cursing, jealousy, sexual innuendos, domestic bliss (Dean is down bad), rushed ending sorry!
A/N: Happy Fourth of July!! 🇺🇸 I’ve ALWAYS wanted to write one of these fics and inspiration finally struck! Let me know what you guys think, and if you want to see more! Hope y’all enjoy!! Divider by @dividers-are-us <3
➩ main masterlist
➩ dean di laurentis masterlist
1. Garrett’s not so secret feelings
After a brutal Friday in the weight room with Beau, Dean wanted nothing more than to demolish whatever leftovers Tucker had most likely abandoned in the fridge, scrub the sweat and soreness off his skin, and disappear in his room until Monday. The workout had been relentless. His shoulders ached, his legs felt like concrete, and he was fairly certain Beau got some sick enjoyment out of making him suffer.
As he pushed through the front door of the hockey house, the familiar scent of stale pizza, laundry detergent, and whatever Tucker had cooked earlier greeted him. He kicked off his shoes near the entrance and rolled his neck, already mentally planning his evening. That's when he noticed you and Garrett sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen island, textbooks spread across the countertop.
Dean slowed, not because Garrett was studying, that wasn't unusual lately, but because Garrett looked utterly miserable. "Jesus," Garrett groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Remind me again why you want to pursue a career in this?" His eyes narrowed at the open psychology textbook like it had personally offended him. "Not memorizing the difference between operant conditioning and classical conditioning isn't the end of the world, G."
Dean couldn't help smiling. Somehow, whenever you were around, the house felt lighter. Before either of you could react, he crossed the room and made a beeline toward the kitchen island. Garrett spotted him first, a knowing smirk immediately tugged at his mouth, one which Dean blatantly ignored it. You barely had enough time to look up before all six-foot-two of him folded himself around you.
One arm slid around your shoulders, the other wrapped around your waist as his face buried itself in your hair as he let out a long, exhausted groan. "If you're having trouble distinguishing classical and operant conditioning, just make flash cards," You advised Garrett, as though you weren't currently trapped beneath an oversized hockey player. "Handwritten ones. They always helped me."
Without even thinking about it, your fingers slipped between Dean's where his hand rested against your stomach. The gesture was entirely unconscious. Dean's tired brain barely registered it, but Garrett's definitely did. "Are we not going to address the overgrown golden retriever currently hanging off your shoulder?" Garrett questioned, motioning toward Dean.
In response, Dean didn't move, in fact, his hold only tightened around your waist. You rolled your eyes at both their antics. "Are we not going to address the fact that you're here 'studying' on a Friday night because you refuse to admit your feelings for Hannah and couldn't stand the thought of her going out with Justin tonight?" The reaction was immediate, Garrett immediately went red, really red.
His jaw clenched as he snapped his attention back to his notes with exaggerated concentration. "Your girl is disturbingly insightful, Di Laurentis." He muttered which made you scoff as you playfully nudged his shin with your foot from across the table. “Damn straight she is.” Dean’s answer came instantly, low and smug, with a kiss pressed to your forehead that you unconsciously leaned into which made Dean's stomach do something profoundly embarrassing.
For a few moments, only the rustle of paper and the hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen. Then you reached across the counter and squeezed Garrett's hand, your expression softening. "Hey, G," You muttered softly as Garrett's eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. "For what it's worth, I don't think Hannah likes Justin nearly as much as you think she does." Garrett squeezed your hand back, hope flashing across his face before he could hide it.
Dean watched the exchange quietly, body still wrapped around you. He didn't notice the way his thumb kept tracing small absent minded circles against your waist. He did notice that when you smiled at Garrett, he felt oddly jealous of his best friend for getting that look. And for the first time in a very long time, Dean couldn't help but wonder if maybe his attachment to his childhood "friend" wasn't quite as platonic as he'd always pretended it was.
2. Self-Care Day with Summer
Safe to say Dean had a shitty day.
All he wanted now was you. He wanted to kick off his shoes, collapse onto his bed, and bury himself in your arms while your fingers lazily carded through his messy hair. He wanted your soft voice filling the silence, your hand rubbing slow circles across his back until the tension seeped from every tight muscle in his body. The guys would never let him live it down if they knew, but Dean really couldn't bring himself to care.
As he pushed open the front door of the hockey house, the familiar sounds of shouting commentators and button mashing greeted him. Logan and Tucker were planted on opposite ends of the couch, controllers gripped tightly in their hands as they battled it out on the TV. An empty pizza box sat abandoned on the coffee table, surrounded by half-empty Gatorade bottles and crumpled napkins.
Dean barely spared them a glance, his eyes immediately sweeping areas where you'd probably be. The kitchen, empty. The dining room, nothing. No backpack tossed over one of the chairs. No oversized sweatshirt draped over the counter. No mug of tea you'd inevitably forget to finish. "Looking for your girl?" Logan's amused voice pulled him from his search. Without taking his eyes off the television, a knowing smirk spread across his face.
Dean didn't even bother correcting him anymore. "You seen her?" He asked, already craning his neck toward the hallway as if you might magically appear. Logan shrugged one shoulder. "She was here with Wellsy earlier. Upstairs probably." That was all Dean needed. He took the stairs two at a time, each step creaking beneath his weight. His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as he headed straight for his bedroom.
"Y/N?" He called, knocking lightly before twisting the doorknob. The room was empty, bed neatly made, and the hoodie you'd stolen from him last week was nowhere to be found. Dean frowned. Without even realizing what he was doing, his phone was already in his hand, your contact pulled up from muscle memory. His thumb hit the call button before he had a chance to even think twice.
The phone rang twice before: "Hi, Dicky!" Dean physically recoiled. "What the hell— Summer?" His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "What are you doing with Y/N's phone?" An exaggerated scoff crackled through the speaker, he could practically see Summer rolling her eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, Dicky," Summer huffed. "She doesn't belong to you. She was my friend first."
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, a fresh headache blooming almost instantly. "Just give her the phone, Summer." He heard muffled voices, the sound of the phone changing hands, and then: "Hi, Dean." It was amazing what two simple words could do. The knot between his shoulder blades loosened. His jaw unclenched. The lingering frustration in his body eased just from hearing your voice. A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.
"Babydoll," He murmured, unable to hide the relief in his voice. "Where are you? And why on earth are you with my hellion of a sister?" Your soft laugh drifted through the speaker, warm enough to make him wish you were standing beside him instead. Somewhere in the background, Summer barked an offended, "Dick." You laughed harder before finally answering. "She called me this morning after my eight a.m. class. She was having a bad day, so I drove into Manhattan to spend the day with her."
"You drove all the way to Manhattan?" Dean blinked. "Of course I did, Summer needed me." His heart did that stupid thing it always seemed to do around you. You hadn't hesitated. Summer needed someone, and you'd simply gone. No complaints. Just packed your things and made the drive because someone you cared about asked. There was another shuffle on the other end before Summer snatched the phone back. "Retail therapy works wonders, Dicky," She announced proudly.
"She'll be all yours tomorrow, but today?" Summer continued, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "Today she's mine. Love you. Bye!" Seconds later, the line went suddenly dead. Dean stared down at his phone for several long seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh. Of course Summer would steal your phone. Of course she'd hang up before he could get another word in.
But none of that was what stuck with him. What lingered was the realization that the second his sister admitted she was struggling, you'd dropped everything and driven nearly four hours just to make sure Summer didn't have to be alone. No hesitation. No expectation of anything in return. Just because that's who you were. Dean had always known you had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met. Today, though...
Today, he caught himself wishing he was more than just a friend.
3. The Injury
"Let her through! She's with the team!" Garrett's authoritative voice cut cleanly through the chaos surrounding the arena tunnel, commanding enough that even over the frantic chatter, blaring arena speakers, and the lingering roar of thousands of fans filing toward the exits, everyone nearby turned their heads. However, you barely heard him. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly in your ears it drowned out almost everything else.
"I'm the captain of this team," Garrett interrupted sharply, stepping between you and security. "She's family." The guard hesitated only a second before stepping aside. The moment the path cleared, your feet carried you forward before your brain had a chance to catch up. Garrett fell into step beside you, one steady hand settling against the middle of your back as if he could feel the way your entire body trembled.
"How is he?" Your voice barely sounded like your own. Garrett's jaw tightened. "The medic thinks he'll be out at least two weeks." His expression darkened. "Mild concussion and a fractured ankle." Hot fury ignited beneath your ribs. Not at Dean, but at the player who had recklessly swept his stick between Dean's legs. You'd watched it happen. There'd been no attempt to play the puck. It was just a cheap shot.
A dangerous one.
Your hands curled into fists as the replay flashed through your mind all over again. "He keeps asking for you," Garrett continued, his tone softening. "Won't let anyone get a word in." Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched. "He's being more annoying than usual," Garrett added with a tired sigh. "Logan and Tucker are about five minutes away from knocking him unconscious themselves."
That definitely sounded like Dean. "I should probably go micromanage before they make good on that threat." Garrett chuckled under his breath and pulled open the door to the medical room. The sight waiting on the other side nearly made your knees buckle. Dean sat propped awkwardly on the examination chair, his hockey pants and jersey still on, shoulder pads discarded in a heap beside him.
His normally perfect blond curls were damp with sweat and flattened where his helmet had been, several loose strands sticking out in every direction. A medic knelt beside him, carefully supporting his injured ankle while a PT intern shined a light into his eyes, checking his pupils. Logan and Tucker both stood on each side of him, still wearing their jerseys, neither looking remotely interested in getting changed until they knew Dean was okay.
"Garrett went to get her, just wait." Logan reminded him patiently, keeping a firm hand planted on Dean's shoulder the second he tried to stand again. "Let the medic finish checking you out, man." Tucker coaxed like the mother hen he was. Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue then his eyes found yours. It was almost eerie, like he'd sensed you before you'd even stepped through the doorway.
The tension visibly drained from his shoulders. Relief flooded his features so quickly it made your chest ache. "Babydoll..." He breathed, every ounce of stubbornness disappearing. "Thank fuck." He sank back into the chair, extending both hands toward you without an ounce of hesitation. "C'mere... please." There wasn't a universe where you wouldn't. You crossed the room in two quick strides.
The second your fingers slipped between his, Dean gripped them like a lifeline. Like he'd been holding himself together by sheer force of will until you walked through that door. Your eyes immediately began searching him. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. Fresh bruising already blooming beneath one eye. A split lip. The ugly swelling around his ankle. "You scared the hell out of me, Dean." You whispered, your voice catching despite your best efforts to keep it steady.
Dean's thumb swept absentminded circles across the back of your hand. Whatever pain medication they'd given him had softened the hard edges around his eyes, leaving him wearing a crooked, hopelessly boyish smile that somehow made him look younger. "How's your head?" You asked gently, your free hand lifted almost on its own, brushing one stubborn blond curl away from his forehead before tucking it back into place.
Your fingertips lingered there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, wanting the reassurance that he was really here. Dean leaned unconsciously into your touch. "Never had any complaints, babydoll." He punctuated the line with an exaggerated wink. An audible chorus of groans filled the room. "Oh my fucking God." Logan muttered, eyes rolling. "He's concussed and still flirting." Tucker complained, rubbing both hands down his face.
You felt heat instantly flood your cheeks, but ultimately chose to ignore it. "Oh, you're absolutely fine." You huffed, rolling your eyes as you tried to tug your hand free. Only Dean wasn't having it. His fingers tightened around yours and with one gentle pull, he drew you closer until you stood between his knees, your bodies only inches apart. The teasing grin he'd been wearing slowly faded.
Something quieter settled over his features, something almost fragile. His thumb continued tracing slow circles across your knuckles, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here. That he could still hold your hand. "Thanks for being here." The words came quietly. Without the usual confidence. Without a joke to soften them. Just plain, raw honesty. You didn't even have to think about your answer.
Your other hand rose to cup his cheek, brushing over the rough stubble beginning to grow along his jaw. "There's nowhere else I'd be." Dean's breath caught. Those five simple words landed somewhere deep inside his chest, slipping past every wall he'd spent years carefully building. He'd spent so long convincing himself that what he felt for you was just harmless, a silly crush that would eventually go away.
But watching you burst through security with tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Feeling your hands check every bruise like you could somehow erase the pain. Hearing you tell him there was nowhere else you'd rather be. It unraveled him. The feeling he'd been trying so desperately to bury came rushing back all at once, stronger than ever. Because for one terrifying moment on that ice, he'd thought he might open his eyes and not get to see you looking at him like he was the only person in the room.
4. Tucker’s Deathbed
Dean: Might wanna stay away tonight, Tuck’s got one hell of a cold.
Respectfully, there was no way in hell you were listening to that text. Your psychology paper on stress sat half-finished on your laptop, several journal articles scattered across your desk, but they could wait another night. Tucker couldn't. Besides, you knew exactly why Dean had texted you. He wasn't trying to be controlling, far from it.
He knew how often you caught whatever bug was going around campus, and the last thing he wanted was for you to spend the next week sniffling and miserable. It was sweet, but it was also completely futile seeing as your mind was already made up. You quickly shoved your laptop shut, gathered your keys, slipped your feet into your sneakers, and headed out the door before you had the chance to think twice about it.
