Whatever I’m Fixating On

28. Minn. She/her/hers. Formerly imagine-YouTube. Requests are closed (I have no plans to write any more fanfiction)

[plushapostle]

i have chronic fuck that old man disease and yes it’s incurable

[kcrlfs]

i keep seeing posts from people about how they’re shocked robby pulls all these hot women, and like… guys. he's a tall, bearded, enormously competent doctor with big steady hands, sad eyes, and a motorcycle. if you don't get it i fear you may just not be old enough yet.

[hereonthenightcloud]

I Can Be Needy

(Tell me how good it feels to be needed)

✿ pairing: husband!Jack Abbot x female reader

✿ summary: 5 Times You Were Jack’s Good Girl + The 1 Time You Weren’t

✿ warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fingering, oral sex (f and m receiving), p in v sex, masturbation, domestic fluff, dom and sub Jack Abbot (he’s versatile that way.)

One

Your favorite mornings are the ones when Jack wakes up insistent on indulging, like he does today. It starts in your bed, him taking his time to wake you up with a string of kisses along your neck, a brush of caresses along the softest part of your belly, a dancing of his fingers across the waistband of his boxers your sleep shorts until your squirming against him and whispering please baby. He always replies, “tell me what you want,” and it’s always too early for words. Instead of telling him, you show him. You clasp your hand around his and guide him into your shorts, helping his hand to slip around your folds, to play in your wetness as he coos, “that’s my good girl, always taking what you need.” Some mornings you spend hours in this way, lazily ebbing and flowing into an orgasm until your stomach rumbles too strongly and he has to concede to making you breakfast before you play anymore.

On these mornings like today, he makes you a spread- bacon, soft scrambled eggs, hand squeezed OJ, pancakes from scratch with a recipe he saved from the NYT Cooking section six years ago when you first start dating and he wanted to impress you on your first morning waking up at his place. It’s been six years, and he’s still wanting to impress you. He would never admit it- always a little shy about your attention- but he lives for the mornings when his girl is sitting on the kitchen counter watching him cook for her. Nothing makes him feel as good as being good to you. Nothing makes him feel as useful as being yours.

Nothing makes you feel as lucky to be married to him as the little things he still does. Keeping fresh flowers in the kitchen that he picks up from the local shop each week on his way home from work, pulling out your chair for you every time you sit to eat with him, cutting up your pancakes for you because he cannot stand the way you tear the bread into chunks like a squirrel. (If you pressed him on this, he’d admit it’s one of the many things he finds endearing about you.)

You finish pouring maple syrup- the premium imported from Canada kind Jack insists on buying you- atop your mountain of pancakes, and hold out the bottle to your husband. “Want some?” You ask, smiling because you know what he’ll say before the words leave his mouth. It’s one of your favorite routines with him.

He winks at you. “The only sugar I need is you,” he jokes as he leans over to kiss you in your favorite way- slow and lingering, like his tongue is taking note of every millimeter of your mouth as his lips milk yours for that sweet taste he loves that is just you. Your giggle turns into a teasing growl as you bite at his lower lip before sucking on the soft flesh. “Sweet enough for you?” You purr, eyes twinkling with mischief. He barks a laugh, always so amused with you and the way you have no idea how much he loves you, how many mornings he wakes up and finds himself at this table with you wondering if it’s all a dream. You have no idea that sometimes he thinks you’re too sweet for him, that you’re too good a girl to be his.

Two

“I told you, I don’t like to make a big deal of today, Jack,” you huff half-heartedly, twinkling eyes giving away what you’re really feeling as you watch Jack’s hands swing around from his back to reveal a cupcake he has brought for you. “I thought you were a good listener, Jack?”

“Oh, I’m a great listener, baby.” The left corner of his mouth twitches into a half smirk as he swipes his pointer finger through the frosting and begins painting your lips with the sugary confection, a swirl of cotton-candy pink and purple coloring your mouth. His finger tugs at your lower lip, asking for entry. You envelop his finger with your mouth, suckling at the buttercream stuck to his skin with a moan he takes as an invitation. He murmurs, “for example, what I’m hearing right now is you would like more. Isn’t that right?” You nod, and in a flash, his finger is replaced with his tongue as he licks away at the sugar coating your lips, his tongue teasingly dipping in and out of your mouth as he works to clean you up slowly. Your hands cling to his scrub top, the fabric bunching underneath your grip as you pull him closer, urging him to kiss you for real, to kiss you like he means to end you and breath new life into you.

Jack pinches a chunk of frosting off of the cupcake, and without breaking eye contact with a kneeling you, he slathers the sugar across his throbbing cock generously. You lick your lips in anticipation, egging him on. He gives himself a few strokes, the frosting melting into a sticky mess under his grip and the heat of his cock, as he huskily asks, “you know how good girls get their birthday wishes granted?”

You shuffle forward on your knees, kissing at the skin where his hip meets his thigh, eager to taste him already. He’s shaky under the weight of his need for you, and this makes you grow wetter with your own desire- even though you are the one on your knees, he is the one begging for mercy. You smirk up at him, eyes twinkling as you exhale a hot breath onto him, “they blow out the candle?”

He whimpers, “that’s right, baby.”

You make your tongue pointy, barely grazing the silky skin of his cock with the tip of your tongue as you teasingly lick at the frosting he’s covered himself with. “Are you asking me to make a wish?” You purr at him as you pull away from his pelvis with a mischievous grin. It sets him off, just the way you like. Jack forcefully wraps a hand around the back of your head and pulls you back to him, gritting out through clenched teeth, “I’m not asking. I’m telling. Be a good girl and blow out your candle.”

Three

“Still don’t wanna talk about it?” He sweetly murmurs into your ear, his lips brushing against your cheeks in the softest of subtlest of kisses. He can’t help it, he worries about you constantly. He has a need to protect you from the world, a call to duty as it concerns your wellbeing. If you’re not okay, he isn’t okay. You whimper, shaking your head as you curl your head onto his chest to better hear his heartbeat, his pulse the thrumming that’s keeping you grounded.

He has you in his lap at a side angle, one arm curled around your torso holding you tightly to him, the other shoved up your skirt, two fingers curling inside of you as he works to tenderly coax another orgasm out of you. His thumb pads at your clit, swiping at the sensitive nub as his fingers work in tandem with the way he’s rocking your body back and forth to lovingly finger fuck the bad day away.

“That’s okay,” he shushes you as he leans his face against yours, your noses caressing one another’s as his dark hazel eyes burn into yours insistently. You cling to his shirt, your first bunching the fabric desperately as your mouth opens in a whine when his fingers slide in far enough to hit that burning spot deep inside of you. “You don’t have to talk,” he tells you in a husky voice. “Just keep letting me make you feel good,” he coos. “Just keep being my good girl.” He pinches your swollen clit, rolling around the pearl between his finger and thumb until your body is jerking against his, and you want to cry from how electric he makes you feel, the vibrating pulsations of your orgasm not unlike the pulsating of his heart, a steady thrum that makes you feel almost too alive. No matter how bad your day is, no matter how badly you think you did, you are still good to him. You are always good to him. He loves letting you know that. He loves showing you.

Four

It’s the same every time. He’s in a hospital, of course it’s a hospital. But the corridor he’s walking down just keeps stretching endlessly forward, and no matter how many steps he takes there are always more to go. He never knows why he’s here. But he knows it’s nothing good. He can sense in the stillness that there is something wrong, that he is too late to change what will occur. And still he has to walk forward, towards a certain doom. He feels his pulse grow tachy, a cold sweat start to prick on his skin as he picks up his pace. He knows he cannot stop whatever is about to happen, but it does not stop him from wanting to try. He’s running now. He hears the machine beeping, a warning. Had it been beeping this whole time? Had he just not been listening? If he had heard it sooner, if he had seen the signs, could he have saved her? His hands finds its way to a door that has his last name on the patient’s clipboard adjacent to the door. He cannot open it. All he can do is bear witness.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, struggling to breathe. You are asleep, but your hand is on his chest, your body curled into his and holding him close. “I’ve got you,” you mumble sleepily, your voice barely above a whisper. But he hears you. And even in your sleep, you hear him. You know when he needs you. You’re good that way, too good a girl for a man who has lost so much and wonders why he should be lucky enough to have anyone ever again. He grabs hold of your hand, holding it atop his heart as he takes a deep breath and remembers himself. He does not have to be his past if you are his present and his future. I’ve got you, he hears your voice echo in his heart. He is yours.

Five

“One more, baby, one more.” He isn’t so much asking you as he is telling you to give him one more. “I don’t know if I can,” you whine breathlessly as his thumbs spread your folds open so his tongue can work its way deeper into the velvety walls of your pussy. He’s had you pinned down for what has felt like hours, your legs spread wide and draped over his shoulders so he can keep devouring you. He alternates each orgasm- one quick and rough and dirty with a harsh suck of your clit, a sharp thrust of three fingers into you; followed by one slow and lingering and tedious with gentle laps of his tongue around the outline of your folds, precious tiny kisses on your clit, one finger delicately curling within you to scratch the most delicious of spots slowly and repeatedly until your toes are curling and digging into Jack’s shoulders.

He smiles up at you from between your legs, his face gleaming with your slick. “You don’t know if you can be good for me?” He teases, punctuating his words with another flick of his tongue that makes you whine and involuntarily grind yourself down onto his face. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs as he shoves his face deeper into you, his stubble burning splendidly against your sensitive folds as his nose bumps firmly against your clit and suddenly you feel a white hot spark that has you wondering how you even questioned if you could get there again. There’s never a question with Jack. You should know that by now.

One

“Please, baby?” You purr. “I wanna see how much you want me. You do still want me, don’t you?”