Ten minutes later, you were pulling into the familiar driveway of the hockey house. The porch light cast a warm glow over the worn wooden steps, and the second you let yourself inside, the usual atmosphere felt...off. There was no music blasting from Logan's room. No laughter echoing through the halls. No Tucker humming while experimenting with whatever recipe had caught his attention that week.
Closing the front door behind you, your gaze immediately landed on the couch. "Oh, sweet Tuck." Your voice softened into something almost maternal. Tucker looked absolutely miserable. He was cocooned beneath two thick blankets despite the thermostat being turned up, curly hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed an unhealthy shade of pink. A mountain of crumpled tissues littered the coffee table beside half-empty glasses of water and an abandoned mug of tea that had long since gone cold.
Setting your purse onto the nearest chair, you crossed the room quietly until you stood beside the couch. Your hand found his forehead with featherlight pressure, careful not to startle him awake. The warmth beneath your palm made you hiss. His skin was damp with sweat, far warmer than it should've been. He cracked one sleepy eye open before lazily batting your hand away with all the strength of a disgruntled toddler. "You're gonna get sick, Y/N." He mumbled, voice rough from congestion.
"Have you taken anything? Eaten?" You asked, purposely ignoring him. A weak shake of his head made you frown as he burrowed farther beneath the blanket until all you could really see was the top of his head. Without another word, you disappeared into the kitchen. Opening cabinet after cabinet, you smiled when everything was exactly where you'd expected. If there was one thing Tucker took almost as seriously as hockey, it was cooking.
Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work. Butter melted with a quiet sizzle before onions, carrots, and celery joined the pot, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of sautéing vegetables. Garlic followed moments later, its rich scent curling through the house. You shredded leftover rotisserie chicken Tucker had prepared earlier in the week, added handfuls of fresh herbs from the windowsill, poured in the homemade stock, and let everything simmer low and slow.
Nearly twenty minutes later, the soup bubbled gently on the stove, filling every room with warmth. Which was probably why the front door swung open. Logan stepped inside first, Garrett followed, and Dean came in last. All three stopped dead in the entryway as the unmistakable scent of homemade chicken noodle soup drifted toward them. Dean's gaze found you almost instantly, it was second nature nowadays.
You stood at the stove in one of Tucker's aprons, sleeves pushed to your elbows as you stirred the soup with practiced ease. Something deep in his chest squeezed painfully the more he looked at you. God, you looked like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged there. His stomach flipped at the domestic image. The thought came so naturally it almost scared him. He could picture this years from now: Coming home after practice. Finding you in a kitchen making dinner, scolding one of the guys for skipping lunch.
It was such a simple fantasy, one he had absolutely no business imagining. "I thought I told you to stay home." Dean's voice carried equal parts exasperation and concern as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Last I checked, none of you know how to cook," You replied matter-of-factly while ladling soup into bowls. "Tuck needs homemade soup not whatever sodium-packed excuse for soup you three would've heated up from a can." Their silence spoke volumes.
Oh how you loved being right.
You slid two steaming bowls across the island toward Garrett and Logan who were openly salivating. "Sit and eat." Both men obeyed immediately, neither needed to be told twice. "You're my favorite person ever." Logan declared, already reaching for a spoon. "I've been saying that for years," Garrett chimed in, grinning as he accepted the bowl. "Thanks, sweetheart."
Dean watched the exchange in silence, eyes never leaving you as he watched you carry another bowl into the living room. You crouched beside Tucker, placing the soup carefully on the coffee table before setting cold medicine and a bottle of water beside it. "There we go." Your fingers brushed his forehead once more. "A little less warm." Tucker managed the weakest smile imaginable before taking a tentative bite.
Within minutes he looked noticeably more alive. Color slowly returned to his face as warmth spread through him. Dean, however, couldn't stop watching you. Couldn't stop noticing how naturally you slipped into caretaker mode. You remembered everyone's favorite meals. You always noticed when one of them skipped breakfast. You always looked after them without ever expecting anything in return.
It was simply woven into who you were.
"Serious question." Logan's voice pulled everyone's attention back toward the dining table. You looked up, brows furrowing and mentally preparing for what Logan was about to say. He pointed his spoon toward you. "Why has literally nobody wifed you up yet?" Your eyes widened, heat creeping up into your cheeks as you blinked at him processing his words. A nervous laugh escaped as you simply shrugged one shoulder instead of answering.
Thankfully, Logan accepted your non-answer. "Wild." He muttered before returning his full attention to the soup in front of him. You let out a quiet breath of relief, completely missing what happened across the room. Tucker slowly lifted his gaze as Garrett did the same, both men turning towards Dean in perfect synchronization. Dean was already glaring at them, if looks could kill both hockey players would already be six-feet under.
Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and Tucker looked seconds away from bursting out laughing despite the gruesome cold. Because they both knew. They'd watched Dean stare at you from the second he'd walked through the front door. Watched his eyes follow every movement you made. Watched the way his expression softened whenever you smiled his way.
Logan, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation unfolding beside him, happily shoveled another spoonful of soup into his mouth. Dean barely noticed, because despite his two smartass friends smirking at his obliviousness, his attention had drifted back to you. Back to the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you rinsed dishes. Back to the quiet hum you made under your breath while cleaning Tucker's kitchen.
Back to how effortlessly you took care of people you loved.
You were a catch. Dean had always known that. He'd known it long before anyone else started noticing. Long before Logan blurted it out over dinner. The problem was, other people were starting to realize it too. And someday, someone was going to look at you the way Dean already did. They'd flirt with you. Take you out. Learn your coffee order. Memorize the little wrinkle that appeared beside your nose whenever you laughed.
Most importantly, they'd get to call you theirs. The thought alone lodged itself beneath his ribs like a skate blade carving into fresh ice. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. You were his childhood best friend. He should've been thrilled if someone made you happy. Instead, all he could think was: I hope they don't. And that terrified him far more than any hockey game ever could.
5. The Male Gaze
"Hey, Y/N, is it true that Archer Beckett asked you out?" The question left Beau's mouth so casually you'd think he was asking you about the weather. Dean, on the other hand, nearly inhaled his beer. He coughed violently, setting the bottle down with a little more force than intended as carbonation burned the back of his throat. Beside him, Garrett didn't even attempt to hide his grin, his shoulders already beginning to shake with silent laughter.
Across the table, you took another leisurely sip of your piña colada, completely oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding three feet away. "He did." You confirmed, shrugging nonchalantly. Dean's entire body went rigid, his jaw locked so tightly he could feel his molars grinding together. Archer Beckett, of course it had to be Archer fucking Beckett. The lacrosse captain had been circling you for weeks like a damn shark.
Every time Dean turned around, Archer was "coincidentally" showing up wherever you happened to be, outside the psych building, in line at the campus coffee shop, even at Malone's after games. Dean had noticed, he noticed everything when it came to you. "What'd you tell him?" Hannah wondered from across the table, tucked comfortably beneath Garrett's arm.
Dean sat a little straighter without realizing it, every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for your answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Garrett and Beau exchanging identical shit-eating grins. Again. Lately they'd been doing that a lot. Assholes. You swirled the straw around your drink absentmindedly before answering as though the conversation couldn't possibly be less important. "I told him I wasn't interested."
Dean forgot how to breathe. Relief washed over him so suddenly it nearly made him dizzy. It came in one overwhelming wave, loosening the knot in his chest before he'd even processed why. His shoulders relaxed and the death grip he'd had on his beer bottle eased. A part of him, a part he'd spent months trying very hard to ignore, felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.
"The guy's relentless," Garrett observed, lifting his beer toward his lips. "I'm honestly surprised he backed off that easily." Dean caught the smug smirk Garrett aimed directly at him over the rim of his bottle. The silent message couldn't have been clearer: You hear that, Di Laurentis? She turned him down. Make your move, idiot. Dean responded by silently mouthing, I'm going to kill you to which Garrett's grin only widened.
Thankfully, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent death threats being exchanged across the table. "I need another drink." You stood, gathering your empty glass before pointing toward the bar. "Anyone want a refill?" Everyone but Hannah declined. Dean opened his mouth to offer to go with you, but the opportunity disappeared before the words reached his tongue because you were already weaving through the various crowds of people toward the bar.
His eyes followed instinctively as they always did. He watched as you smiled at Allie the second you reached the bar, leaning comfortably against the polished wood as the short brunette reached over the counter to squeeze your hand before beginning your drink. Dean couldn't help smiling too. "Dude, you're so whipped." Beau's voice yanked him back to reality. Dean managed to drag his gaze away from you just long enough to glare murderously at his best friend.
"At least pretend you're listening to us instead of staring at her like she hung the moon. You've watched her walk to the bar like four times already, man." Garrett interrupted, amusement dancing across his face. Dean scoffed at Garrett's words, opening his mouth to rebuttal before Hannah held her hand up stopping him. "Dean, at least try to hide it better." Hannah teased, smiling far too knowingly.
"Wellsy, don't encourage them." Dean groaned dramatically. "I'm not encouraging anything." Hannah's smile only grew. "I'm just observing." Dean rolled his eyes dramatically before looking back toward the televisions mounted behind the bar. Or at least, that was his intention. Instead, his attention landed on you again, watching as your eyes were fixated on Shane Hollander as he carried the puck through the neutral zone while Ilya Rozanov shadowed him stride for stride on the television screen.
Dean smiled despite himself, only you would get distracted by hockey while ordering drinks. Then he noticed them. Three guys at the opposite end of the bar. One of them glanced your way, then another. A fourth turned completely around in his stool. Dean's smile vanished instantly. They weren't watching the game, they were watching you. His grip tightened around his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.
One of them, a tall brunette with an easy grin and far too much confidence nudged his friend before climbing off his stool. Dean's pulse immediately picked up as he watched the guy walk straight toward you. "I just love it when he gets territorial." Beau snickered as Hannah immediately elbowed Garrett in the ribs hard enough to earn an exaggerated grunt, though the smile she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress betrayed her.
They'd all noticed. Of course they did.
Dean didn't bother with them, his gaze was solely on you, stomach twisting unpleasantly. He had absolutely no right to feel possessive. You weren't his girlfriend. Hell, you weren't even remotely close to being his. You could flirt with whoever you wanted. Accept drinks from whoever you wanted. Go on dates with whoever you wanted. The thought alone made something ugly twist low in his stomach.
Jealousy.
Because it wasn't just that he didn't want Archer Beckett asking you out anymore. He didn't want anyone asking you out. He didn't want another guy making you laugh. Didn't want someone else memorizing your coffee order. Didn't want someone else bringing you flowers during finals week because they knew you were stressed. Didn't want someone else being the person you instinctively reached for.
He didn't want to be just your best friend anymore. He wanted to be the man sitting beside you. The one whose hand you'd reach for beneath the table. The one you'd kiss goodnight. The one you'd introduce as yours. Thankfully, after a few gruesome minutes which really seemed like decades, he watched as the brunette returned to his friends a few moments later. Empty-handed; no longer smiling and head hung low. Only then did Dean realize he'd been holding his breath.
You followed shortly after, balancing two frozen piña coladas with practiced ease, once again, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis currently unfolding inside Dean's head. "What'd he want?" The question escaped before Dean could stop it. You slid Hannah's drink across the table before answering. "Oh," You shrugged, hand waving dismissively as if it was no big deal. "He wanted to buy me a drink, but I told him my boyfriend was waiting for me."
Silence.
Dean stared, his brain stopped functioning altogether.
"Boyfriend?" He echoed weakly. You looked at him as though the answer was obvious, a tiny smile tugged at your lips. "I knew he wouldn't question it if I pointed at you." Dean's heart slammed against his ribs. You'd said it so naturally, so effortlessly. As if pretending Dean was yours had come as easily as breathing. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his forearm, the simple touch nearly undid him.
"You don't mind, do you, Dean?" You looked almost worried, like the possibility of upsetting him genuinely bothered you. Across the table, Garrett looked ready to burst into laughter. Beau had outright stopped pretending to hide his grin. Even Hannah pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Yet, Dean barely noticed. He was too busy imagining what it would've felt like if your words had actually been true. My boyfriend. God, he wanted to hear you say that again.
Not as an excuse, not to get rid of some random guy at a bar, but because you meant it. The realization settled over him with startling certainty. He wasn't just protective. He wasn't just attached because you'd been friends forever. He wasn't just comfortable around you. He was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with his best friend. And judging by the three idiots trying and failing not to laugh across the table, everyone seemed to know it before he did.
He swallowed hard, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before forcing himself to smile. "Course not, babydoll." You smiled back, satisfied with his answer, completely unaware that the tiny lie had just shattered what was left of his resolve. Because the truth was, Dean minded more than he could ever admit. Not because you'd called him your boyfriend, but because he wasn't. God, he wanted to be. More than his next championship. More than hockey. More than anything.
+1 The Hat Trick
The sharp November air nipped at your cheeks the second you stepped out of the car, your breath curling into soft white clouds as you made your way toward the entrance of the Briar arena. Even after countless games, countless Friday nights spent wrapped in Briar blue, there was still something magical about hockey nights.