He chokes down a moan as he nods vigorously, blushing profusely as your eyes shamelessly wander over every inch of his naked body as he lays on your bed. Why shouldn’t you look at him this way? You’re his wife. He’s your husband. He is yours. But he is always a little embarrassed to be the center of your attention. He feels strongly you are the one who should be adored, not the one doing the adoring. He doesn’t understand that when he’s doing what you’re asking him to- like he is right now- you feel like the most adored woman on the planet.

“Be a good boy then, Jack,” you command, straddling his legs so you can look down on him, “Touch yourself for me.” His breath shudders as his hand grips at the base of his cock. He swipes his thumb across the precum leaking out of his angry red slit, and he groans. His eyes look at you, almost begging.

“What is it baby?” You ask him. You know what he wants, but you like to make him say it. Some nights, you like to make him work for it, and he is always so eager to oblige. “Can you-” he grunts as he gives himself a harsh tug, “can you get it wet for me?”

You eye him patiently with an arch of your brow. “Please,” he begs like the good boy he is. “Of course baby, of course,” you tell him as you shift yourself down slightly till your face is level with his throbbing cock. Eyes locked on his, you open your mouth and spit on him, the cool of your saliva making him shiver and moan upon impact and he wastes no time. His thick hand starts stroking himself, rubbing your drool all over his cock as he firmly pulls up and down. “Tell me,” you command, blowing air onto him, just to tease a little more, just to make sure all of his senses are overwhelmed with only you.

“I love you,” he moans, “fuck, I love you so much.”

“And you still want me?” You ask, and it’s a game but it isn’t. Ten years into marriage, you sometimes find yourself earnestly wondering if you’re still enough for him. If you compare to what he had.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps out as his pace quickens, becomes more desperate as he sees your need for him in your eyes. “Always. I always want you.”

It’s all you need to hear. You grab the hand around his cock to still his motions, worming your way back up his body till your pussy is flush with his cock. “Tell me you want me right now,” you insist as you hover over him, your wet hot slick dripping down onto him. “I need you right now,” he practically whines as his eyes lovingly rake over your body. “Please baby, please, I need to be inside you,” he begs. “Haven’t I been a good boy tonight?”

And he has. For the past ten years together, he has always been the best man you know. “Yes,” you hiss as you sink yourself down onto him, throwing your head back as you feel your body achingly stretch to accommodate him. You place your hands on his chest to brace yourself, his own hands clasping over yours and dragging them up to his heart. “Feel that baby?” He groans as you roll your hips onto his, slowly working into your preferred pace. His pubes graze against your clit in the most mouthwatering of ways. You bite your lip, nodding, too full of him to form a coherent word. “That’s how you make me feel,” he husks out as he presses your hands down more firmly to force you to feel his pulse. “It beats just for you.”

Dividers by @/enchantthings

Taglist: @yayhockeypitt 💋

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[butyoudidthis4what]

I hear you.

Andrew Pope Cody x F!Reader

Based on this ask for the 1k celebration! The prompt was "show me that bruise please."

6.1k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: Discussion of reader being very briefly assaulted in the form of her arm being grabbed hard; diverges from canon; a fairy bad bruise but no heavy graphic description; canon typical violence in the form of the guy who assaulted you being taken care of by the Cody boys™️; reference to use of a bat as a weapon; mention of a shotgun; super vague reference to drugs if you've watched the show and/or know Craig; mention of a bar; Pope struggles; heavy allusion to sex; emotional-ish but I think still quite fluffy; no use of y/n or related.

Summary: You come home to Pope with a bruise.

AN: My first time writing for Pope. He is a tough one to nail down in all aspects, voice, characterization, movement. So I'm very nervous and concerned about whether this reads and feels like him in those ways. I'm also only about half way through season 4 so I haven't seen all of him quite yet. I didn't get into too much into either Reader or Pope's internal thinking and feelings how I sometimes do. I was trying to keep it lighter and shorter. 😂 Anyway, I hope it reads and feels like him and is nevertheless enjoyable if it doesn't. I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments and thank you so much for reading!

You’re still thinking about how you’re going to tell Pope as you turn down the street of your house. 

You suppose it doesn’t really matter in the end. His reaction will be the same no matter how gently you tell him or how much you play it down. Because it’s you. And so it’s visceral for him. Instinctual. 

Especially when it’s you being injured by someone else.

The two of you met shortly after Deran bought and opened the bar. He hired you as a bartender. To the surprise of everyone, Pope included, the two of you hit it off. He’d come in and sit at the bar before opening while you prepped. You’d talk, he’d listen, would talk some. He talked more over time as he became comfortable with you. You started going to parties at the house which gave you more time together, got him more comfortable around you. Particularly because you generally spent about five minutes in the backyard before slipping with Pope to whatever free room was available and shutting the door. 

You only ever talked. You’d lay on the bed side by side and stare at the ceiling while you talked and during the periods of comfortable silences. You never made him talk. Never made him try to be something he wasn’t. Never tried to push for more while in a bedroom with him. 

He let you help with Lena. It was you he turned to when he had to let her go. He spent considerably more time at your place after, both because he wanted to be there and because you saw what Smurf was doing to him. 

Your relationship was a slow progression. But he finally asked you out like you hadn’t been dating in a way already and things grew from there. You probably moved in together a little too quickly but you had to get him out of that fucking house and away from Smurf. The progression wasn’t linear. Nothing ever truly is. Both of you had things to work through, pasts that made relationships difficult. You stuck together though. And here you are a few years later. You just bought a house together and are both thinking about more in your own heads.

Pope’s on the couch waiting up for you and watching another nature documentary when his phone rings. His brows furrow a little when he sees it’s Deran. “Yeah?”

“Hey, so listen… little physical altercation at the bar tonight-”

“Involving her?” He’s already up and grabbing his keys.

“Yeah but she’s fine, man,” Deran sighs in that vaguely impatient and resigned way he does. “She already left and is on her way home. It really wasn’t much. Some guy grabbed her arm and that was really all he was able to do before it was handled. I just didn’t want to get yelled at for not telling you, so I called.”

Pope’s voice is even lower than usual, seething. “You better hope she’s really okay.” 

He hangs up, turns all the living room lights on, sits back down, and turns the TV off. He’d love to know why the fuck you didn’t call him. 

He hears the garage door opening, your car pulling in and it closing again. He’d taught you that when you guys moved in. To keep the car in reverse and close the garage door before parking, unlocking your car doors and getting out. Safer. Thirty seconds or so later the door leading from the garage into the house opens and you walk in, set your stuff down with its usual clatter. “Hey! I’m home.” 

You toe your shoes off and kick them onto the bottom shelf of the shoe rack how Pope likes. The second you step into the living room and find the TV off, all the living room lights on, and Pope sitting straight up in the armchair you already know. His eyes find yours immediately and stay on you. 

“Deran?” you confirm as you walk further into the living room. You stand near the armchair, close enough that he could stand and reach you or grab your hand as he sits but far enough away to give him space and not be looming over him. 

“Called.” Pope’s face would be unreadable to anyone but you. Everyone would just see anger and his scowl. And yes, he is angry. But you see the slight softness to his eyes, the way his eyebrows furrow just a little differently than when he’s angry, and the way his head isn’t bowed in anger but rather lifted just a little with the slightest tilt. Worried. Pope is worried about you. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

It’s acerbic. It’s Pope being worried and struggling with the vulnerability that worry brings. He’s not sure what he would be without you. Not sure he would continue to be for very long without you.

You tilt your head at him a little, keep your tone soft and volume normal. “Of course I was.” You nod as you say it. “I just thought doing it in person would be better so that I’d be here and you could see I’m okay.”

After a few seconds of consideration your answer earns you an almost imperceptible nod. He likes that thought process, the way you were trying to make this even a little easier on him. “Are you hurt?” You shake your head at him and he accepts it for now. “What happened?”

You shrug. “I was walking back from a table and some guy stopped me and started talking. When I tried to excuse myself to get back behind the bar he grabbed my arm. I got away quickly enough. Left a bruise but it’s really not bad.”

“What?” It’s low, eerily calm and all gravel. And there’s anger, you think. Real anger. Not anger that’s in part masking worry. You can see it and you can hear it. 

“Pope, I’m okay-”

“He left a mark on you. That’s not okay.” His breathing has gotten heavier as his anger grows. It’s not at you and you know that. He’s just livid at the thought of someone leaving a mark on you. He’s glad he can’t see it, that you’re wearing one of his shirts and the sleeve is long enough on you to just about hit your elbow. Glad he has time to try to prepare himself to see it.

“It’s not that bad, it’s just a bruise.” You offer him a small smile to see if it’ll help show him you’re okay. It does. Just slightly. Your smile helps him. Always helps him regulate and come back to center even if just the slightest bit.  “I give myself them all the time.”

He shakes his head a little. “Doesn’t matter how bad it is or isn’t. And if it’s already visible it’s bad enough.”

“Pope, I’m okay. Look at me.” You offer him your hand and after a few seconds he takes it and stands up. You take one of his hands in yours and press his index and middle finger into your wrist, his fingers automatically adjusting until they find your pulse. You cup his face, keeping looking into his eyes. “I’m here,” you murmur. “I’m here with you and I’m okay.”

His jaw grinds a little but he nods and lets out a breath. It’s helped him come down a little. “Show me that bruise please.” His tone has evened back out. He’s not demanding. It’s a statement, but there’s just enough of a slight upward intonation at the end of the sentence that you know you could refuse. 

You don’t want to refuse though. And there’s no point in refusing. He’s going to see it at some point tonight unless you change in the bathroom with the door closed and wear one of his shirts or something long sleeved. 

“Okay.” You nod at him. Pope lets go of your wrist and your hands move from his face, one hanging at your side as the other grabs your sleeve and pulls it up, bunches it at your shoulder before coming down so he can see. You hold that arm out a little for him.

Pope’s breathing picks back up as looks at your arm, uses his finger to ask you to hold it out more and turn it for him. He’s a little lightheaded and a lot nauseous at the sight, red and purple blotches are already settling into your skin. But it’s not so much the red and purple that makes him lightheaded and nauseous. 

“That is not just a bruise,” he grits out, his breathing picking back up again. “That’s his fucking handprint on your skin! That is his fucking handprint bruised onto your arm!” He doesn’t raise his voice or yell though he says the words with force behind them. The words are strained too. A man trying to keep himself collected. At least for now. At least for this conversation with you. 

Pope thought he was livid before, thought he was full of rage. At whoever did this to you. At himself for not being there to protect you. But one look at the handprint shaped bruise on your upper arm has him thinking he’s never truly been livid before. Hasn’t come close to hitting true rage before.  

“I’m okay. It doesn’t really hurt and it’ll fade.” 

“Who was it?” Pope finally pulls his eyes off the bruise and back up to yours. “Is he a regular?” 

You shake your head and let out a concerned breath. “Deran and I already took care of him, Pope. Please. I don’t want you to leave tonight or put yourself at risk while you’re this upset about it.” Your eyes grow a little glassy and the corners of your lips pull down.

Both your words and the look on your face make Pope pause for a second. He can’t let his anger go. But he can at least try to set aside for now. For you. 

“You took care of him?” His eyebrows raise slightly.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Pretty sure I broke his nose. If I didn’t, Deran definitely did. He was there within seconds of my punch to take over for me.”

“With?” You know he’s asking how you might’ve broken the guy’s nose.

“My fist.” You smile a little at the way the quickest little smirk of pride flashes on his face.

“Does your hand hurt?”

“A little maybe.” You open and close it. “Nothing I’d be desperate to take ibuprofen or tylenol for.” 

“Let me see.” He holds his hand out and you place yours in his. Pope looks down and doesn’t love what he sees. Your knuckles are very clearly bruised. “It’ll be worse tomorrow,” he releases your hand and looks at you, “it always is.”

You shrug. You don’t really care. “But hey, it’s not broken because I had such a great self-defense instructor who taught me how to protect myself for the times when I can’t be with my boyfriend.” Something about ‘instructor’ gets to Pope a little, makes his heart beat a little faster. You pull your sleeve back down, covering the bruise. “Probably the most handsome man I ever laid eyes on.” You hold out your hands for Pope and pull him gently and start walking backwards towards your bedroom once he takes them. 

“He can be taken care of again.” He’s talking about the guy who did this to you. You give him a little nod, shrug in admission and acquiescence. The guy could. 

“Auburn curls,” you continue, squeezing his hands. He goes to squeeze back but stops, doesn’t want to make the bruising worse. “The most beautiful hazel eyes. Big hands that enveloped mine. Soft yet firm tummy I could feel whenever he was right behind me helping me position my hands or something. Muscular arms.” You cross the threshold into your bedroom, warmth flooding through you when you watch the corners of his lips twitch up, his eyes crinkle a little as your words make him give you the smallest smile. “Sharp jaw with some stubble that made me shiver when it would scrape lightly over my ear and face when he leaned in from behind to give me instructions.” You stop walking when you and Pope are standing face to face at the end of your bed, stepping close to him and resting your hands against his chest.

“You were supposed to be paying attention.” He tilts his head slightly as he slides his arms around your waist. “To what you were being taught.” 

You smirk at him. “Evidently I was.” You pull your bruised but not broken hand from his chest and wiggle your fingers at him.

“Maybe you need to take a refresher course from this instructor.” It seems teasing. Or the closest to this kind of teasing Pope will probably ever get. And perhaps it is in part, slight part. But really it’s a type of vulnerability Pope only gives you. It’s a veiled ask and expression of concern. He wants to teach you again, assure himself that you know how to defend yourself when he’s not with you. 

“I’d be more than happy to do that.” You nod at him. 

He swallows. “Thank you.”

“Always,” you murmur. You press your lips together and up, ask him for a kiss. He leans down and in to give you one. More than one. Brings a hand up to hold your jaw gently. Like you’ll break. Another silent ask, though you’re not entirely sure for what. You’re not sure he knows. You pull away a little at a natural break in your last kiss. “What do you need?” 

He shakes his head a little. “I don’t…” His eyes wander around your face, jaw rolling as he tries to find the answer. Not because he feels he needs to give you one but because he wants to find the answer for himself. A few quiet moments pass, but you’re patient. You’re always patient with him. He finally gets what he needs articulable, brushes the thumb of the hand still holding your jaw over your lips, just enough force to tilt your head a little. “To look at you. To feel you.” 

You nod as you study him, his eyes. There’s really two ways to give him both of those. But there is only one way he’s using his eyes and body to ask for, consciously or not. 

If he wanted to strip you and lay you on the bed and look over you by kissing every inch of you his free hand would be playing with the hem of your shirt or the waistband of your pants and his eyes would flick to the bed at least once. But neither of those happen. 

Instead his eyes stay locked with yours the entire time. His free hand squeezes your hip gently, gives it the slightest tug to the right. It matches with the way his thumb tilts your head slightly to the right. The bathroom is off to the right. 

It’s obvious. 

“Shower me?” Your words are important. Especially now, especially to Pope. Shower me. Not shower with me. You want him to do this for you. You’re giving this to him. Giving yourself to him. “Wash him off me. Please. I only want you on me.” 

“Yeah,” he nods, “okay.”  

You smile at him as he lets his hand fall from your jaw and take yours. He leads you to the bathroom, closes the door so the steam will heat the room, turns the shower on and lets the water get warm as he strips you, pants and underwear first, then himself completely, and then his fingers play at the hem of your shirt for a few seconds as he tries to brace himself to see it again before he takes it off, makes quick work of your bra.

His anger hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s right there beneath the surface. It flares when the bruise is revealed again, rings in his ears. But you’re more important than it. You need him right now. To take care of you and wash the guy who did this from your skin as much as he can. 

And he needs you. Now and always. Needs to know you’re okay. He feels like his emotions, his worry and resultant need to see and feel you might be out of proportion with what happened, especially to an outsider. Because at the end of the day you are right. It is just a bruise. It’s not life-threatening. You don’t need any medical treatment. But for Pope it might as well have been. It was life-threatening to him because you were in danger and he wasn’t there. The situation was life-threatening even if the bruise it left you with isn’t. 

The whole thing is a reminder of something he knows all too well, how fragile life is, how easily it’s taken away. How easily the woman he loves could be taken away. It makes him breathless if he thinks about it for too long. So maybe his emotions and his reaction feel out of proportion, would seem that way to an outsider. But they aren’t to him. He’s had too much ripped away, seen too much violence and death, and so every threat to you is life-threatening in his mind. 

Pope grabs your hand again before he uses his other to feel the temperature of the water. You bite your lip at it because something about it is just adorable and precious. He wants to hold your hand here in your bathroom. Doesn’t want to be not touching you. 

Once he’s satisfied with the temperature he gets you in first, makes sure you get completely wet and are warm before he lets you spin the two of you so that he’s under the stream of water. When he’s done he moves you back, has you get your hair wet again before grabbing your shampoo. He’s thorough, massages your scalp a little before rinsing and applying your conditioner. He holds you while it sits, hugs you to him, his head turning to rest on your shoulder. After enough time has passed he rinses your hair, makes sure all the conditioner is out. 

The breath of air he lets out as he takes a step back to grab your body wash would be just that, him letting out a breath, to anyone else. But you see it for what it is, a small sigh of relief that he can now finally do what he’s been aching to do. He can wash you, can run a soaped up washcloth over you, follow behind it with his other hand so he can feel you as he looks you over, go over every inch of you to reassure himself. To comfort himself.

You grab the washcloth and start to get it wet as he grabs your body wash. But you stop him. “Yours, please.” He’s still for a few seconds before grabbing his and turning around to take the washcloth for him. You love smelling like him. And you know that smelling like your shampoo and conditioner and his body wash is going to be perfect for him in bed tonight. Because he loves the smell of you but also loves the possessiveness of you smelling like him. Best of both worlds.

The shower has been quiet and continues to be as Pope washes you, kneeling to wash your legs to make sure he feels all of you, looks at all of you. It’s not unusual. It’s Pope. He doesn’t need words to express himself right now. His hands and eyes and lips say everything. He’s worried about you. He’s scared. He’s angry at the guy who did this. He doesn’t like you getting hurt. He hates it. It’s unacceptable. He’s sorry he wasn’t there. He’s going to take care of you. He’s got you. You’re safe with him. 

He loves you. 

You don’t speak because you know how focused he is and wants to remain. You talking might interrupt or distract him. He might not get everything he needs from this. So you watch him wash you, run your hands through wet curls when he’s on his knees in front of you. 

Pope occasionally presses kisses after the hand following the washcloth. To your hip, your collarbones, your knee, your inner wrist, your tummy, the back of your calf, your lower back, up your spine, your shoulder, your hands, your fingers, your neck. He doesn’t care about the taste of soap on his lips, he doesn’t even really register it. 

He avoids it though. That one upper arm. But once the rest of you is finished and it’s the only unwashed part of you he turns his attention to it. You watch the maelstrom of emotions behind his eyes as he looks at it, watch his jaw clench and unclench. Pope looks at you, waits for the soft smile and nod you give him before his eyes turn back to your upper arm.