The bright arena lights reflected against the freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, music boomed through the speakers as students flooded into the stands. Your eyes immediately searched for one player in particular. Dean, it was always Dean. The knot that had lived in your stomach for the past two weeks loosened the moment you spotted number sixty-six gliding effortless laps around center ice during warmups.
He was back. After the concussion and the fractured ankle. After countless days of sitting beside his bed while he complained about being benched, insisting he was "perfectly fine," and begged you to sneak him out of physical therapy. The team medic had finally cleared him that morning. Watching him skate again should've filled you with relief. Instead, your traitorous brain decided to notice how his practice jersey stretched across his shoulders every time he leaned into a stride.
How the muscles in his thighs flexed beneath his hockey pants as he dug his edges into the ice. How one damp blond curl escaped beneath his helmet while he stretched against the boards. You tore your eyes away with an embarrassed cough. Absolutely not. There was a hockey game to watch, not Dean Di Laurentis looking unfairly attractive while doing literally anything. Beside you, Hannah caught the direction of your gaze, hiding a knowing smile behind her cup of hot chocolate.
Thankfully, the referee's whistle echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the game before she could say anything. The opening puck drop snapped your attention back where it belonged. The first period against Harvard flew by in a blur of hard checks and blistering speed. Dean looked like he'd never left the lineup. He was everywhere. Breaking up passes through the neutral zone. Winning puck battles along the boards. Setting crushing screens in front of Harvard's goalie.
Even when he wasn't scoring, he dictated the pace every time his line hopped over the boards. Midway through the first period, Garrett intercepted a sloppy pass just inside Briar's blue line.Without hesitation, he banked the puck off the boards toward Logan, who exploded down the right wing with Tucker keeping pace on the opposite side. The three connected like they shared one brain.
Logan faked a slapshot which allowed for Tucker to intercept, cleanly sliding the puck into the goal. The red light flashed, the goal horn erupted, and the arena exploded. You shot to your feet along with Hannah and everyone else, cheering until your throat burned. Dean was the first one to reach Tucker, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before shoving his helmet affectionately.
By the middle of the second period, Logan buried one of his own after Dean fought through two defenders behind the net to feed him a perfect no-look pass. A few minutes later Tucker struck again on the power play after Garrett rifled a shot from the point that bounced straight onto Tucker's stick. Everything Briar touched seemed to turn into goals tonight. The chemistry between the four upperclassmen was almost unfair to watch.
Every pass landed tape-to-tape. Every line change happened seamlessly. Every player seemed to know exactly where the others would be before they even got there. At the end of the second period, Briar held a comfortable 3-1 lead against Harvard. "Dean is going to lose his mind when he sees you in his jersey tonight." Hannah leaned closer with an unmistakably mischievous smile, which made a blush climb up your neck as you instinctively glanced down.
Dean's navy blue jersey hung almost to the middle of your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely. You'd borrowed it from Beau after he'd insisted Dean deserved a little 'extra motivation'. "He hasn't even noticed." Hannah smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Trust me babe, he'll notice." Before you could ask what that cryptic statement meant, the buzzer sounded meaning that the third period had officially began.
Harvard came out desperate. Every shift became increasingly physical as the numbers of the clock counted down. Bodies slammed into the glass hard enough to make the boards rattle. Unfortunately, the referees' whistles remained suspiciously quiet. You hated when games turned like this, knowing that the desperation made players reckless. Halfway through the period, Dean carried the puck through the neutral zone with impossible speed.
One defender challenged him, luckily Dean was able to effortlessly slip around him effortlessly only for a second to step up. Dean toe-dragged the puck between the man's skates. The crowd collectively rose to its feet, only before he could shoot, a Harvard defenseman drove him shoulder-first into the plexiglass. Your breath caught as the impact thundered through the arena. Dean, however, bounced off the boards, somehow maintaining possession before spinning away from another defender.
He never even looked shaken, instead he cut toward the slot. Garrett anticipated the play perfectly. One crisp pass was all it took for Dean to snap a wrist shot through the two defenders. The net rippled as the goal horn blared yet again. You were already on your feet before you realized you'd moved. Dean pointed toward the student section as his teammates swarmed him in congratulatory helmet bumps. For one irrational second, you could've sworn he was looking directly at you.
When you finally sat back down, Hannah's grin could've powered the entire arena. "Told you." You shoved her shoulder, which only made her grin widen. "Oh, shut up." Only, you were smiling too hard to sound annoyed. Barely ninety seconds later, Dean struck again. Logan forced a turnover at center ice and immediately passed to Garrett. In response, Garrett threaded a pass between two Harvard sticks that had absolutely no business making it through.
Dean picked it up in stride, one fake forehand made the goalie drop in anticipation to which Dean calmly pulled the puck back to his backhand and slid it between the goalie's pads before anyone could react. Another goal and another explosion from the crowd. Your hands hurt from clapping, voice embarrassingly hoarse yet you couldn't find youself to care. The scoreboard now read 5-1 which in turn made Harvard's frustration boil over.
With just over two minutes remaining in the third period, one of their forwards blindsided Logan long after he'd dumped the puck in the net. Gasps echoed around the arena as Logan crashed awkwardly into the boards. Dean was halfway across the ice before Logan even climbed back to his skates, Garrett and Tucker followed immediately after seeing Dean shove the Harvard player backward with enough force to send him stumbling several feet.
Luckily, the freshmen on Briar's bench dragged the upperclassmen away before punches started flying. One minute remained. The arena buzzed with nervous anticipation despite Briar's lead, your lip was caught between your teeth watching as Garrett and Dean wordlessly communicated with one another. No words were exchanged. Years of playing together had made communication almost instinctive.
Garrett stole the puck near Briar's blue line and Dean was there in an instant, already alert. Garrett feathered a perfect stretch pass through the neutral zone. Dean caught it in stride without breaking rhythm. One defender remained, shifting left as the the defenseman followed. Dean snapped the puck back right through his own skates, slipping around him with breathtaking ease. The goalie lunged. Dean, however, waited until the last possible second lifting the puck cleanly beneath the crossbar.
The red light flashed and the horn sounded. For a heartbeat, the arena went completely silent, then every single person inside exploded. "A HAT TRICK BY #66, DEAN DI LAURENTIS!" The announcer's voice echoed through the building. Without thinking you threw your arms around Hannah, the two of you laughed as you nearly toppled into the row in front of you, hugging each other while the entire team tackled Dean beneath an avalanche of helmets and gloves.
Six-two. Final. Dean Di Laurentis. Hat trick.
You'd never been prouder. By the time you and Hannah reached the tunnel, your heart was still racing, body buzzing with adrenaline. Players filtered through in small groups, laughing loudly as they relived every goal. Garrett appeared first and Hannah didn't hesitate. She practically flew into his arms, you couldn't help but beam as Garrett caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before pressing a kiss against her forehead before dipping down and pressing one to her lips.
Then, Dean walked through. His helmet had disappeared somewhere during the celebration, blond curls damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed from exertion. When his eyes caught yours, everything ceased to exist. The coaches. The teammates. The reporters. The noise. There was only you. In two quick strides he was right in front of you. One second there was a few feet separating the two of you and the next, his hands were around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the concrete.
A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your feet left the ground. Instinctively, your arms wound around his neck, fingers brushing against the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He held you impossibly close, burying his face against your shoulder for the briefest moment as his heartbeat hammered wildly against your chest. He'd just scored a hat trick. The arena had chanted his name. Thousands of hats had rained onto the ice. Yet none of it compared to this. None of it compared to having you in his arms.
You melted into his embrace without hesitation, holding him just as tightly. "That was amazing!" You laughed, pulling back just enough to cup his flushed cheeks between your hands. Your eyes sparkled with so much pride that it stole what little breath he had left. "A hat trick, Dean! I'm so fucking proud of you." Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with so much unfiltered admiration. Maybe no one ever had.
His eyes drifted downward before he could stop them and his breath caught. You were wearing a jersey, but not just any Briar jersey. His. His last name stretched proudly across your shoulders, and the white number on the front rested directly over your heart. Something inside his chest squeezed so painfully he almost winced. It really shouldn't have affected him the way it did. It was just a jersey. Just fabric. Except, it wasn't. Seeing his name on you awakened every selfish, possessive thought he'd spent months trying to bury.
It looked right. Far too right.
"You're wearing my jersey." The words escaped almost reverently. Your gaze followed his before a rosy blush crept across your cheeks. "Oh." You smiled sheepishly, smoothing the front of it with your palms. "Beau practically insisted. He claimed it was good luck since you guys are only two games away from another Frozen Four." Yet, Dean barely registered your explanation. His thoughts were spiraling too quickly. His jersey. Your smile. The way you'd waited for him in the tunnel instead of celebrating with everyone else.
The way you'd hugged him before anyone else had the chance. The way you'd looked absolutely radiant cheering for him from the stands. His mind replayed every moment from the last few months in painful succession. You showing up with homemade soup when Tucker got sick. Driving hours just because Summer needed a friend. Holding his hand while the medic checked him over after his injury. Calling yourself his girlfriend just to get another guy to leave you alone.
Every forehead kiss he'd lingered on a little too long. Every hug he'd held a few seconds longer than necessary. Every excuse he'd made just to have you close. He'd spent months convincing himself that wanting you around all the time was normal. That missing you after only a few hours was normal. That getting irrationally jealous every time another guy looked at you was normal. Only it wasn't. It had never been normal. He couldn't keep pretending anymore, he wouldn't.
"Dean?" Your voice was soft, tinged with concern now that he'd gone completely quiet. Your thumb brushed gently across his cheek. "You okay?" His eyes found yours again. God. How had he been so blind? He was so unbelievably in love with you it almost hurt. A helpless laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, mind made up. "Fuck it." Before doubt had a chance to creep back in, he surged forward and captured your lips with his.
The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. As if he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn't. Instead, your surprised gasp melted into a smile against his mouth before you kissed him back with equal certainty. Every ounce of fear he'd carried for months dissolved in an instant. His hands slid more securely around your waist, holding you like he'd dreamed about doing for far too long.
Not because he was afraid you'd disappear, but because after wanting this for what felt like forever, he couldn't bear to put even an inch of distance between the two of you. Your fingers disappeared into his blond curls, gently scratching at his scalp as your tilted your head deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his. Dean nearly melted. The one thing he'd imagined over and over whenever his feelings became impossible to ignore. The reality was infinitely better.
When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads rested together, noses brushing. His eyes searched yours almost nervously, as though waiting for someone to tell him he'd imagined the whole thing. Instead, you smiled completely enamored. "Took you long enough." You whispered, your lips brushing his as you stole another quick kiss simply because you could. Dean let out a breathless laugh. "You mean," He searched your face in complete disbelief. "We could've been doing this the whole time?"
A sheepish grin spread across your face as you nodded. Dean stared at you for a long moment, then groaned dramatically. "God..." He dropped his forehead against your shoulder. "I really am such a clueless bastard." You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "It's okay, I still love you." Dean practically tackled you into another kiss, finally hearing the words he'd been waiting for months to hear without knowing it. "God, I fucking love you too, babydoll." He muttered against your lips.
Finally. Finally. Finally.
Off to the side, Hannah bumped Garrett's shoulder with a knowing grin. "See you guys at Malone's?" Dean didn't even glance in their direction. "Sorry, Wellsy." His answer came automatically, one hand absentmindedly tracing circles against your back. "I've got a lot of lost time with my girl to make up for." Because, now that Dean had you, there was absolutely no way in hell he was letting you go anytime soon.
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It should 100% be illegal for companies to make you give them your payment information when you sign up for a free trial version of their product. It is not necessary and there is no good fucking reason for them to do it. It’s blatantly just so they can steal forgetful customers’ money.
Since the last time I was here I went to the Prince Royce and Romeo Santos Concert in Oakland in May, had a crush and got crushed 💀, went camping for the first time, and if I actually go through with it, I'll be in San Diego for Pierce the Veil's home concert.
I'll be seeing Hayley Williams in October but I'm trying to go see Hilary Duff next week D: I just wish Mountain View was closer to me.
you know what is so funny about this picture? Both of these bitches are going THROUGH IT one of them is actively suicidal and the other has a scalpel in her pocket. and yet they stay silly.
Summary: Yours and Jack's baby girl wasn't feeling too well and when you tried to find Jack in the ED, some condescending doctors thought it would be a good idea to send you away, Jack reacts exactly as you thought he would.
CW: Ogilvie (he's a warning all on his own. I know he got a little bit better in the last few episodes but not enough). Sick baby girl and a very worried Jack Abbot.
WC: 2515
Author’s Note: So sorry for being MIA recently but life got a little busy so I didn't have the time to write but I'm back now! I hope you guys enjoy this little piece, I'm hoping to post some more in the upcoming days. Messages and requests are always welcome, I love hearing from you guys!! 💗
(I do NOT give anyone consent to use/publish my work. Any copying or translating of my writing is considered plagiarism. If you come across my work on any other site or app, please let me know and report them as well)
Jack switching over to day shift when you found out you were pregnant with your daughter was a game changer. You no longer had to force yourself to wake up earlier than you needed to just to get an extra 20 minutes with him, and Jack no longer needed to speed through handoffs in order to rush home. Now, mornings were spent getting ready together while you and your baby girl waved Jack goodbye, knowing you'd have the nighttime to be with him.