He’s exceedingly gentle as he runs the washcloth over the bruise, the hand that follows behind it feather light, fingertips dragging over your skin lightly enough to bring goosebumps to your skin even with the heat of the shower. The washcloth hitting the floor makes a slapping sound that neither you nor Pope really hear. He’s too focused on you and you’re too focused on him.

He leans down, drops his head enough to bring his lips to your arm, shifting as he needs to in order to kiss every single square inch of the bruise. His eyes stay on it once he’s done, fingers tracing over it again. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as he brings his eyes back to yours. His scowl has tightened enough to reflect how sad he is, how responsible he feels. They match his slightly glassy eyes. Shame clouds his features and he has to look away, afraid of what he’ll see on your face once his apology processes even though he knows your face isn’t going to change. 

And there’s the fear you knew was coming for him. 

The fear that he fucked up, that he wasn’t there and let this happened and failed to protect you so you’re going to revoke your love. Break up with him. Leave him. Or maybe just punish him with the silent treatment and put downs and little snide comments designed to inflict maximum damage until you decide it’s enough. He knows you won’t do any of that but that type of treatment is all he’s known and even with the years between you where you’ve never done anything of the sort, it’s still almost impossible for the fear to not take him over for a little when he feels like he’s messed up and let you down. It’s a Pavlovian response. And he knows you know that. That you don’t hold it against him or think it’s reflective of what he thinks about you. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Your voice is warm and even. It’s normal, how you always talk to him. You have to fight to keep it that way not because you’re mad at him or upset with him but because seeing him like this, being this hard on himself, feeling this guilty, makes your heart ache for him and hurts worse than the bruise or when it was left. 

“I should have been there.” He shakes his head and you can see his scowl relax back into anger at himself, jaw setting.

You move your hand within his field of vision so that he knows it’s coming when you slide it into his and squeeze. “I know it feels that way, and your feelings are valid and your guilt makes sense, I promise. But we can’t be together every second Pope. And even if you had been there unless you were following me from table to table it would’ve happened all the same.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he’d have seen us together and not tried.” You tug on his hand a little, try to get him to come closer to you so that he’ll be in the stream of water. You can see that he’s cold. But you’re not surprised when he doesn’t move, knows he thinks being cold is just part of the penance he feels he deserves. So you step out of the stream and drop his hand so you can wrap your arms around him and rest your head on his chest. “And I’d have been there. I’d at least have been there.”

As you expected, Pope slides his arms around you and walks you both back into the stream of the shower. You stand there quietly with him for a few moments until he relaxes enough to truly hug you back, lean over you and rest his head on your shoulder. You rub his back, try to give him as much comfort as he’ll accept before you pull back and lean in to kiss him. 

You break the kiss and let your hands leave his body to hold his face so that he’ll look at you again. “I know I can’t take it away from you or convince you that you don’t need to feel responsible or guilty or like you let me down or failed me. But I can tell you that I don’t feel like you’re responsible for it, I don’t feel like you let it happen or that you weren’t there for me or that you let me down or failed me. This doesn’t change anything between us. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going silent.” You give him another couple of kisses before smiling at him, watch him fight to accept your words. “I still love you more than I know what to do with and I still feel loved by you. There hasn’t been a single second since you first told me that I haven’t.”

“There hasn’t been a single second I haven’t.” He’s urgent in the way he says it, like he needs you to know, needs you to believe him. 

“I know,” you murmur. You steal a lingering kiss from him and then settle him back into you. It doesn’t upset you that he doesn’t really verbally acknowledge the rest of what you said. You know he was listening and taking it in and is trying to process it all.

After another minute or so Pope pulls away from you so that he can quickly wash his hair and body. Normally you’d ask to do it for him but you know it would be too much for him right now, that he’d let you but grow even more tense with how much he’d feel like he didn’t deserve it. So you just watch, step out of the stream when he needs to rinse. And when he’s done he pulls you into him so that your back is against his chest, positions you just right so that the water falls on you both but keeps your heads out of the stream as you soak together. 

Eventually you start to talk softly, chatter at him like you do. It’s something he loves about you. That you’ll talk to him and not expect him to talk in return. But you don’t talk constantly either. You know when to and for how long. You’re not afraid of the silence that often falls between the two of you, it’s always comfortable, always feels safe. Sometimes you just like to break it. Sometimes the energy shift within him as he starts to get in his head is so palpable you can feel it and start to talk to bring him out of it before he gets too far in. Sometimes it’s some of both.

He comments from time to time, gives you hums of acknowledgement to make sure you know he’s listening. He doesn’t need to because you know he’s always listening. Always remembering. He’ll bring up something you randomly spoke about as you guys make dinner a month after the fact. Sometimes you don’t even remember. 

You bring a hand up and back and run your fingers through his hair for a second as best you can. “I love your curls when they’re wet,” you sigh happily. 

“You always love them.” 

You giggle a little at him and the way he says it so simply, like he’s saying water is wet or some other obvious fact, almost a little distracted, voice stoic in a way and low enough to be all gravel. “True.”

From there you tell him about other things that happened at the bar. Give him a little more info on just how well Deran took care of the guy. 

“And as Deran’s hauling him over to the door Craig leaves the bathroom,” you pause in a silent we both know why, “and is like ‘yo, what the fuck?’ and starts yelling for Kai to hand him the bat and when she wouldn’t he started to go for the hidden shotgun. Luckily Deran had the guy out by that point, but then Craig found out what happened and was asking for the bat again and saying he was just going to find and have a talk with the guy and make sure he knew I was yours and that he was lucky it was him and Deran there and not you.”

“Fucking Craig,” Pope huffs. But you know his lips are upturned at least a little, know that he loves it, his brothers protecting you, that he loves them. “Deran should’ve let him.” You hum in acknowledgment and stand in comforting silence for a bit. “I’m glad they had your back.”

You don’t comment on those words, know he doesn’t want you to. Instead you tell him the rest of the night was uneventful, let there be a few minutes of silence before you start talking again, this time about whatever pops into your head. Things you need at the grocery store, somewhere you think you guys should go on vacation, another random story someone at work told you, how you need the oil changed in your car. 

The entire time you chatter at him Pope holds you close, kisses at your neck and just below your ear, occasionally letting his lips pull up just a little at something you say or how animated you get, content to listen to you and let you drown out the thoughts in his mind trying to take over. 

“Leave your car tomorrow and take mine. I’ll change the oil.” He gives your neck one last kiss and then moves his hands to squeeze your hips gently. “Let’s get out. The water is getting cold.”

“That would be very nice of you, thank you.” You spin to give him a kiss quickly before you wait for him to turn the shower off and step out, dry himself and wrap his towel around his waist. He holds his hand out for you and you take it, let him grab your towel and dry you off. 

Pope wraps your towel around you to help keep you warm while he sorts out your wet hair for you. You both hang your towels to dry before heading back into your room. 

“No.” He says it softly but it’s loud enough to hear and you turn to him, abandoning the pair of pajamas you were about to pull from the dresser. His eyes flick to the bed and then back to you. “Please,” he whispers. He needs you skin on skin, no fabric between you. He needs to feel your warmth seep into him. Needs to know you still want his skin on yours.

“I’d love that.” You smile brightly at him. It makes his heart seize a little. He’ll never get over you wanting him in every way, of you looking at him like that. Like he’s your world.

Nor will he ever get over sliding into bed next to you and laying on your side, you seeking him out, tangling your legs together and resting your arm across the side of his waist as your heads lay on the same pillow and you look at each other. 

There’s a couple moments of silence as you both settle in. 

“How’d your day go? Anything you want to share?” The smile you wear reassures him he can say no if he wants. 

He shrugs with his top shoulder. “It was fine until that phone call from Deran. Didn’t really do much.”

You hum at him. “Well I’m glad it was otherwise fine.”

He gives you a single nod and the peaceful silence returns. The two of you just rest together, looking at each other, hands running up and down your sides. You watch his face slowly tighten. He has something to admit. 

You give him time to work it out in his head, don’t prompt him or ask him anything. And eventually the silence is broken.

“I’m finding him,” Pope admits.

You let out a small laugh, smile at him and nod. You squeeze his hip. “I know.” 

“Does that make you mad?” That question is quieter, like he’s afraid of the answer and feels like shit for the way he’s not sure a ‘yes’ would be able to stop him. 

“No.” You shake your head. 

“I don’t want to make you mad.” He swallows thickly, like he’s trying to take his next words down with it. “But he bruised his handprint onto your skin. I can’t let that go, I can’t let that go.”

“It doesn’t make me mad, my love. I promise.” You run a hand through his hair. “Just be careful, yeah? Can’t have you getting hurt on me. Or anything else.” You don’t need to specify you’re talking about him getting caught and going back to prison. He knows. 

There’s a brief pause as he accepts your words. “You like taking care of me when I’m hurt,” he mumbles like it doesn’t mean everything to him.

“Well yeah!” you huff a laugh. “But I’d gladly accept never getting to take care of you in that specific way again if it meant you were here with me and never got injured, or sick for that matter, again.”

Pope nods. More silence. He shifts in bed, just a small wiggle. But he has been the whole time. He’s restless. He knows you’re okay but he needs more to quiet his mind. 

“You’re okay?” He breaks the silence again.

“I’m okay.” You smile at him and nod. Your eyes roam his face and then settle back on his as you hear what he wants. “It’s okay if you need more.” You grab Pope’s hand and roll on your back, tug on his hand to get him to follow you so that he’s on top of you. “If you haven’t felt me quite enough to really believe that I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” he breathes with a nod. 

You lean up and kiss him, run a hand through his curls and use it to guide his head down with yours as you kiss. “Yeah,” you whisper against his lips. 

He kisses you this time, gives you a tiny grunt of appreciation when you open your mouth for him so he can taste you. As you kiss you grab his hand, guide it over your body to remind him that he can touch you, that you’re his, all of you. He doesn’t need much of a reminder, hands roaming all over you as he kisses you breathless. His hands are softer than usual, gentler. He doesn’t squeeze quite as hard. It’s not that he doesn’t want to mark you, he loves marking you. But not tonight. He can’t tonight. 

You whine in discontent when he breaks the kiss and pulls up to look down at you, hazel eyes blown and chest heaving slightly. “Thank you. For not making me ask.” He gives you another lingering kiss and pulls up a little and looks at you again like you’re unreal, a figment of his imagination. But he could never imagine something as good as you, no matter how hard he tried. “You never make me ask.”

“You do ask.” You sigh softly as he moves one of his hands closer to where you want it. Where he wants it. “Just not with words. You ask with your eyes. With your hands, your body. And I learned quickly how to listen. How to hear you.” You widen your legs for him letting his pelvis drop down and settle against yours more as you continue to look him in the eye. His hips and yours roll and his hand falters as you both find friction another way. He gives you a soft groan as his hand starts moving closer again, though for a different purpose this time. The pleasure Pope’s sending through you has your voice breathy and low as your hands tangle in his hair and pull him closer again so that your lips touch. “I hear you. I’ll always make sure I can hear you.”

I hope it was okay and 'Pope' enough! I love hearing your guys' thoughts and comments, they give me serotonin, motivation and inspiration!! Liking, replies and reblogging are always so so appreciated! My inbox and DMs are always open for thoughts, comments, and general screaming!

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[hawksredrobe]

before the pitt s2 comes out, i am reminding myself that it's not real, it's just a tv show, i am in charge of my own emotions no matter what happens

[hawksredrobe]

I AM HOLDING FIRM TO THIS BTW. I am touching grass. I am the master of my own emotions and my mind. Take a deep breath with me

[inkdippedquills]

cant help myself

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x fem!grad student!reader

Summary: You were not Robby’s biggest fan and finding out the saddest man in your bar fucks was absolutely not going to change your opinion of him. Absolutely not.

Rating: Explicit (E)

Word Count: 17k

Tags/Warnings: angst, depression, implication of suicidal ideation, description of injury, praise kink, mediocrely written smut, some lite humor, the tone is actually not that depressing I pinky swear, pathetic bar patron to remarkable lover trope (we all know that common trope).

Author's Note: As per the poll, I come to deliver grad student/bar tender dealing with pathetic Robby. Please comment with your thoughts and feelings, I yearn for the reactions. I’m not the most proud of the smut, but I’m trying to get better at writing it. Idk hope it’s enjoyable enough.

Pls note this has not really been proofread. And I'm incapable of writing something short. soz.

-- -- --

You winced as one of your least favorite regulars walked in. It probably wasn’t a fair group to put the poor man in, especially when ugly-ass-Hawaiian-shirt-guy called your coworker a cunt and then threw up on the floor of the bathroom, missing the toilet by a solid meter. There was also the guy who insisted that he was such a successful lover, no one could stomach to call him back in case they became addicted.

But Dr. Robinavitch—Robby as he insisted he be called—was a maudlin drunk. By the end of the night you were always a little worried to let him go home alone in case he did something he couldn’t take back. He tipped well, though, so that was something. He had been coming in more sporadically since July. One night, when he was more tipsy than drunk, he implied something had occurred and he began seeking help.

Tonight he looked more alert. Sometimes, when he came in, he wore the world on his shoulders. At least tonight you were greeted with a semi-convincing smile.

“Dr. Robby,” you greeted. You’d stopped asking how his day was months ago.

“How has your shift been?” He asked you.

“Not bad, only have another hours or so before I clock out,” you replied.

The bar was slow tonight. Despite how abysmal the tips were, you preferred it slow. It allowed you to read, or grade, or write while patrons largely entertained themselves. Aimless small talk wasn’t your forte, though you’d certainly improved over the course of this job. Thankfully, the dive bar seemed to attract the kinds of people who wanted to be left alone with their thoughts.

“Busy week?” He asked.

“No more than others. Want your usual?” You asked deflecting his question about your life outside these walls.

A few weeks ago, the last night Robby had truly been wasted (so much so, you cut him off) he’d caught you in a moment of weakness and you’d told him about your PhD work. Despite his normally depressive drunk state, he perked up and began asking you question after question. It seemed to raise his spirits, so you acquiesced assuming he’d forget by the next morning.

His brain was a steel trap, as evidenced by the fact he’d ask about your PhD, either explicitly or in a roundabout way the following half dozen times he came in. He rarely got shit-faced anymore. Most times, he tended to stay on the right side of tipsy. It certainly seemed like he was trying to have a better relationship with alcohol.

In fact, a couple visits previous, you and a coworker watched amazed as he flirted with and then subsequently took home a woman sitting next to him at the bar. It had been live texted in the bartender groups chat to a mixture of awe, surprise, and happiness. Dr. Robby was something of a local legend in his sad but overall non-troublesome behavior. He just liked to talk when drunk and you really didn’t like to talk to drunk people.

Bartending paid well, and needs must.

“Just a rum and coke,” he said settling in on his usual bar stool. It sat off to the side and gave the occupant an easy view of the bar, patio, and front door.

“Got it,” you replied ringing him up. “Tab?”

“Not tonight,” Robby said.

You hoped your surprise didn’t show on your face, but you knew you had a terrible poker face. Looks like the group chat would be getting new information on the bizarre man. Most of your coworkers liked Robby a lot, he was colloquially known as Sad Paddington Bear. Tipping well and not being a menace made him a perfect patron. You were just a little pickier than most, with your days being spent on campus with academics and undergrads—by the time you came to this job your threshold for unique characters had been reached.

Sometimes you felt bad for how unfriendly and uncurious you could be with patrons. Many of your regulars were fun to chat with. They had fascinating lives and stories. You suspected Robby would be one if he got out of his drink. But no one normal goes to get a PhD—including yourself—so you just did not have it in you for Robby’s particular brand of quirky.

“You look surprised,” Robby commented as he handed over his card.

“I don’t look like anything,” you attempted to lie.

Robby snorted, “Every thought you have is written on your face. It’s why I know you don’t like me.”

“I like you fine,” you replied sliding over the card and receipt. “You tip well, who wouldn’t like that?”

“So that’s why it always looks like you sucked on a lemon when I walked in?” He inquires signing the check.

“Maybe I just enjoy snacking on lemons,” you said moving behind the bar and beginning to mix his drink. You made a mental note to work on your ability to control your face. It really was a problem.

“I think that would be more peculiar than not liking me,” Robby told you, sliding the check back over.

He was one of three people currently sitting at the bar, so after you handed him his drink, you glanced at his receipt.

“Is tipping 100% trying to get me to like you more?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, taking a small sip. “Knew you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t like many people, Dr. Robinavitch. I fear you’re not unique. I’m very much the problem here.”

“And yet, for some reason I doubt that. You seem perfectly pleasant to me.”

You couldn’t help the disbelieving snort that his comment elicited. “Might want to get your eyes checked, if that’s what you’re seeing.”

“I see just fine. It’s reading that I need the glasses for,” he stated.

It was unnerving, being stared at by Robby. His eyes were a deep brown and they seemed to have the uncanny ability to stare through you. It made the hair on your neck stand on end. Being watched was fine by you. Lecturing in front of massive classrooms meant public speaking, being perceived, and observed phased you very little. Robby was not observing you. He seemed to be studying you, and that was more than a little uncomfortable.

“Whatever you say,” you replied a little uncomfortable.

“I’ll get you to like me,” he said, an almost charming smile graced his face. It still seemed a little sad.

“Or maybe you need to be okay with the fact you’re not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m certainly not.”

“I think you underestimate yourself.”

“I think you overestimate yourself. I can’t believe you got that smoking hot woman to go home with you.”

“Paying attention to me, then?” He asked. Clearly, it was an attempt to sound suave, but it missed the mark and sounded cheesy.

“The group chat with all the bartenders was very proud of you.”

“And what about you?”

“I wondered if you were too old to get hard on your own and if you popped a sildenafil on your way out.”

“Ouch,” Robby responded but he didn’t sound particularly hurt.

Another patron walked in and you happily took the opportunity to leave the disconsolate aura Robby seemed to emanate around him. All too fast, the patron paid and you got them their drink. Your book was back by Robby. When you glanced at him, he had plucked it from behind the bar and was reading it.

“Have a sudden craving to learn about reform politics in the American southwest?” You asked.

“It’s a well written book,” Robby commented.

“It is, one of the better books I’ve read this semester.”

“I like your notes in the margin; lots of interesting thoughts and connections.”

“Uh-huh.” You gently took the book from his hands and was about to walk away when he asked with a forced causal tone,

“Do you still have that office on the third floor of the social science building?”

You paused. “Why do you know what floor my office is on?”

“You mentioned once your window looks over the duck pond and the statue of the naked guy with the sword,” he said. “Third floor lines up with that.”

You blinked. “I mentioned that months ago.”

He shrugged. “I remember things.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure how to. Most patrons forgot your name by their second drink. Robby remembered throwaway comments at 1AM while half-drunk. It was certainly a little odd, but no one else in your life seemed to pay that much attention to what you said.

“So do you like it better there than your old one?” he asked.

You stared. “My…old one?”

“The one you hated because the fluorescent light buzzed and flickered. You said it gave you headaches.”

You let out a slow breath. “Why do you remember that?”

He took a sip as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You were annoyed. You get more animated when you’re annoyed. It was interesting.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” you said flatly.

He looked mildly alarmed. “Was that creepy?”

“Yes.”

He grimaced. “Okay. Sorry. I just…listen.”