When your baby was born, you, along with Jack, made the decision that it would be best if you stayed at home. Not only did he make enough money to support your little family on his own, but with Jack's sometimes unpredictable hours, it only made sense to stay home instead of relying on babysitters or family members at the last minute. Besides, you had always dreamed of being a mom, so getting to stay home and cuddle and love on your little girl 24/7 was really the best case scenario.
Now, your baby girl was nine months old and she was nothing but pure love and cuteness all around. Jack could spend hours peppering little kisses all over her chubby little face while her tiny hands yanked at his curls. Your heart was even more full every time you looked at her due to how much she resembled Jack. Not only did she have her own red-ish curls like her dad did when he was young, but her eyes were the spitting image of Jack; not to mention her cute button nose that she would scrunch whenever you tickled her belly.
However, this particular day, your daughter seemed a little more down than usual. When you and Jack went to the nursery this morning, baby girl was a lot clingier than usual and fussy as she ate her breakfast. Of course Jack worried as he always did and suggested he should stay home and be with you. After some back and forth that everything would be fine and that he should get going, Jack relented and made sure to give your daughter some extra kisses before heading out.
That was around five hours and three meltdowns ago. Soon after Jack left, you had checked her temperature and it was certainly higher than usual. You tried to comfort her as best you could, not wanting to go through the hassle of a hospital run and have her be around even more sick people, but after hearing your baby cry for so long, it was the only logical solution.
Checking her temperature once again, you cursed lightly under your breath as it climbed even higher than before. Your baby girl continued to cry as you got her loaded up in the car on the way to PTMC. You tried to call Jack but it kept going to voicemail and you even went as far as calling Robby but his was the same too. You figured they must be swamped right now but you tried not to think too hard about it and focus on your little girl as she whimpered and fussed on the backseat.
Parking as quickly as you could, you made the split decision to enter through the ambulance bay like Jack told you to. You knew staff hated it when patients did that but the rules were always bent when it came to family.
Walking in, all you saw was chaos. Nurses and doctors were running around and you couldn't find anyone you knew, which meant they were all probably with a patient. As you balanced your baby girl on your hip, you tried giving Jack another call before a voice caught your attention.
"Excuse me ma'am, you can't just barge in here through the ambulance bay. They're for ambulances only, hence the name"
Turning around, you were met with a tall, lanky doctor with curly brown hair. The condescension was heavy in his retort and he had a look on his face like he was waiting for you to challenge him. Granted you hadn't met all of Jack's coworkers before, you couldn't fault him for not knowing you, but the way he spoke to you certainly wasn't alright; you were going to have a conversation with Robby later on about his doctor's bedside manners.
"I didn't barge in here" you started, "I'm just looking for--"
The man cut you off, "oh but you did, didn't you. You came in through those doors when patients are supposed to go through triage before getting called in."
You took a deep breath before responding, not wanting to completely explode in the middle of the ED, "Look, my daughter is sick and I am just trying to get a hold of her--"
He cut you off once again by ushering you back towards triage. "Look ma'am, we take patients in by how sick they are and from the looks of it, your baby isn't all that bad, so wait here and stop trying to cut the line."
You were speechless by how curt and dismissive he was of you. You tried to argue again as he continued to walk you into the waiting room but he kept shutting you down and waving you off. How dare he disrespect you like this? Regardless of you being Jack's wife or not, he had no right to speak to any patient like this. Before you could make one last argument, the man turned around and the door to the ED shut behind him.
You huffed as you watched the door close on your face. If this was about literally anyone else or even yourself, you would have taken his advice and checked in with the desk but you knew Jack would blow a fuse if he knew his baby girl sat waiting in chairs and no one told him.
Continuing to comfort your daughter as she cried in your arms, you looked behind the desk and didn't see anyone you knew. The times you'd come in to visit Jack, Lupe would usually be at the desk and would wave you in through the doors. Now, the only person that sat there was a young woman you hadn't met.
Deciding to just go for it, you waited in line in order to speak to the lady. In the 10 or so minutes that you waited, you tried multiple times to call Jack again. His phone continued to go to voicemail and you were starting to feel frustrated as your daughter got worse and worse and everyone around you coughed or sneezed or moaned about the wait time. Once you finally made it to the front, you wasted no time before asking for Jack.
"Oh I'm sorry ma'am but I think Dr. Abbot is busy. Besides, we don't usually allow patients to pick who their doctor will be, we just assign you to whoever is free first" she replied nicely. "Would you like to tell me what brought you here though?"
Tired of being given the same answer, you were just about to give up and just wait before you caught sight of Dana behind the glass walking out of a patient room with Mateo.
"Dana" you shouted, while waving your hand in order to get her attention.
The lady at the desk was about to comment on you distracting the charge nurse before Dana quickly made her way over.
"Sweetheart, what the hell are you doing here?"
"Oh thank god Dana. She's been feeling sick all morning and I tried to get in there but I got sent out here by one of the doctors. I haven't been able to reach Jack, do you know where he is?"
Dana nodded along to everything you said before turning back to the lady at the desk, "Let her through, she's Dr. Abbot's wife."
Sighing as you were finally getting somewhere, you welcomed the hug that Dana gave you as you walked through the door.
"Hey sweet girl" Dana cooed at your daughter, "Not feeling too good huh?"
Your daughter continued to whimper as tears streamed down her face. You gave her kisses to try and calm her down, explaining to Dana how high her temperature was the last time you checked as she led you over to a patient room.
"It's been a hell of a day here, not surprised Jack hasn't been able to call you back. But you just wait here and I'll go find him for you."
You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding as you finally settled your little girl onto the bed. You hummed a little song to her as you brushed her hair out of her face, now content knowing that your husband was on the way.
Your little peaceful moment was ruined however when the curtain was yanked back harshly and the man from earlier stepped in.
"Look lady, I tried being nice last time but I know for a fact that you did not go through triage because there is no baby listed on the board as a patient."
Before you could reply, he beat you to it again, "I don't know why you think you're entitled to special treatment but you can't just take a room from somebody who actually needs it."
You were about to unleash hell on this guy before a low and stern voice spoke from behind him.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing."
Both you and the man turned towards the door where Jack stood eerily still, dark eyes locked on the doctor in front of you.
"Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry about this lady. She came in earlier through the ambulance bay and I told her she couldn't do that so I made her go to the waiting room. I just now found her in this patient room where she definitely wasn't assigned and--"
"This lady," Jack stated, eyes never leaving the man, "is my wife. And that baby is my daughter. I've heard the voicemails she's left me and if you would have given her the chance to speak, you would've known that."
The atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically. You could see the moment the young man realized he screwed up and the look in your husband's eye was terrifying. The only thing that snapped Jack out of his simmering rage was the quiet cry your daughter let out in the bed. Immediately, Jack shouldered past the man and was at your baby's side instantly.
"Hey sweet girl, what's the matter hm? Not feeling good?" Jack whispered to your baby, putting a comforting hand on her belly and rubbing gently.
The other doctor, whose name you still didn't know, stood silently by the door with a terrified look on his face. He looked as though he was about to say something before Robby walked in.
"Hey, I heard my little niece was here, what's going on" Robby asked, but stopped as soon as he saw Ogilvie standing frozen by the curtain.
Robby lifted an eyebrow towards him, "Ogilvie, is there a reason you're just standing there?"
Before he could respond, Jack beat him to it, "Yeah he's going to explain to me why he kicked my wife out of the ED and told her that our daughter wasn't a priority"
Robby's mouth dropped open at that and a confused look passed over his face as he made eye contact with you.
"Okay" Robby answered slowly, "Why don't I just take a look at baby girl here and see what's going on."
Jack and Robby switched places as Jack marched over to the young man. You called out his name to try and calm him down but he wasn't listening. Jack got toe to toe with Ogilvie and despite your husband being a few inches shorter, it did nothing to help lessen his intimidating presence.
"While I may not be able to fault you for not knowing she's my wife, I can fault you for how you spoke to her. Regardless of a patient's relationship to any of us, that does not give you the right to berate a woman who is terrified for their child. You are not allowed to just dismiss a patient's feelings and do not ever let me hear you tell another parent again that their child is not sick enough to be a priority, do you understand me."
Even from where you were standing, you could see the tears starting to well up in the young man's eyes. Even though you had also wanted to tear into him earlier, you didn't actually want to see this guy cry.
"Jack" you called softly, "that's enough. Come here please."
You held your hand out for Jack to take as he waited another second before turning away from Ogilvie. Once his hand found yours, all his attention was back on you and your baby girl. From your periphery, you saw how Robby gestured for Ogilvie to step out. Turning your focus back on your daughter, she seemed to calm down now that her dad was here.
"Her temp is still up, so we'll get some medication going for her and run a few labs just to make sure nothing else is going on behind the scenes" Robby said, smiling down at your daughter before turning to Jack, "you good brother?"
"Yeah I am" Jack nodded, "you mind carrying on without me, I wanna stay here."
"Of course" Robby smiled, "Wouldn't let you back to work even if you wanted to." Robby pulled you in for a quick hug before stepping out of the room again. Now that it was just your little family, the weight of the day was starting to weigh on your shoulders. You and Jack laid on either side of your daughter, facing one another as she finally started to settle down.
"I'm sorry for disturbing you at work my love, I just didn't know what else to do" you sighed.
"Honey, do not ever apologize for taking care of our daughter, you did the right thing. If anything, I'm sorry for how Ogilvie treated you, that kid's been a pain ever since he got here" Jack huffed.
You let out a small smile as you looked at Jack, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, "He's definitely got a lot to learn still, but he's got a good teacher" you teased.
Jack let out a small laugh at that before looking down to peer at his little girl, "I'm glad you brought her here. I hate being away from you two."
He looked back up at you as you cupped one side of his face, "Looks like she just needed her daddy to feel better" you replied softly.
The two of you continued to lay like that, going back and forth between looking at your daughter and each other. No words were spoken, all you knew was that everything would be okay now that Jack was here and that Jack would do anything to make sure it stayed that way.
summary ﹏ having jack abbot as your neighbor might be heaven on earth: he's always here to help and especially with your garden. though, on this beautiful summer day, when jack asks if you need help with putting sunscreen on your back, he has more naughty thoughts than mowing your lawn.
The sticky smell of vanilla and coconut hit your nose deeper as you shift your head, nostril now closer to the crease of your elbow; where you have been putting sunscreen a while ago.
The sun is hitting your skin, making it warm and glowing all the right ways from the sparkles you had sprayed yourself with earlier. A mix of gold, pink and purple that reflected the light so perfectly, making you look like a goddess directly out from a magazine. And that’s also what your neighbor, Jack, thought.
He had been the nicest older guy in the neighborhood since you moved in two years ago; always a smile on his face, always the help you needed, always the strongest arms and the prettiest face and the big thighs and… And God, you couldn’t deny the perverted crush you had on the guy, even though he was way older than you.
And today, it was even worse. The summer had been quite harsh since the season had started; and when Jack gently asked if you needed help with mowing the lawn and taking care of your garden, you so gladly accepted—knowing damn well that you were going to see him shirtless, sweaty and smelling like that cologne he uses all the time. It wasn’t your first time seeing him shirtless, no, but the effect was still the same: heat pooled in your lower-belly, you became breathless and your thighs often clenched at the view.
Your body shifted on the sunlounger, eyes trying to take a glimpse at Jack’s shirtless back from above the lens of your sunglasses. His muscles were working, contracting as he pushed the mower around. Sweat dripped from the curls of his salt and pepper hair and onto his freckled shoulders and you found yourself wondering what taste his skin would have at that moment. You groaned, trying to ignore the feelings blooming in your lower-belly and how you felt yourself getting warmer at the thoughts of him around you.
You preferred to think about the sun hitting your skin, the cute little tan lines that would soon be created by the UV and the small bikini you were wearing. That one with the pretty pink, orange and yellow color, the one with hibiscus flowers as prints. The one that didn’t hide much of your assets and the one you obviously had been wearing around Jack on purpose for him to look at.
If only he could see the damp patch forming at the crotch area already, just from the view of his sweaty, shirtless body.
The sound of boots hitting the poolside broke you out of your thoughts and you hummed as a shadow covered your back for a moment. “Did you put sunscreen on your back?” Jack asked suddenly and you pushed your upper body on your elbows, turning your head to look at him from above your shoulder. “Nope, my arms aren’t long enough.” You reply to him, a little smile on your face as you understand what his mind is going through. He hums, nodding his head. “Lay back down.”
You do as he says, crossing your arms on the sunlounger again and resting your head there, giving him access to your back. Neither of you speak for a moment as Jack sits down on the edge of the sunlounger, taking the sunscreen from under the furniture.
“Sunscreen is important for your skin, you know that, right? You could get cancer or something.” He ends up saying, and you try to not chuckle at him, because of course you know that already. It’s not like you had done that on purpose to see if he’d be nice enough to help you out.