“To everything.”

“Well, yeah.” He hesitated. “You’re…” He trailed off.

“I what?” you asked cautiously.

“You’re the only person who talks to me like I’m not about to break or some shit, like I’m not some sad old man. You don’t like me enough to coddle me.”

You almost said you do think he’s sad, but stopped yourself. Something about the way he stared down at his drink made you uncomfortable. Apparently your stare and subsequent silence elicited a change in tactics.

“So,” he said, brightening with forced cheerfulness. “Conference are coming up, right? You said you hate them. Are you going to that one in—Chicago? MPSA?”

You frowned. “How do you even know when MPSA is?”

“You were complaining about airfare once.”

“That was in February.”

“It was a compelling rant.”

You gave him a look. “Robby. I don’t even tell my friends this stuff.”

He blinked. “We could be friends?”

“Don’t make this weird.”

He deflated slightly but nodded. “Okay. Sorry.” He was quiet for a beat. Then, softer: “I just, like talking to you. Makes it easier to not get drunk.”

You froze, not sure what to do with that.

He immediately panicked at your silence. “You don’t have to! I’m not trying to pry, I swear. Just, I like knowing how your brain works.”

“You say that like it’s a normal thing to say.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

He considered that. “Oh.”

You shook your head. “Robby, I’m not that interesting.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, almost offended. “You’re the most interesting part of my day.”

He realized what he’d said the moment it left his mouth. His eyes widened just slightly, like he wanted to catch the words and shove them back in.

You stared at him.

He took a quick, embarrassed sip of his drink. “That sounded less pathetic in my head.”

“I really doubt that,” you said.

He groaned quietly into his glass. “I’m going to die alone.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“Statistically accurate,” he muttered back.

Despite yourself, you snorted. “There’s no statistically valid way you could even determine that. It would be based on superficial evidence and the endogeneity would render the model completely pointless.”

He looked up, “What is endogeneity?”

“I am not giving you a stats lecture. Aren’t you a doctor. Shouldn’t you know stats?”

“No. I do calculations for drugs and chemical reactions to drugs. I don’t deal with probabilities. At least not like you do.”

“So how do you read case studies or evaluate the veracity of research?”

“Evaluate the veracity of research?”

“Yes, Dr. Robinavitch. If you don’t understand stats then how do you know if the research paper you’re reading is bullshit?”

“Well, it got published didn’t it?”

You felt your eye twitch. “I’ve never been more concerned for the medical profession than I am at this moment. This is why you guys stole “Doctor” from us, because you wanted to appear more like experts.”

“I think we had the title first.”

“I think you should check your facts. Academics were called doctor during the Middle Ages. Medical professionals started using it when they also spent time grave robbing.”

“You’re very passionate about this,” he commented.

“Yeah well,” you took a breath. “Respect is important.”

“So should I call you doctor?”

“I’d have to defend my dissertation first.”

“What’s your dissertation about?”

“Do you want another drink?” You asked ignoring his question.

“Nope,” he replied. “What’s your dissertation about?”

Letting out a harsh breath you said, “Local interest groups and how to encourage people to get involved in local politics.”

“Sounds fascinating,” he said.

“It does not,” you laughed.

“You can’t tell me what I do or don’t find interesting,” he shot back.

“You would be the first non-political scientist to find anything I do interesting.”

“Their loss.”

You stared at him and he held steady under your gaze. Normally, he’d cringe away. According to your students, you had a severe look that would render anyone hesitant and nervous. But Robby idly sipped his drink and kept looking back at you.

“You’re so weird,” you settled with saying.

“You’re not the first to say and I doubt you’ll be the last.”

With narrowed eyes, you turned and began cleaning up your station. You really just wanted to go home.

-- -- --

You were off this week, trying to meet a couple of important deadlines. It meant most evenings were spent on campus in your cramped but homey cubicle staring at numbers you could barely differentiate anymore. In high school you would have given anything to not do math, now you coded complex statistical models and calculated matrix algebra and derivatives. High school you would be devestated.

But current you, the one who was currently sitting in a too-cold-office space with a sweatshirt and a blanket, was fascinating by the results of your field experiment. It’s why you didn’t notice a group text erupting on your phone.

Priya: Sad Paddington Bear came in and asked about our favorite grumpy PhD student.

Rachel: he looked so sad when we told him she was off this week. apparently our girl has an admirer.

Priya: HOLY SHIT!!! He’s flirting with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Again!!!! He’s failing miserably and she seems charmed by it.

Oliver: I can’t believe I’m not there for this. Tell me everything!!!!!!!!

Rachel: she’s probably in her forties if I had to guess. he asked her name and if he could buy “the most beautiful woman in the bar” a drink. it was painfully cheesy

Oliver: did it work?????

Rachel: they’re talking rn!!!!!!!!!!!

Priya: I still can’t believe he has game.

Tanner: Hello all, this group chat is meant for work conversation only.

Priya: Fuck off, Tanner.

Rachel: fuck off tanner

Oliver: you’re a kill joy, tan

Rachel: THEYRE LEAVING TOGETHER. I REPEAT. THEY ARE LEAVING TOGETHER. SPB FUCKS!!!!!

Tanner: I am amazed Sad Paddington Bear has it in him. Guess he cannot count on impressing our grumpy coworker.

You: Fuck off Tanner, you dickhead.

Tanner: Case and point

Oliver: really changed your tune about the group chat there now that we are discussing how Paddington Bear fucks.

Tanner: It is work relevant.

You grumbled at your phone and tossed it in your backpack so it wouldn’t taunt you. So what if you were once again faced with the reality that Robby had game? You didn’t like Robby. He was sad and weird and paid way too much attention to you. Though, the attention he paid didn’t feel creepy so much as intense. He remembered things about you that most of your closest friends couldn’t recall. Not that you blamed them, you just lived in a niche world.

Robby fucking was in no way relevant to the edits you were making to your research nor did it help ease the exhaustion settling on your shoulders. You hadn’t been fucked well basically since you started the PhD program four years ago. It was an itch no one had been good enough to scratch. You briefly wondered if Robby was good in bed; probably not, you decided.

-- -- --

Robby was already at the bar when you clocked in. You were covering for Priya who went home sick, so it was only a couple hours until last call. Robby stared blearily at his empty cup; he didn’t even notice you walk in. Glancing at his tab you saw he had far out ordered his new normal. He was sitting four double gin and tonics deep; a large number for someone whose tab was only opened a little over an hour ago.

“You’re here,” he said syrupily. Robby never slurred, but he did manage to sound sleepy and sickly sweet at times.

“What happened to a healthier relationship with alcohol?” You asked sliding a glass of water with a straw in front of him and taking the mostly empty G&T away.

“I was drinking that,” he grumbled.

“I’ll take if off your tab,” you replied gesturing to the water.

He leaned down and took a drink from the straw. For some reason straws always got the drunk people to drink water. You likened it to a baby with a pacifier. Robby looked particularly sad tonight. You hoped he wasn’t going to talk your ear off. You weren’t sure how to square the man who took home, by all accounts, absolute bombshells, when he was now wasted on G&Ts in front of you.

“You’re my favorite,” he said. He took another drink.

“I’m literally the meanest person here,” you responded. “You have got to fix your self esteem.”

“Esteem is fine,” he replied.

You snorted. “People with healthy self esteem’s don’t gravitate towards people that are mean to them. I thought you said you were seeing someone professionally.”

“Stopped,” he mumbled.

“Healthy.”

“I’m fine,” he replied, his grin was goofy but his eyes were sad.

“Uh-huh,” you knew you sounded unconvinced.

“Do you know what my favorite thing about you is?” Robby asked apropos of nothing.

“No, and I don’t really care,” you sighed, as you began washing cups. You wished he didn’t insist on sitting by the good water spout so you could dishes in peace.

“You don’t lie to protect anyone’s feelings.”

That wasn’t exclusively true. You were far more tactful with your students than adult men at a bar you worked at to make your car payment hurt less.

“Not anyone here, that’s true,” you said.

“I lie all the time,” he announced. “I’m good at it to.”

“What do you lie about?” You asked disbelievingly. Immediately you wished you hadn’t said anything.

“That I’m fine,” he sighed. “I’m not fine. As demonstrated by the fact I’m shit faced on a Tuesday at…” he looked at his watched for longer than a sober man would need, “nine-twenty-seven pm.”

“No offense, Robby. If that’s what you’re lying about, you’re a shit liar.”

“No one else seems to have picked up on it,” he grumbled.

“Don’t you have friends or family?”

“Parents died when I was little. Raised my Bubbe, grandmother. Was the only person to sit shiva for her when she died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you replied. “It must have been lonely to grieve like that for her.”

“You know what sitting shiva means?”

“I have met a Jewish person, before yes. I do live in Pittsburgh, you know,” you replied.

“You’re full of surprises,” Robby declared.

“I certainly am not,” you scoffed. Robby just shrugged and went silent. Eventually he said,

“All of her family had already passed and then it was just me. Sitting in the empty house watching distant family members and friends I barely knew putter around while I sat and stared. Seven days of nothing.”

“What about your friends?”

He just shrugged.

“Surely in your many years on this earth you’ve picked up a friend or two.”

“Sure, but I’m great at pushing them away. After Adamson died, after I all but killed him, there was no one willing to put up with me.”

“Adamson?”

“Mentor.” Robby said. “Incredible man. Changed the way I looked at the world. Showed me how to be a good doctor and good man. I think I’ve lost both since he passed.”

“How did he die?” You asked, quietly.

“COVID. I made the choice to take him off the ventilator because someone younger needed it. She died, too. Some fucking doctor I am,” Robby said acidicly. It was a tone of voice that surprised you.

“What a goddamn bitch of a situation,” you told him. “I’m sorry you were put in that position.”

“Maybe if I had been a better doctor…” Robby trailed off.

“What? You could have bare knuckle boxed death and won?” You asked, leaning a hip against the bar in front of him. “Way I see it, instead of death taking them easily, it had to fight you tooth and nail for it.”

“Still won.”

“Always will in the end,” you replied shrugging.

“Then maybe there isnt a point.”

“To being a doctor?” You asked.

“That, or keeping going. What’s the point if we all die?”

“Christ.”

“Sorry.”

“You apologize too much.”

“You sound like Jack.”

“Friend?”

“We used to be close,” Robby mumbled.

This was certainly more desolate that you really had the energy for.

“Dude,” you said before you could stop yourself. It was really none of your business. “You seem to be moderately intelligent, so you should know that you can stop pushing away your friends. I’m sure it’s not easy but it’s not a fact of life. Take some agency instead of letting things just happen to you.”

If anything he curled in deeper to himself and you immediately felt a wave of guilt and worry wash over you. When Robby got like this you always had half a mind to call in a welfare check on him when he got home. Maybe you shouldn’t be kicking a man while he’s down.

“See,” he said, a thick emotion in his voice. “No coddling from you.”

“Give me your phone,” you said.

He handed it over without question.

“Give me the password and someone to call for you.”

Robby gave you his four digit code. And said, “Jack, I guess. Don’t think he’s working tonight.”

You scrolled through his contacts (most of which had the Dr. prefix attached to them) and hit call. Almost immediately the phone picked up.

“You good, brother? You don’t normally call this late,” a deep male voice said.

“Uh, yeah. Not Robby. I’m a bartender at Solomon’s on tenth. Robby’s…” you weren’t sure how to say it, “not good? I managed to get him to give me your name. You able to come grab him?”

“Is he okay? Physically?” The man, Jack, asked. You could hear rustling on the other end and a metallic click before hurried footsteps.

“Yes, physically he’s fine. I’m not thrilled with the idea of him going home alone,” you replied. Turning away from Robby so he could see your mouth or hear you—though by the distant look in his eyes you doubted he was listening. “He’s talking a lot about Adamson and death. He is pretty wasted.”

“Fuck,” Jack hissed. “I know it’s not your job, but can you try and keep him there and mostly alive? I’m like twenty minutes away.”

“I can do that. I’ll try and sober him up some.”

“Thank you. Thank you,” Jack said.

You hung up and disappeared in the back where you knew the staff kept a shitty water kettle for the coffee part of Irish coffees. You quickly grabbed some fries from the kitchen and brewed a cup of coffee. When you came back, Robby was slumped against the bar.

“Rise and shine, sad boy. You need to eat and drink this,” you said placing the food and coffee in front of him. The water was almost empty so you refilled that as well.

“I’m good.”

“Eat the fries and drink the fucking coffee,” you snapped. “I’m trying to help you.”

“You don’t like me,” he shot back.

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t have to like you to want you to be okay,” you replied flicking his forehead lightly.

“Asshole,” he grumbled sitting up and taking a sip of coffee. He coughed at the bitter taste.

“Sorry we don’t have anything good.”

“Probably for the best.”

You continued working while keeping an eye on Robby. He drank the coffee and ate the fries, slowly he was looking a little better when the door opened and a sturdy man in a US Army sweatshirt limped in. He had close cropped grey and silver hair. His facial expression was frantic and worried, but relaxed when he spied Robby stooped at the bar picking at the last couple fries.

“You look like shit,” you heard the man say.

“Normally that’s her line,” Robby said loosely. He lazily pointed at you. There wasn’t a legitimate reason you could avoid the pair, so you walked over.

“You’re the one that called?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” you replied introducing yourself.

“Oh, you’re that bartender,” Jack realized.

“Which one?” You inquired.

“He likes you.”

“He shouldn’t. I’m mean.”

“He’s fucked up that way,” Jack said. “Thank you, for taking care of him.”

“Just doing my job,” you said.

Jack snorted. “It’s not. Can I pay out his tab?”

“Don’t worry about it, the system will close it out,” you replied. “Just get him home safe.”

“Will do and thank you again,” Jack said pulling Robby to his feet. The pair ambled out into the chilly winter air and you couldn’t help but feel the lack of Robby’s presence haunting the edge of your bar.

-- -- --

It had been over two months since you’ve seen Robby. Most of you didn’t think about him. Regulars disappeared all the time. Regulars who seemed one bad day away from throwing themselves in the river also disappeared but you were hopeful his water logged body wouldn’t be found based on Jack’s presence. You had a sneaking suspicion that Robby’s view of his friendship was muddied by his lack of self esteem. If Jack wasn’t a friend you weren’t sure what else he could be.

Campus was close to the major hospital in the area. It was a good thing too, since the thin sheet of ice that coated all the sidewalks had sent many an undergrad to the clinic with a twisted ankle. You were hesitantly walking down a set of concrete steps after your lecture when an undergrad rushed by you and knocked you over.

You felt your feet fly out from under you and the hard crack of icy concrete on your elbow and you slid down the stairs. There was a distance “Sorry!” as the undergrad ran off.

“Fuck,” you managed trying to sit up. Your vision swam and you felt something warm and stick on the side of your face.

“Holy shit,” a voice said. You recognized her as one of the students from your class. “Professor? Are you okay?”

“Sure,” you said, trying to sit up again.

“Okay, maybe don’t do that. Your head is bleeding a lot. Ryan! Ryan, call 911. I think she needs an ambulance.”

“I’m fine,” you grumbled.

You started to take stock of your body now that the initial shock of the fall had worn off. Your leg was curled awkwardly under your body and with a heave, you managed to get it in front of you. Your legs felt fine, though there was a rip in your favorite pair of pants and blood seeping out of a gash in your leg. Trying to move your left arm sent nauseating pain through your body, so you kept it firmly tucked against you. With your non injured hand you tried to feel for whatever wound was on your head.

“Okay, definitely don’t do that,” your student said. “You’re covered in dirty ice, you’ll give yourself an infection. Ryan went to grab someone from the department too.”

As if on cue, you heard the slamming of footsteps behind you and the familiar voice of the graduate program director going, “Oh fuck. Are you all right?”

You were lying flat on your back in the icy concrete. In what world were you all right?

“The ambulance is here,” another voice said. The cloudy afternoon was beginning to get dimmer. Fuck, your head hurt. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to close your eyes for a minute.

The next time you came to, it felt like the world was moving. There were bright lights, loud voices and an incessant squeaking that made you want to cover your ears. Slowly, the rest of your body came back into focus and you heard a familiar voice say,

“Any LOC?”

A female voice behind you answered, “She’s been in and out since we picked her up. Oriented at first but lost consciousness before we got there.”

“Fuck off, I’m fine,” you hissed, very much not fine.

“I’ll take grumpy and incorrect over unconscious,” the voice said. “Okay, roll her to the bed and we’ll transfer on three. One…two..three.”

For a moment you felt yourself lift and then land on a less comfortable bed. The surface was harder, covered with that weird hospital paper, and colder than the gurney. Your eyes were still closed, but the lights above you were so bright you could feel them—white heat buzzing against your eyelids like someone pressing flashbulbs to your face.

Then came the hands.

One on your wrist. Another pushing up your sleeve. Cold pads sticking to your chest, your sweater no longer covering your tank top. Fingers checking your jaw. Gloves brushing your ribs. Something tight wrapped around your arm. Something else snapping against your ankle.

Too much.

Too many.

Your skin crawled under every point of contact. You tried to jerk away, but your body wouldn’t cooperate.

“This is worse than falling,” you said, and even you could hear the pitch of panic creeping into your voice. “Seriously—stop—just—”

“Mel, keep her talking and calm,” a voice said somewhere near your head. You knew that voice. You just couldn’t get your brain to land on the name.

“Hi there,” a woman said gently from your right. “I’m Mel. You’re okay, you’re at the hospital.”

Hospital. Right. You knew that. But it didn’t help. The beeping. The fluorescent hum. The rustle of paper gowns and gloves. Every sound was too loud. Every light was too sharp. Every hand on you felt like sandpaper over raw nerves.

“I want people to stop touching me,” you groaned, trying to pull your arm in, but someone grabbed your wrist before you got far. The movement sent agony lancing up your arm and you gasped, vision flashing white. “Fucking—ow—stop, stop—”

“Okay, arm fracture, careful,” Mel warned the nurse.

But the hands didn’t stop. They shifted instead—someone pressing down on your shoulder, another holding your chin steady as a light was shined in your eyes. You recoiled instinctively.

You hated this.

Too many people, too close, pinning you to a table like you were something to be restrained and examined. Every nerve ending screamed. Every second of it made your heart slam against your ribs, desperate for space, for air, for control.

“Hey,” Mel said softly, noticing the way your breathing hitched. “You’re safe. I know it feels like a lot. We’re just getting your vitals and making sure you’re stable.”

“This is not stable,” you snapped. You could hear yourself starting to spiral but couldn’t stop. “This is the opposite of stable. Get your fucking hands off—”

You heard your name.

Your eyes dragged to the sound.

Robby.

Standing at the foot of the bed, chart in hand, eyes on you. He looked, your sluggish brain struggled for the right word, not bad. He wore dark scrubs, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Everyone seemed to be responding to him. You closed your eyes as the room began to spin.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. Even as your chest heaved and your hands balled into fists.

“No one is going to hurt you,” he said, voice even. Almost detached. “They’re doing their jobs. Let them get what they need, and I’ll make them back off.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he didn’t get to manage you. You wanted to shove every hand away and rip off every wire and bolt out of the room. The panic sat high in your throat like you were going to choke on it.