“I know, I know, Doctor Abbot.” You whine out at him, using his profession as a title to tease him. He doesn’t say anything about him but you can swear that he has a smirk on his face now. The weight on the sunlounger changes for a second before you feel Jack’s cold hands on the skin of your back. It’s a bit oily, that sunscreen; it glazes your skin immediately, leaving a shimmering effect that looks so pretty when hit by the sun. You moan quietly at the feeling of his strong hands massaging the skin of your back to apply the protection.
“That feels good?” He suddenly asks and you hum. “It does. You’re good with your hands, Jack.” You voice back at him and he chuckles, his hands lowering to the dimples of your lower back and over your waist to make sure the sunscreen is applied everywhere. “Of course I’m good with my hands, I’m a physician, I need to be, pretty girl.” He replies to you and you keep silent after that. The sun is shining so brightly now, warming your skin, making it glow.
Jack’s hands are so good on your body, making you moan as he caresses the skin of your back. You swear it’s over, that he has applied sunscreen everywhere now, but his hands don't leave the warmth of your skin. They actually lower, until resting at the top area of your butt, above the tiny bikini bottom you are wearing. “Have you put some of those thighs?” The older man asks and you hum, shaking your head. “No yet. Want to help me?” He doesn’t reply with words, but grabs the tube of sunscreen again.
The contrast of temperature between your skin and the lotion creates goosebumps along your body. Jack’s hands move to the back of your thighs now, applying the sunscreen there very slowly, taking his time to layer it everywhere needed.
He exercises a gentle pressure on your skin, making you moan quietly in contentment and squirm toward his hands. For a second, all his thoughts are focused on you—on that shiny skin, on that small bikini two-pieces you are wearing, of that sweet cunt so close to his hands. Without even realizing, his palms lift to the fat of your ass.
“There’s no protection here either.” He says, and you smile to yourself at those words. His strong hands start to grope your ass, playing with the fat while trying to make it look like he’s only helping you put on sunscreen. His fingers squeeze the fat of your ass before spreading your cheeks apart, making your bikini into a thong and it makes you moan out loud. Jack can feel his cock throbbing inside his pants, but he prefers to focus on you. What a pervert.
He makes the fat of your ass jiggle in his palms, brushing his thumbs under the fabric of your bottoms until his digits get to the start of your cunt. He stops there, not trying to get more intimate than he already is. A quiet sigh escapes him, and he tries to move his hands away before your voice is heard. “I don’t think I’ve put sunscreen there either, mind giving me… a hand, Jack?” Your words break him from his thoughts and he groans, thinking about if he should really take the risk.
The idea of your sweet cunt squeezing his fingers is enough to make him speak up. “Yeah, yeah, of course I can help you. Let me see that.” The physician says before moving his hands lower toward your pussy, one finger hooking in the fabric of your bikini bottom to push it to the side. Your pussy is already drenched; wetness pooling at the entrance—a thread of thick essence connecting your folds to the bikini.
Jack curses under his breath for a second. “Yeah, you definitely need the help of a hand here, pretty girl.” He ends up saying, shifting to face your body more.
Your head shifts on the sunlounge just to see him, the older man’s eyes focused on your slick cunt. You can only moan when his hands move and his fingers start to massage your puffy folds, pushing them together before spreading them apart. Your hole is left gaping for his eyes, wetness leaking to your clit and making it all slick. “Jack—” You moan out, but he ignores you, fingers playing with your puffy folds. His thumbs caresses all the way down to your clit, rubbing it a few times before only one lift up again.
Moans are left escaping your parted lips as the older man rubs your clit with the pad of his thumb. Your hips jerk softly backwards, trying to get more of his touches, which happens faster than you would have expected. A digit is pressed against your sloppy hole before pushing inside it, making your walls clamp around it. “Fuck, that pussy’s tight.” You hear him say, which makes you whine out. His finger is easily filling you up to the knuckle, and Jack moves his body for a better position. All you can do is grip on the headrest of the sunlounge, cheek pressed against the fabric.
Your thighs shake, spreading to give him more space to finger you and play with your clit. “That’s it, good girl. Let me take care of that pussy, yeah?” He says and you nod, which is enough of an answer for him to start pumping his finger inside your cunt.
He curls it, making the tip rub against your velvety walls. The wetness creates squelching noises already, essence leaking to damp the fabric of your bikini bottoms. “So fucking warm inside, so fucking tight.” Jack says quietly, and you whine at his words. “Jack, fuck, please—” You can only whine.
He must understand, as he pushes a second finger inside your tight cunt, joining the first one. The feeling makes you gasp, hips arching slightly toward him, showing off your sloppy hole to his eyes. His thumb presses harder against your slick clit at the action, rolling and rubbing to create friction. Your eyes end up closing at the feeling, you can feel sweat starting to form at the base of your nape. A few seconds pass in silence before Jack starts to thrust his fingers in and out of your sweet pussy, wetness smeared around your puffy folds and making a mess of your sticky skin.
“I bet that feels good, doesn’t it? Getting your little pussy taken care of.” Jack says, curling his fingers inside your pussy each time he thrusts back in. He buries them to the knuckles, trying to find that spot that would make you see stars. “Yes, yes—It feels so good.” You can only reply to him, hips squirming to get more of his fingers.
Jack groans as he realizes, his pace becoming faster. Then, he speaks up. “Want a third one, sweetheart? Want me to fill that cunt with my fingers?”
You automatically nod your head, gasping. “Yes, please… Please, give me a third. I want to feel full of you.” Your voice is a sweet melody in the summer for Jack, and all he wants is to make you come around his digits, so he doesn’t waste a second before very slowly, carefully, pushing a third finger into your sloppy hole. It burns just slightly, giving an uncomfortable feeling that slowly disappears as Jack waits for your approval. You whine, rubbing your thighs together to feel his fingers deep inside your cunt. Only then, you nod at him.
“That’s a good girl. Fuck, your pussy is squeezing my fingers so good. I wonder how my cock would fit in there.” He groans, moving his digits and curling them just enough for the tips to rub against your walls.
You gasp, his thumb relentless around your clit, rubbing it just the perfect pace. There’s drool leaking from the corner of your mouth now, damping the fabric of the sunlounger beneath your head. The physician starts to pump his three digits in and out of your wet, sloppy cunt, creating more squelching noises that echoes in the open space.
Your pussy hungrily squeezes his fingers inside, but Jack is good at what he is doing, and he ends up finding that sweet spot of yours after a few thrusts of wrist. You moan out, ass arching up in surprise while hearing Jack chuckle. “There, babygirl? It feels good when I touch there?” He says, while relentlessly rubbing that one spot you love so much. Your grip is strong on the headrest of the sunlounger before replying. “Fuck, yes! Please, right there, Jack…” He hums at those words, thumb rolling against your slick clit.
Your wetness is now coating his knuckles and palm, leaking from your sweet pussy to your inner-thighs, making a mess of everything. Jack groans at the view of your hole squeezing his fingers. “Wanna come for me? Wanna be a good girl?” He asks, and your thighs start to shake when heat blooms in your lower belly. A loud gasp escapes you, a whine soon following and a moan. “Jack! Please, oh my God!” Those are the words leaving your mouth as you come around his digits.
Your walls clench, your muscles contract, your eyes roll backwards as you moan. The older man doesn’t stop immediately; he keeps rubbing your clit, keeps fingering your cunt, keeps praising you. “Yeah, that’s it, pretty girl. Squeeze that pussy for me, let it go. It feels good, yeah?” You can’t even reply, can’t even think of his words as you come strongly.
It lasts a few more seconds before the climax slowly disappears and Jack pushes his fingers out of your leaking hole.
Gently, he replaces the fabric of your bikini to hide your butt and cunt, and gives a soft slap to the fat of your ass. There’s a smile on his face as he presses the three wet fingers against his tongue to clean them. A moan echoes from his throat at the salty taste before they leave his mouth in a loud pop noise.
Jack leans over to you, presses a kiss to your sweaty forehead (it smells like coconut and shea butter). “Good girl. I need to finish mowing your lawn, but if you need more help with applying sunscreen, call me.” He says before standing up, smirking at your face while your eyes follow his figure.
“I definitely will, Doctor Abbot.” You say back, chuckling one last time as he gets back to his previous work: helping you take care of your garden.
Summary : You eat questionable brownies and get high during your shift. Most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you, right? Well……at least until you confess your undying love to Dr. Frank langdon in front of the entire team
A/N : I had so much fun writing reader be unhinged and unapologetic when she's high. Mostly because I'm a little crazy too lmao.
Tagging my dearest @buckysdecaflove because I'm physically unable to not tag her when I'm writing about Frank langdon.
You don't know what's wrong with you.
Your head feels light and your feet sway every so often, yearning to dance. You gulp down a glass of water, willing away whatever distraction is consuming you.
Walking toward the ambulance bay you try to remember how you ended up feeling like a bar dancer mid shift. Although nothing much comes to your mind.
You had arrived at the hospital on time. Checked up on yesterday's patients to see how they were doing before moving on to the current ones.
By noon one of the nicer ladies who had come in two days ago with an ankle sprain from a stumble down the staircase had come in to get her paperwork sorted and had brought homemade brownies as a thank you.
“It'll help you loosen up” she had said. She probably meant having something sweet will help you be in a better mood for the day.
You had eaten about five pieces before stashing it away in the lounge to save for later.
Little did you know the brownies would do a lot more than ‘loosening you up’
You feel your body unbind even more as you stand there. The tightness in your shoulders from the day's work slipping away ever so slightly.
You're about to go back in when you see an ambulance turn the corner and stop with a sharp screech of the tires.
The paramedics start reciting vitals and numbers as soon as they drop out of the ambulance and wheel the patient out.
“A 27-year-old female presenting with reported perioral numbness after repeated use of a lip-plumping agent. Sensory loss is localized to the lips.”
Any other day you would've asked questions, what lip plumper did she use and how often. If she's allergic to any agent. If she was familiar with the formation of the product she was using and what not.
But the sane part of your brain has turned itself off for who knows how long because when the lady is wheeled out and you look at her to assess damage, you burst out laughing like a lunatic.
Her lips are swollen three times their normal size and to your tipsy brain she looks extremely funny. As a doctor you must analyse the patient professionally and you have been doing that for years now except somehow, today you can't seem to focus on anything else but the fact that she looks like Kevin the cucumber to you.
You stumble back, laughing maniacally until your eyes water and you have to lean on the nearest pillar to stay upright.
All while the paramedics look at you like you've grown third head. The woman on the gurney has started to cry by now, humiliated by your reaction.
You're wheezing by the time Dr. Robby rushes out with Dana and wheels the patient in assigning cassie to her care before finding you again.
You've pressed a hand on your mouth, stifling laughter that's pouring out of you like water from a broken tap.
“That is very unprofessional of you, doc” robby condemns sternly “I'm really disappointed. I didn't expect this from you.”
He walks away with a borderline disgusted expression that you notice but fail to register as you toddle your way inside behind him.
But your feet have more of a sway now and before your mind can recognise the glass door in front of you, your body slams into it.
Heads turn in your direction. Patients, doctors, nurses.
They watch you analyse the door like its an otherworldly object and then you giggle. Squeaky and very amused.
“Oh I'm so sorry” you bow in front of the door “you didn't deserve it. Forgive me your highness” you salute, backing up into the waiting room and almost stumbling into someone's lap if not for Mel catching you.
“Whoa” she exclaims, guiding you inside the ER, muttering apologies to the watchful eyes you have earned.
You, meanwhile, are busy examining your own hand like it has just been discovered. “Mel,” you say very seriously, “my fingers feel like they’re on vacation.”
“She’s high!” santos deadpans.
“I’m not high,” you protest, then pause. “…I might be a little… elevated.”
The room has gone so still you could hear a pin drop. Robby is massaging his temples “Just the thing I needed on an already busy day”
Dennis and Santos are high fiving each other and trying to hide their laughter from the already frustrated attending.
And that is when dr. Langdon walks in with the most confused expression in the room. “Who died?” He inquires.
Mel loosens her grip in your shoulders just enough to fill Frank in with whatever situation you have going on right now.
And as if you haven't already done enough damage, you sneakily make your way towards the nearest trauma room.
Why? You have no idea?
It takes a few minutes for everyone to realise you're missing before chaos breaks out again, this time to find you. A few doctors take over on emergency patients while the rest few try to decide what to do with you, when they find you.
You're in the room with first patient you saw—a middle-aged man clutching his arm—who didn’t even get a chance to explain his injury before you gently crouched in front of him, eyes soft with deep, unwavering focus.
“That’s not why you’re hurting,” you say quietly, gesturing at his arm.
The man blinks. “I—what?”
“You’re carrying something heavier,” you continue, nodding slowly, like you can see straight through him. “The arm is just where it’s… showing up.”
Frank freezes mid-step as he recognises your voice.
Robby turns, following frank's line of sight. “Oh no.”
The man looks… oddly receptive. “I mean—work’s been stressful—”
“And no one listens,” you say, placing a hand over your heart. “But you deserve to be heard.”
“…What is happening?” Robby’s voice is annoyed.
Frank exhales slowly. “She must've had something she's allergic to.”
Robby turns to the rest of the team “If this is a prank and someone spiked her water or something, I swear you'll spend the rest of the day cleaning the morgue”
The team looks at each other having no idea at all before javadi perks up “I saw her eating brownies. I'm not saying anyone spiked them or anything but they did smell funky”
“Brownies?” robby raises an eyebrow in suspicion.
“Yeah” she confirms “remember Rosaline with ankle sprain?” Robby nods “she made them for her as a thank you. Said it would help her 'loosen up’”
Victoria punctuates ‘loosen up’ with sarcastic air quotations and robby facepalms.
“How many times have I told you guys to not take any edible stuff from patients if you don't know what's in it” robby condemns
“Because I remember saying we don't want another mass food poisoning episode like the motorcycle guy's donuts”
A few people chuckle and robby glaringly dismisses everyone to go back to work before turning to Frank.
Meanwhile, you are fully locked into what could only be described as an impromptu therapy session.
“You’ve been strong for too long,” you tell the man, who now looked like he might cry. “It’s okay to not be okay.”
A nurse walking by actually slowed down.
“…Is she staff?” someone from a nearby bed whispers.
“No,” Robby mutters. “She was. Five minutes ago.”
Frank steps in the room then, gently but firmly taking your arm. “Alright, that’s enough. Let’s go.”
You look up at him like he’s just interrupted a life-altering breakthrough.
“But he was opening up,” you protest softly.
“He can open up with an actual therapist,” Frank says, trying to guide you toward the exit.
You allow yourself to be pulled—briefly. Then you stop again. Eyes finding another patient with the curiosity of an orange cat.
An elderly woman sitting alone, staring at the floor.
You slip from Frank’s grip like it's nothing.
“Not again” Robby groans.
You approach her slowly, sitting beside her without a word at first. Then, very gently, you poke her arm with your finger, “Are you lonely?”
The woman looks up, startled. “…Yes.”
Frank closes his eyes, sighing.
“You remind me,” you start, voice soft and full of emotion, “that sometimes people just need someone to sit with them.”
The woman reaches for your hand.
“Oh my god,” princess murmurs. “She’s actually good.”
“THIS IS NOT THE POINT,” Robby hisses, scowling at her.
Frank steps forward again, more determined now. “Okay. We’re done. Come on.”
This time, he doesn’t give you the chance to wander. Hand wrapping securely around your wrist, steady and grounding, pulling you gently but firmly toward the exit.
You follow….for about three steps, before turning to face him.
And everything shifts. The chaos, the wandering thoughts, the strange emotional clarity—it all focusing into one single, intense point.
“Frank,” you start, wiggling your forearm currently held by him, to make him look at you.
Something in your tone makes him do just that. Eyes finding yours with calm but curious glint. “…Yeah?”
The ER, somehow, gets quieter. Waiting for whatever stupid thing you're about to say next. Trinity pulls her phone out to record your next tantrum for blackmailing purposes.
“I need to tell you something,” you say, completely serious now. “I am filled,” you place a hand dramatically over your chest, “with an overwhelming, undeniable, deeply profound—”
You hiccup. Frank blinks, waiting.
“—love for you.”
The ER drops into stunned silence. Absolute, complete silence. Somewhere in the background, a monitor beeps. Someone makes a choking sound. Perlah drops a clipboard. Someone hoots and robby glares at them.
And frank just stares at you. Completely bamboozled. You stare right back, eyes shining with sincerity so intense it could’ve powered the building.
“Sometimes when I see you,” you go on, voice hushed but intense, “my heart does that thing… like—tachy… tachy… the fast one.”
“…Tachycardia?” he offers.
“YES,” you point at him like he’s just proven your point. “That. My heart goes whoosh whoosh—clinically concerning.”
“And your face,” you continue, squinting at him like you're analyzing a scan, “is… statistically unfair.”
Frank blinks, cheeks already rosy with the grin he’s trying to swallow. “What?”
“Symmetry,” you say, gesturing vaguely around his face. “Off the charts. If there was, like, a scale? You would have broken it. Very… structurally sound face.”
Robby slaps a hand over his mouth. Totally rethinking his life decisions that lead him to witness this moment.
You lean even closer now, lowering your voice like you're about to say something scandalous.
“I think,” you whisper. Well try to, but your voice hasn't even lowered a notch “if someone did a CT scan of my brain…”
Frank, in all his glory, has the audacity to look tired “I don’t like where this is going.”
“…they’d find your face in there,” you finish proudly. “Just… floating around. Causing problems.”
Dennis and Santos turn away, shoulders shaking in sync.
“That’s not how CT scans—” Frank starts, brushing a strand of hair out of your face from where you’re trying to blow at it so it won’t fall into your mouth, completely forgetting the existence of hands to serve the purpose.
“No, listen,” you cut him off, grabbing his sleeve for emphasis. “It’s, like… chronic. Persistent. I have symptoms.”
“What symptoms?” he asks, more out of habit than intention.
You count on your fingers, very seriously. “Increased heart rate. Bad decision-making. Wanting to stare at you for… medically inappropriate durations.”
“Yes,” you nod. “Also I forget words. Like… all the time. Because my brain is busy being like “‘ooooh, Frank.’”
Frank is done. A laugh breaking out of him despite himself “That’s not a condition.”
“It is,” you insist. “It’s called… um…” You pause, thinking hard. “…you syndrome.”
You wait for a beat before softening a little, still completely unfiltered but quieter now.
“I think you did something to my system,” you murmur, more like you're talking to yourself. “Like… messed up my baseline vitals. Now everything’s just… you-shaped.”
That one hits harder than the others. Robby, for once, doesn’t interrupt. Probably taking in the intensity of the tender moment.
Frank just looks at you, caught somewhere between exasperation and something else he can't yet admit.
“…You’re not going to remember any of this,” he says. You tilt your head, considering that.
“Maybe not,” you say, shrugging. Then, with a small, crooked smile— “But my heart will. It’s very dramatic like that.”
You pause for a moment and then perk up like a meercat “Also I’m like… 80% sure I still want brownies.”
Robby groans. “Of course you do.”
Frank lets out a quiet sigh, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That tracks. But you're not getting any more brownies tonight.”
“Why not?” Your bottom lips jut out in what frank thinks is the world's most adorable pout.
He pulls your hand slightly until you're leaning against his shoulder replacing the pillar that you were hugging like it was your soul mate.
His eyes meet Robby’s for a second and a silent agreement passes between them “I've got her”
He guides you gently towards the ambulance bay, a hand resting on the small of your back, other holding you steady in case you stumble again.
“Where are we going?” You look up at him with soft expectant eyes, that sound like he can take you anywhere and you'd gladly go.
“To take care of your ‘me syndrome’”
You giggle. Bright and warm and frank feels something tighten in his chest. He talks to you the whole time, entertaining you and giving exaggerated excuses for why you can't have any more brownies, until he finds an empty ambulance and asks you to sit inside.
You try to climb it, but your body is loose. Swaying like a jellyfish. You flop forward into his chest after the third attempt of climbing in and failing.
He chuckles, palms coming around your ribs and gripping slightly before pulling you up and sitting you inside.
Your arms slide around his neck instinctively. Pulling him closer even after you're settled in properly.
His heart kicks wildly against his chest at the proximity. You're so close. So so close.
If he just leans in a little more…..
He's measuring the distance between you when your hand sneaks it's way up. Finding the cleft on his chin.
“This little divot” you smooth your fingers over it “makes me lose my mind. I want to touch it all the time. And you know what?”
He smiles, a genuine one “what?”
“When you're all grumpy…” you mimic his grumpy face and he chuckles “I don't look like that”
“You do” you nod passionately.
“When you're grumpy, and your chin juts out like this—” you mimic him again. Poorly again. “I want to kiss it”
Your cheeks have tinged red ever so slightly and it doesn't go unnoticed by him. “You want to kiss me?”
“Yeah” you look away, bashful “like this” you lean in closer, shy but sure, lips pouting aggressively as you place a very wet, but very chaste kiss on his chin.
Frank freezes.
He swears his heart has stopped beating for a moment. Kick starting again when you giggle against his chin.
He has to pull back slightly to avoid doing something he'll regret.
But you're determined right now. Grabbing him by the front of his scrubs and pulling him closer before resting your head on his shoulder.
“I love you so much. I'm gonna dream about it. We can be married and have lots of kids” you murmur near his ear. Voice dropping a little more as you grow sleepy.
“Lots of kids, huh?” his hand comes around you, holding you steady, other hand alternating between stroking your back and caressing your head.
“Yeah. Like ten. Or more if you want”
He laughs. It vibrates through his body and into yours. “That's a lot of kids”
You hum slightly. Breath turning even as your body goes slack against him.
Frank sighs, relaxed and a fond. Head resting on yours as he holds you just a little tighter.
He'll go inside eventually. Carry you unto the family room and lay you down on the couch for the rest of the shift. Maybe start an iv in case you need a little glucose to help with the hangover later on.
But right now. He lets himself live in the moment for a few more minutes.
Perhaps the brownie lady rosaline will face a lawsuit. Perhaps the team will have embarrassing videos of yours.
Perhaps you'd forget all about today.
But if you don't. If you remember what you said to him and if you mean it…..maybe he'll be brave enough and say a little truth of his own too.
The truth he's keeping buried inside him for a while now.
The truth that threatens to make itself known every time you smile at him.
And in this old ambulance and you in his embrace, he can't help it when it breaks through him and his mouth works on its own when he says “I love you too, sweetheart”
The pitt tag list : @herejustforbuckybarnes, @phoenix-in-writing, @emmathefanficgal, @letsgotothecityandfallinlove, @sashelp, @v33mustdie, @my4ncy, @patchs-curiosity-corner, @angel113431
Note : Frank Langdon is unmarried and single and his wife and kids don't exist in this parallel universe
Summary : Bucky’s bored and he needs a hobby. He never expected to find it in you, Val’s personal pilates instructor.
Pairing : New Avengers!Bucky Barnes x Pilates Instructor!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Tower fic!!! Fluff. Very suggestive. Bucky yearns in this one. Cursing. Your activities traumatized Mel. Set after Thunderbolts* (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 3.6k
Note : As you probably know by now, I love a pining Bucky. enjoy!
Keeping Bucky Barnes in the tower was expensive.
Not in the way most people assumed, definitely not because of tactical errors or catastrophic damage to equipment.
No, he was precise in the field. He didn’t even shoot a bullet if he could handle it with his fists.
It was everything in between that cost Val, for lack of a better word, a shit ton of money.
Because Bucky got bored easily. He simply didn’t know how to be still.
See, he could stand motionless for hours if he had to, especially on overwatch, in the shadows, waiting for a signal, but that kind of focus had a purpose and direction.
The downtime between missions didn’t. It was just tired, empty space stretching out in front of him with nothing to anchor to.
And Bucky, left alone with too much time and nowhere to put it, burned through things. The super soldier serum didn’t help, either.
At first, he’d spend hours in the shooting range, shooting into targets with mechanical precision until the air smelled like metal and heat and smoke.
He’d go down there and run drills, but it wasn’t long until it turned into repetition for the sake of filling time.
He was emptying magazine after magazine.
The sharp crack of gunfire echoing off concrete until the sound blurred into white noise with recoil.
He didn’t miss, but that wasn’t the point. He just… kept going.
Empty.
Reload.
Fire.
Again.
Again.
Again.
It got to a point where the range officers started filing reports because the ammo stock was depleting faster than any active rotation justified.
Even Mel had to increase ammunition orders so often that procurement started flagging it.
Then there was the gym.
With him, boxing gloves barely last.
He didn’t train like John did. Even Alexei was appalled by his habit. Bucky had no timed rounds, no structured sets. He just hit until the boredom in his chest loosened just enough to breathe around. Or until the stitching gave out.
Whichever came first.
It wasn’t long till the leather split under impact and the padding warped. After a couple uses, the Velcro would tear loose from repeated, careless yanks.
He’d go through three pairs a month like it was normal. Sometimes four.
There was a week where one didn’t even last five days.
The heavy bags didn’t fare much better.
They weren’t meant for someone who didn’t pace themselves, who didn’t stop when their knuckles started to ache or his shoulders burned.
Bucky didn’t have those problems. So he didn’t stop.
He hit until the chain creaked under the strain. Until the bag swung unevenly. Until seams stretched and finally gave in to a dull, ugly tear that spilled filling across the floor like a gutted animal.
Mel had to replace it four times in a single quarter.
—
When Val noticed, it wasn’t because she had observed this with her own two eyes. She noticed when she looked at her bank account.
She would be billed with increasing orders of ammunition with no operational justification. Then, she noticed that equipment replacement requests start stacking faster than they should.
Surprise, surprise, when she looked into it, the maintenance logs flagged with the same name, over and over again: Barnes broke this, Barnes went through that.
Barnes, Barnes, Barnes.
“Read a book,” she told him one afternoon, not even looking up from her desk as Bucky leaned against the wall like a permanent fixture. He had gone up there to put in yet another order of dumbbells. Unfortunately, both his vibranium and human arms were getting good at accidentally bending perfectly good steel. “Get a hobby. Crochet, knit, or get a punch needle kit, I don't care. At least learn something useful.”
Bucky didn’t respond.
She sighed, pen pausing mid-signature.
“Download a dating app, for god's sake,” she added dryly. “At least make yourself someone else’s problem for a few hours.”
Bucky frowned, “No.”
Val looked up slowly. “…No?”
“You can’t tell me what to do.” There was no attitude in the way he said it. It was just a flat, immovable statement, a reminder that Val was in no position to make any demands.
From the side of the room, Mel made a small, choking sound that might’ve been a laugh.
Val ignored her.
“Then find something,” she said, annoyed now. “Because if I have to approve another ammunition order this week, I will start assigning you tasks purely out of spite.”
Bucky only shrugged.
—
Enter you: Val’s personal Pilates instructor.
You had been her private instructor for a little over three years now. You used to train at her place uptown, but you just moved to midtown. Val offered to do the classes here instead (since she was mostly at the tower anyways), so… now here you were.
Avengers gym was definitely bigger than Val’s home gym.
It felt far more polished, floor-to-ceiling windows, equipment that looked more expensive than most people’s yearly rent. It didn’t feel like a place people worked out so much as a place people trained to survive.
You stood near one of the mats, rolling your shoulders back, easing into a stretch while you waited. Val was late, which wasn’t unusual, but this was your first time coming here, and you couldn’t help the extra awareness pulling on your mind.
You bent forward, palms flat to the mat, breathing into the stretch.
“Don’t remember anyone requesting a personal trainer.”
The voice came from behind you— and… oh.
You straightened, just a little slower than necessary.
“I’m not a personal trainer,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Pilates instructor.”
He stood a few feet away, like he’d been there longer than you realized. His hand loose at his sides, watching, but not in an uncomfortable way. He was just being observant.
As if something clicked into place, he stepped forward slightly and offered his human arm, “Bucky.”
You hugged out a small laugh as you shook his hand. “I figured.”
That earned you a sweet smile, something you didn’t really expect from an ex-brainwashed assassin “Yeah?”
“You have a… reputation,” you said lightly.
“Do you think it’s a good one?”
You tilted your head, considering him in a way that was just teasing enough. “I haven’t decided yet.”
He nodded once, like he respected the answer.
You decided the least you could do was give him your name.
He repeated it, like he was testing how it tasted on his tongue. “Pretty name.”
“Thanks,” you said, looking down.
He gestured toward the mat. “So what, you just… stretch people into shape?”
You raised a brow. “That’s a gross oversimplification of my life’s work.”
“Mm.” He folded his arms loosely. “Convince me.”
“Oh, I don’t need to,” you shot back. “Val already pays me.”
He huffed in amusement. “Fair point.”
You shifted your stance, crossing your arms without really thinking about it.
A small beat of silence settled before…
“Could probably use it,” he added, almost offhand.
You blinked. “Pilates?”
He shrugged. “It probably helps with… what, control?”
“Control,” you confirmed, "strength, alignment…”
“Yeah,” he cut in lightly, but not rudely. “Could be useful.”
You looked at him, at the tension sitting on his shoulders, the way he held himself like he was always half-ready for threats… or pleasant surprises.
Before you could respond, the door opened.
Val walked in, eyes scanning between the two of you, “I see you’ve met.”
You stepped back just enough to reset the space, professional again. “Just introducing ourselves.”
Bucky nodded once, easy, like nothing had happened at all. “I’ll see you around.”
You nodded in response, biting your lower lip to stop anything from spilling out.
Val clapped her hands once. “Alright, let’s not waste time.”
—
Mel had come down to the gym thirty minutes after your lesson ended with a tablet in hand, already bracing herself for her weekly inventory.
She had a system: clipboard on her left arm, gel pen on her right hand, headphones in. It was easier that way to ignore whatever chaos the enhanced individuals of the tower decided to unleash on perfectly good equipment. It kept her sane. More importantly, it kept her employed.
So when she stepped into the gym, she was already bracing herself for damage: torn seams, bent, metal. Maybe another report with Barnes stamped all over it.
She frowned, glancing around as she made her way past the mats you’d been using earlier. Squeaky clean. Where Bucky had been? Not even a single scratch.
“No way….”
Was today her lucky day? Did she not have to order twenty new things that would last six days?
Oh, did she celebrate too soon?
Because that was when she heard a sound, even through her headphones.
It was soft at first, almost like a muffled whine.
Mel froze.
Then, another sound followed, a bit louder this time. It was rhythmic, like a quick series of… claps?
She slowly lowered her clipboard. “What?”
But there it was again, a faint series of plap, plap, plap, echoing just enough off the tile to carry.
It was coming from the locker room.
Mel turned her head, eyes narrowing, like maybe if she looked at it differently the situation would change. It did not. In fact, it got worse.
Because now there were voices.
It was low and overlapping. It wasn’t clear, but unmistakably not gym-related.
She heard a breathy gasp slip through, and she recognised that voice as yours.
She stepped a little closer. Were you in trouble? Did you need help?
Then, she heard another voice. That was when she stopped. She was close enough now to make out the words.
“You always fuck on the first date, dirty girl?” It was unmistakably Bucky’s voice. She had heard it too many times during briefings.
Something, probably a motion, cut him off. Then she heard a small startled sound, half laugh, half a lewd curse.
Mel’s eyes widened. “Oh. My. God.”
She heard thud, a deeper breath. Something scraped against the tile (probably the metal arm) as the now obvious sound of skin against skin picked up in pace.
She heard your voice again, teasing even through the uneven rhythm of your breathing. “I thought—weren’t you… raised in the forties—?”
His response was lower this time, words blending into the, "What's your point, dollface?” He said, followed by a quiet, muffled protest from you that dissolved into a stifled moan, “Takin’ me so good, can’t even form proper sentences, huh?”
“M-my point is,” you managed to gasp out, “shouldn’t you—ah… be a gentleman— hmphhh!”
It sounded as if something had been stuffed in your mouth.
That was the breaking point. Mel didn’t wait for more. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
She turned on her heel so fast her clipboard nearly slipped, already marching back toward the door like she hadn’t heard a single thing.
Inventory could wait.
Whatever that was? Not her department.
—
Mel thought it was a one night stand.
She realised she was very wrong sometime around week three.
At first, she’d told herself it was just two adults sneaking around. She understood the appeal, it was just so unfortunate that it happened in a building that really should have invested in better soundproofing.
Besides, from what she saw of you two, it seemed… sweet. At the very least, it was nice to see Bucky smile every time you were around, even when he was just there to patiently wait for Val’s lessons to be finished so he could rearrange your insides.
By week eight, she had the schedule down to a tee.
If your slot ran from two to three-thirty, Mel simply did not under any circumstances step foot near the locker rooms until at least four-thirty. She valued her sanity. And her ability to make eye contact during staff briefings.
But there was a bright side to needing to bleach her ears weekly.
The ammo orders dropped almost in an instant.
Sure, he still trained, but the frantic, endless burn-through had eased into a leisurely pace. Intentional. Even range officers had stopped filing passive-aggressive reports.
The gym equipment stayed miraculously intact.
There were less split seams and even lesser warped frames. Heavy bags weren’t spilling their insides like crime scenes waiting to happen anymore. Mel hadn’t had to file a replacement request with his name on it in weeks, and that alone felt suspicious enough to warrant investigation.
She didn’t tell Val, though. The last thing she wanted was for her boss to fire you.
Because whatever this arrangement was, it had somehow done what months of structure, orders, and discipline hadn’t: Barnes wasn’t breaking things anymore.
He wasn’t burning through resources like he was trying to outrun his own mind.
He’d inadvertently taken Val’s advice and found a hobby. A very specific one.
And Mel, for her own peace of mind, decided she would take that as a win.
Still, she noticed that you two weren’t exactly subtle. You’d leave looking composed, professional, like nothing had happened… except for the slight delay before you stepped out. She’d noticed the way your hair was sometimes not quite how it had been tied before. She watched how Bucky would follow ten minutes later, like something under his skin had finally settled.
It wasn’t Mel’s business. And yet…
“Again?” she muttered one afternoon, pausing mid-step just outside the gym doors as a very familiar muffled thump echoed faintly from down the hall.
She closed her eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Every week,” she whispered to herself. “Every single week. I deserve a raise.”
Inside, Bucky laughed, and it was followed by your voice, flirtatious in a way that made Mel immediately turn around.
You both were louder today.
Nope.
Nope, nope, nope.
She pivoted on her heel and walked straight back the way she came.
—
But sometimes it was actually quite… sweet.
Sometimes Mel walked in expecting the same sinful noises coming from behind a blissful door, and instead found you still there, out in the open.
Mel paused in her steps.
That was weird. You rarely stayed out here after Val’s lessons. Except now, apparently, you did.
She slowed down, clipboard tucked against her side, not meaning to eavesdrop, but then she noticed that Bucky was sitting down on a mat.
“Relax your shoulders,” you said gently.
Oh. Were you helping him stretch?
“I am relaxed,” Bucky replied stubbornly.
Mel leaned ever so slightly around the corner.
You stood behind him, guiding his human arm back to flex. Your fingers pressed lightly along his shoulder, coaxing instead of commanding.
“James,” you said, and Mel nearly choked because no one called him that, “you’re about as relaxed as a brick.”
“I was on a mission six hours ago,” he countered, but there was no bite in it. “Cut me some slack, sweetheart.”
“You’ve had six hours to stop brooding about it, old man,” you teased.
“I don’t brood.”
“Sure.” You chuckled, unconvinced, adjusting his posture again. “You just sit in corners and stare into the distance like a tragic war relic.”
Bucky managed to shake his head with a grin. “I am a tragic war relic.”
Mel had to physically bite the inside of her cheek to stop a laugh.
He huffed, but he didn’t pull away when you guided his arm a little further, your touch careful when his expression flickered.
“Easy,” you said, almost reverent now. “I’ve got you.”
Bucky glanced back at you, just slightly. “You always this bossy with your clients?”
“Only the difficult ones.”
“Mm.” His mouth curved up, just barely. “So I’m a problem now?”
You tilted your head sweetly. “You’re my problem.”
Mel looked away for a second, staring very intently at the clipboard like she hadn’t just witnessed that adorable little exchange.
When she glanced back, you were helping him to his feet, fingers on his wrist. He didn’t let you let go right away.
“Better?” you asked.
“Yeah,” He rolled his human shoulder once, testing it. “Thank you.”
It wasn’t the word that caught Mel off guard. It was how he said it— like you painted the sky blue just for him.
You breathed out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, like you heard it too. “Anytime.”
And for a moment, neither of you moved.
That was when Mel cleared her throat loudly on purpose as she stepped fully into the room.
Both of you shifted apart, almost looking guilty the second you noticed someone else was there.
“Inventory,” she announced to no one in particular, already walking past like she hadn’t just interrupted a moment.
You smiled politely. Bucky nodded once.
Mel made it halfway across the gym before shaking her head under her breath.
“I can’t believe this,” she said to herself, making sure you both were out of earshot.
Somehow, against all logic, what started as just blowing off steam had clearly turned into affection.
As cute as it was, that was way more inconvenient for her scheduling.
Other times, though, when either you or Bucky weren’t in the mood (which was rare), Mel would catch conversations that were somehow more intimate.
He’d talk in fragments about missions, and you’d meet him there without pushing. “You did what you had to,” you’d say gently, and the loaded silence that followed always felt… lighter.
On different days, it was the complete opposite. Your laughter would slip through the door. “I have this client,” you joked once, “who thinks being late means he can pay half the price.”
“I could take care of him,” Bucky offered dryly, without a second thought
“No thanks,” Mel heard you laugh reassuringly, “I can handle one stubborn client.” You paused for a second, before dipping your voice into teasing territory. “I’ve already got one stubborn super soldier to deal with.”
Ugh. Romance, Mel would think. But even she had started rooting for the two of you, even if only so you could start having loud sex and heart to hearts in his bedroom instead of a common team space.
—
The week after that, Mel had come down for inventory, expecting an uneventful day for once.
Instead, she found Bucky standing by the window like someone had just told him the world was ending.
He was just standing there, staring out with his in his pockets, shoulders a little slouched, like all the shared edges he usually carried had been sanded down.
Mel stopped to stand next to him, wondering what he saw in the skyline that was so interesting. She had concluded: nothing. He was just missing you.
“I heard Val’s not doing Pilates today,” she said, as casually as she could manage.
Bucky jumped a little like she’d pulled him out of a daydream.
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but at her. “She’s, um… she’s got the day off. She’s family.”
Mel blinked at him as a slow smile started to creep up.
Oh.
Oh, this was bad.
He was down bad.
“You know,” she said, tapping idly at her clipboard, “you could just ask her out.”
He frowned slightly, like the suggestion didn’t quite compute. “What?”
“You know, on a date,” Mel clarified. She had to remind herself that she was a very simple concept to a very stubborn man. “You ask, she says yes, you go somewhere that is not this building and you can finally see her outside of Val’s classes. Revolutionary concept.”
Bucky shifted, clearly uncomfortable now. “We… already spend time together.”
Mel looked up at him flatly. “Locker room encounters don’t count.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
And there it was… the realization.
It was as if his heart dropped. Best started creeping up his neck, flushing across his cheeks, ears going bright red as he suddenly found the floor deeply interesting.
Bucky dragged a hand over his face. “Okay, I—”
“You didn’t think I knew?” she interrupted, not even trying to hide her amusement now.
He groaned quietly, turning away like if he just faced the window hard enough he could phase through it. “I figured someone would eventually—”
“Eventually?” Mel snorted. “Barnes, I’ve been scheduling my entire inventory checks around not walking into the locker room at the wrong time.”
He made a strangled noise that might’ve been embarrassment, but it was definitely not regret.
“Right,” he whispered.
He hesitated for a second, wondering how much of this was safe with Mel.
“I’ve been wanting to take her to a cafe down the street,” he finally admitted, still not looking at her. “For a while now.”
Oh?
Mel turned fully toward him, her eyes shifting from mischief to sympathy.
“Then do it,” she said simply.
He glanced back at her, a little uncertain. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” she nodded encouragingly. “Ask her properly. I’ll help you! I know the best florist in Manhattan— We’ll even use the company card.”
That managed to pull a small, almost shy smile out of him. It was so brief she almost missed it.
“Yeah,” he said again, shyer this time. “Yeah, that’d be… that’d be great.”
Mel went back to her clipboard, giving him a second to breathe, to process, to exist in whatever strange, new emotional territory he’d found himself in.
After a moment, she added, “I’m really glad you found a hobby.”
Bucky huffed, shaking his head, but there was no edge to it. “Me too.”
But even as he said it, it was clear as day that this wasn’t just a hobby.
This wasn’t something he’d burn through or break or walk away from easily. This was something he truly, deeply wanted.
Finally, Mel admitted it to herself: you two were so ridiculously, painfully adorable it made her want to scream.
And when she found her person, she hoped they looked at her the way Bucky Barnes looked at you.
Summary : Your hot CEO husband needs a break and what better way to do it than fucking him in his office.
Word Count : 2.5k
Warnings : 18+ MDNI, smut, semi public sex, oral (m rec.), PinV, PWP, dick pronouns (if you squint), Sub bucky, dirty talk, tie kink? (Is that even a thing?), breeding kink
Please let me know if I've missed adding anything in the warnings
Surprising your CEO husband at his office in the middle of a busy day and wearing a rather seducing outfit for the said surprise is by far your favourite thing to do.
The thing about James Barnes is that he works hard. Too hard. And sometimes he doesn't know when to take a break. So you have your ways to get him to do it. You're a good wife, after all. You're always worried about his well-being.
You dab the pink lip gloss on your lips that you know is his favourite. He'll lick it right off of you after all.
Perfect.
Checking yourself in the car mirror one last time, you make your way upstairs to your husband's office.
Your stilletos click against the expensive hardwood floor as you greet the receptionist and his assistant before strutting towards his cabin.
You don't ask if he's in a meeting or if he's busy. He might be the boss here, but you have an authority on him at all times, that you don't need any permission to walk into his office and interrupt whatever important work he's in midst of doing.
You don't knock on the door, clicking it open with a flick of your wrist and entering the room with a charming smile on your face.
He doesn't look up “jenna I would like another black coffee, please. I really need to get this client's paperwork done by today”
“You don't need any more coffee sir” you coax your voice into a sweeter tone, imitating jenna, his assistant “What you need is a good fuck”
His eyes perk up at that. Finding you where he expected jenna to be and the tension in his body loosens ever so slightly.
You walk towards the desk with more of a sway in your hips than normal and his gaze drops immediately. He shifts in his seat, just as you make your way around his desk and settle down on his lap like its your assigned seat.
He doesn't startle, or stop you. Instead his hands find your waist on their own. Fingers curling around the silky fabric of your dress “Wasn't expecting you today”
“I wanted to surprise you” your hands smooth their way up his shirt until they rest just below the knot of his tie.
He gulps “Well I'm surprised”
You grin, eyes finding his and coaxing the truth out of him as you say “So…what's got you all hot and bothered today sir”
He sighs, exhausted “I have to get this paperwork done by tomorrow and there's these reconciliation statements that need to be reviewed before Monday and a creditor’s payment is due so I'll have to—fuck”
A curse slips out of him as you grind down on the growing bulge in his pants.
“Honey I don't think this is the right time” he mutters, eyes pinching closed as he tries to keep his composure
“You need a break Mr. Barnes” your voice is sweet poison. Luring him in without knowing what's waiting for him.
“Yeah no shit” he attempts to joke but you cut him off “I mean it” the gravity of your voice tells him he's not getting out of this unscathed.
“Honey I don't think—”
“Shhh you don't have to think. You just have to be. Let me do the work bucky. You just relax.” You rock forward before drawing your hips back again, rutting onto his cock in a slow, teasing rhythm.
“Baby—ah fuck that's…” words are lost to him. He doesn't know how to describe this feeling. You sitting on him with that fucking gorgeous dress that he loves and looking down at him with wicked glint in your eyes
“Yeah?” You draw him out of his thoughts “Feel good bucky?”
“Yes, fuck—so good” he leans forward slightly and you envelope his mouth in a kiss that is meant to overwhelm. You let him fall into you. All his senses answering to you as you find his eyes looking into yours, mouth moaning your name, ears tinged red from your teasing voice, the sweet scent of your perfume filling his cabin as his hands try desperately to feel your skin on them.
One of your hands leaves its resting place in his hair and finds his metal palm trying to sneak under your dress before grasping it your hand and bringing it back up.
“Did I say you could do that?” You raise an eyebrow.
He shakes his head, obedient, it makes you smile “Then be a good boy and do as I say, okay” you peck his lips before moving from his lap and sinking onto your knees in front of him.
His palm comes to rest on your head, fingers curling around the hair as he brushes it away from your face.
You work at his fly with nimble fingers, tugging the zipper down and freeing his cock from the entrapment of his boxers.
It greets you just the way you knew it would. Hard and flushed pink all over, the tip of him glistening and tinged a shade of pink darker as it remains neglected.
You press a kiss on his shaft, and his hand tightens in your hair making you grin against him “So greedy, James. Thought you didn't want this?”
“I always want this” his voice is breathy, cracking at the edges.
“Yeah? You'll be a good boy for me won't you, then? Let me play with it nice and proper?” You look up at him from under your lashes.
“Yes please” he nods.
You take your time working him. Teasing licks on the length of him, tongue grazing the sensitive underside every so often as you ignore his forlorn tip even more.
All the while muttering filthy things under your breath, riling him up even more “Look how happy he is to see me, Bucky. All wet and pink and so fucking hard” you tap the head of him with a finger, barest of touch, but his whole body jerks in response.
“Baby, please” he whimpers when your tongue traces the shaft again, withdrawing before it grazes the tip.
“Please what, bucky?” You smirk, wicked and amused.
“Please, just—” his face burns redder with the moment, not wanting to say it out loud but knowing you're doing this on purpose to tease him.
“Say it, honey. What do you want?” you graze a single fingernail down the underside of his cock and he shudders.
“Do you want me here?” you kiss your way up his length
“Or here?” You press open-mouthed kisses on his frenulum and his cock twitches against your cheek.
You smile, mouth finding his balls and taking one in your mouth, “or maybe here?” You withdraw your mouth abruptly, giving him just enough of your touch to tease.
“Uh..” he groans, frustrated and waiting “baby please don't be like that”
“Like what?” You feign innocence.
“C'mon baby, tell me where do you want me” you push him further toward confessing his desires and he succumbs.
“Suck the tip, angel. Just a little, plea—aah fuck” he curses when your mouth closes over the head of him. Suckling slowly as your tongue swirls across the tip, delving into the slit, tasting the salt of him.
He moans, loud and unfiltered.
“yeah? Like that baby?” You pull away just to tease him with your words.
“Fuck yeah, just—ughh—like that.” He grunts
You work him slowly, almost teasingly. Taking him in little by little until he hits the back of your throat and his voice chokes on a moan at the feeling.
You hollow your cheeks, a hand going to play with his balls meanwhile. You cup them in your palm, tugging lightly and he whines “Harder please”
You can feel he's close in the way the muscles in his thighs tighten and his eyes pinch shut. And you, menace that you are, pull away completely.
His eyes open and find you looking up at him with the most innocent expression ever. The kind that doesn't say in the least of how you've edged him right now.
“Why would you do that?” His eyes have gone glassy with how pent up he is.
“You tell me. Why do you think you deserve to come bucky? You haven't been a good boy lately, have you?”
He tries to pull you back up onto his lap disregarding your words but your fingers grasp his jaw, making him look at you.
You feel the stubble scratch at your fingers, as you hold his gaze.
“You work too hard. Come home late. Have no time for me ‘cause you're overtired. And you still think you've been good?”
“I'm sorry” you hear him say. And the way he's looking at you tells him the apology is genuine. As much mad as you might be at him for not giving you the time for past few days, you know its not his fault. His work takes too much out of him and he's just as dedicated to it as he's to you.
You accept his apology in a sweet, chaste kiss. The kind that he feels in his bones. He moans into the kiss when he feels you settle above him.
He feels the warmth of your core, snuggle his cock. And he realises you were probably bare under that dress the entire time.
His cock twitches under you at the realisation and you grin tells him you're acknowledging it.
Your hands find the buttons of his shirt, opening them one by one before pushing his shirt off his shoulders.
His fingers move from your waist to his tie, loosening the knot but your hand comes to stop him “The tie stays on”
You tug at the fabric like a leash, pulling him in until his mouth rests on yours.
The kiss is heated. More tongue than lips, teeth clacking against each other until you're both breathless.
You rock forward, your warm core on his bare cock, sending shock waves through your veins. His tip nudges at your clit with every involuntary thrust of his hips and you both moan into the kiss.
And before you know it, you're sitting up and sinking down on him, walls clenching as you adjust to the sheer size of him. No matter how many times you take him. He hardly ever fails to take your breath away with how big he is.
But with how wet you have been since the moment you saw him, it doesn't take much resistance. He slides in right away, your walls snug around him as he revels in the feeling of you.
Home.
You grind down on him, rocking forward experimentally before pushing yourself up until just the head remains inside you and sinking down. Hard.
The moan he lets out is loud enough to summon all the staff working on that floor. And you’ve never been more grateful for the soundproofing in his cabin.
You set a pace almost instantly. Its nothing like the teasing way you had worked him in your mouth. It's brutal. Hard and fast that is meant to drive him towards his release.
Your hands grip his shoulders tightly as you bounce on him with practised rhythm. The kind that comes from doing the same thing over and over again.
His palm comes up to cup your breast through your dress, fondling it, and a high-pitched sound leaves you involuntarily.
The tip of him hits your cervix every time you sink down on him again, making him grunt
“Fuck. Baby, slow down. I'm not gonna last” he warns, trying to hold himself together and you want anything but. You want him to lose himself in you.
“You can fuck me slow later on, bucky.” You remind him “I want you to come now.”
“And when you come home early today, I'll be waiting for you in bed.” You feel him thrust up into you, noticing how close he is, you amp up your teasing, knowing he needs to hear your filthy words to climax.
“I'll even wear that lingerie you like. The pink one, you got me on your birthday. You'd love it, won't you?”
“Yes.” He pants against you “Fuck yes”
“And I'll let you do whatever you want. You can taste me if you want or have me on all fours. Like the time we did on our anniversary.”
The room reeks of sweat and sex now. The only sound is that of your skin slapping against each other as his thrusts grow erratic.
“You can even come inside. Give me all your babies. You'd be such a good dad, you know. They'd love you so much”
“Fuck—don't say that if you don't mean it” his voice is raspy, barely holding himself together.
“I mean it. Give it to me, bucky. Let me make you a daddy” he loses it at that. Burying himself to the hilt one last time before spilling into you with a loud curse.
You can feel the warmth of his release trickle down his shaft and your legs but none of you have it in yourself to care.
He's slumped back in his chair now. Chest heaving, eyes hooded, there's a dewy glow on his face that you only ever get to see on him after sex.
You smile despite yourself. Hand coming up to brush sweat slick strands of his hair back from his forehead.
He looks wrecked, coiffed hair messed up from your fingers in them, shirt rumpled from the way you were clutching it. Pants soiled and tie half undone.
You lean in, pressing soft pecks on his cheeks, his forehead, the tip of his nose. He chuckles, coming down from the high.
“You did so good for me” you cup his face in your palms and feel his cheeks burn under your skin at the praise.
“Shut up” He hides his face in your chest, but you can feel him smile against you.
You stay like that for a few moments before attempting to stand up from his lap. But his arms come around you immediately.
“Wait.” His eyes soften “I haven't—you didn't come”
“I didn't need to. I came here for you, sweetheart. This wasn’t about me.” you reply, voice sweet and even, “But I'm holding you to your promise of coming home early.” you wink, already moving to smooth your dress down from where it's bunched at your waist.
But bucky, gentleman that he is, doesn't take compromises like that when it comes to you.
So just as you're about to turn away toward the door, his hand comes around your wrist pulling you back into him.
“You're not going anywhere until I have returned the favour”
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