The lights were too bright. The voices were too loud. The touches were too much.

“Fuck,” you whispered, and hated how small it sounded.

“We’ve got you,” he said. “Just breathe.”

You inhaled shakily.

Hand rested on your ankle. The room was still chaos. The light still pierced through your eyelids. Everything was too much, but if you focused on the warm hand that settled on your bare ankle it was almost bearable. Gritting your teeth, you tried to block out everything else except his touch. When you were more coherent, you would find the irony of relying on Robby amusing.

“Mel, give me next steps,” he said, hand still in place.

The doctor stood on your right, her tone soft and low—surprisingly rich, like honey poured into warm tea. “Head lac needs irrigation and staples. Bleeding’s controlled. Pupils equal, reactive, but she’s photosensitive. GCS is fourteen—dropped once en route but came back up. Left arm—obvious deformity, likely distal radius or ulna fracture, maybe both. Possible sprain or hairline fracture in the lateral malleolus on the left ankle—she’s guarding it.”

“She guarding everything,” one of the nurses muttered, adjusting the leads stuck to your chest.

“No shit,” you snapped. “Maybe stop poking me like I’m a Thanksgiving turkey.”

Mel hummed, sounding amused rather than offended. “Conversational. Good sign.”

“She’s always like this,” Robby said, almost under his breath.

You glared at him. “I am not.”

His mouth barely twitched. “CT ordered?”

“Waiting on transport,” Mel said. “Do you want C-spine? She denied neck pain, full range of motion at the scene.”

Robby glanced at you again, his eyes scanning your posture. You realized he was checking the subtle ways you moved—or didn’t. “No collar yet. If her pain spikes or she reports new symptoms, we’ll immobilize. For now, keep her semi-upright so she doesn’t pass out.”

“I can hear you, you know,” you muttered. “I’m not a mannequin.”

“Unfortunately,” Robby murmured, dry.

Before you could tell him to fuck off, Mel leaned closer, casting just a little shadow over your face—mercifully blocking the light. Her voice was gentle but matter-of-fact, her cadence a little off in a way that made you think she thought carefully about each word before she spoke. “We’re going to clean your head wound. It might hurt. We’ll be as quick and gentle as we can. Okay?”

Mel was easily becoming your favorite person in the room. She clearly outlined her actions and didn’t attempt to sugarcoat or mollify.

You exhaled slowly. “Fine. Just…please don’t surprise me.”

“I will do my best,” she said seriously, and you believed her.

An alcohol pad touched the edge of the gash at your temple and you jerked instinctively. Pain flared hot, crawling behind your eye.

“Shit—fuck—” you hissed.

“Almost done,” Mel promised, calm as ever.

Hands were still on your arms, wrists, shoulders—but the one on your ankle grounded you. You focused hard on that one, because if you let yourself feel all the others, you were going to come out swinging.

Robby’s thumb moved—just slightly. The smallest shift of pressure. The subtlest reminder to keep you in your body and not desperately trying to escape.

“Transport ready?” he asked without looking away from you.

“Any minute,” someone said from the doorway.

Mel finished cleaning. “She’s going to hate the staples.”

“She hates everything,” Robby said.

“I wouldn’t hate it if you let me sleep again,” you mumbled.

“No sleeping,” he warned automatically.

“You’re the worst doctor I’ve ever met.”

“Get in line,” he said. His tone was flat, but something deep in it—something only someone who had listened to him talk for hours in dim bar lighting—sounded faintly relieved.

You sucked in another breath, trying to brace yourself for whatever fresh hell came next.

And then you heard the gurney being unlocked again.

The CT was better than the trauma room. It was dark. The nurse gave you earplugs and a warm blanket. You were still dizzy and in a lot of pain, but even without Robby’s hand, you felt like panicky.

The nurse took off all your jewelry and removed everything from your pockets. She started an IV in your arm that you barely felt. She rarely spoke unless informing you what was coming next. Despite the loud humming of the machine, you preferred this to everything else.

Eventually the machine began, you moved back and forth through the machine. With your eyes closed and earplugs in, it was easy to let your body calm down.

By the time the test was done and you were wheeled back into the ER proper, you were given an actual room and no longer in the trauma bay. Mel let you keep the earplugs. A new nurse, or maybe a previous one you snapped at, helped you change into a hospital gown and graciously let you keep you underwear on. Small victories.

Mel came back with Robby and slowly stitched your head wound while Robby looked at your leg.

“What happened?” He asked softly. You were calmer, more coherent now.

“Someone knocked me over on some stairs. Gravity did the rest,” you said. “Sorry that I was such a bitch before.”

“You’re fine,” Robby said at the same time Mel replied with,

“You were a bit mean, but it is completely understandable given the circumstances.”

“Dr. King,” Robby sighed. He was about to say something but your giggles stopped him.

“Dr. King?” You asked.

“Call me, Mel.”

“Mel, I think you’re my favorite doctor. Please apologize to all the healthcare workers I was mean to, for me. I know they were just trying to help.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Mel said kindly. “I’m going to put in an order for pain meds and follow up with Ortho. Want me to finish her leg, Dr. Robby?”

“I got it, Mel. Check on South 15 for me,” he directed.

“Got it,” she replied leaving.

“I can dim the lights and use a head lamp if that would be easier?” He asked quietly. “It’s going to take me a bit to stitch this.”

“That would be helpful. My head is throbbing,” you replied.

Robby nodded and clicked off the lights before he washed his hands and gloved up. He slid on a dorky looking headlamp with magnifying glasses on it. You wanted to make a joke but a wave of nausea slammed into you at the sight of the open wound on your leg.

“I need you to stay still,” Robby said softly.

“Sorry, sorry. I looked too closely at my leg. I think I’m going to puke,” you gagged.

He slid over to the cabinet and pulled out a barf bag. You clutched it against your mouth breathing deeply with your eyes clenched closed. Eventually the nausea passed and you thankfully didn’t throw up in front of Robby.

“Do you need anything?”

“You’re being too nice to me, considering I called you a bad doctor,” you replied instead of answering.

“Water? Juice?” He asked ignoring you. Normally that was your move.

“Water, but I’d prefer the leg to be stitched first. If I open my eyes and see it, I might pass out again.”

“So you’re able to explain nuances of statistics and political socialization, but blood gets you?” Robby asked. You felt the pressure of the needle and pull of the thread, but nothing hurt.

“Not blood, blood is fine. The giant open wound on my thigh gets me. I shouldn’t be able to see my own muscles,” you said gagging again at the thought.

“I’ve never seen you break your composure. Even earlier when you were having a hard time,” Robby replied almost sounding amused. “It’s nice to know you’re human, too.”

“When have I ever appeared not human?”

Robby snorted. “I really don’t think you know how people perceive you.”

“Takes one to know one,” you shot back.

Robby let out a humorless chuckle. “Suppose you’re right.”

“Are you…okay?” You asked.

“Getting there,” he said.

He was silent for a minute and you thought that was the end of his statement. It was more than what you thought you’d get. Instead, Robby took a breath and continued,

“That night, Jack, he took me to a treatment facility. I was there for a week and I’ve been doing therapy and group twice a week ever since.”

“Good for you.”

“Apparently a lot go healthcare providers got fucked by COVID,” Robby said conversationally.

“If I got fucked by COVID, I can only imagine you did,” you said humorlessly.

“I owe some of it to you,” he said after a bout of silence.

“What in the world could I have done? I’m just your mean bartender.”

Robby chuckled. “True, but having a stranger you want to like you, call you pathetic and tell you to get your life together…well, I guess it was the kick I needed.”

“So does that mean you admit you have friends now?”

“Yes,” Robby sighed. You smiled.

“Good. I’m glad you’re no longer sad and morose haunting the end of my bar.”

“Instead you’re terrorizing my ER,” he commented. Your eyes were still closed but you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Your ER?”

“I’m the chief attending,” he replied.

“No shit,” you said. “Why would you care if I liked you when you’re impressive and shit.”

“Impressive and shit?”

“Answer the question.”

He sighed. “I think I’ll pass on that one. Anyways, about done with your last stitch.”

You didn’t push, but there was something odd in his voice. “Can I get those pain meds now?”

“Sure thing,” he said warmly. “Your leg is covered if you want to open your eyes.”

You did and there was a low light in the room, but the bright fluorescents were off. Robby smoothed the gauze over your thigh and you felt his warmth even through the latex gloves. He smiled at you as he departed. Shortly thereafter, a nurse came in with pain meds and sleep over took you.

The next time you saw Robby you were still a little high on pain meds which is what you’ll blame for asking,

“Do you still pick up women now that you’re not a drunk?”

“Christ,” he said. He had just entered the room to check on your wound. “Warm a guy before giving him the inquisition.”

“I’m just curious if you’re still a slut now.”

“I wasn’t a slut then,” he protested.

“See I thought it didn’t happen much because it never happened on my shift. But I compared notes. You picked up a lot of women.”

“It was a normal amount,” he defended.

“Sure,” you drawled.

“I might have been a little slutty,” he acknowledged.

“You have hidden depths. I think we misjudged you when naming you Sad Paddington Bear.”

“Sad Paddington Bear?”

“It’s what the bartenders call you. Although maybe we should have called you a sad gigolo.”

“You’re very nosy on pain meds,” he said.

“I really am. Haven’t been on them before. Lot nicer than feeling all the cuts and scraps on my body.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Stiff, sore, probably embarrassed when my heads back on normal.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Robby replied with a hand lightly resting on your knee. He seemed to realize what he was doing and removed his hand.

“When can I leave?” You asked. “I want to be in my own bed.”

“You’ll need another neuro test before I feel comfortable letting you go,” he said. “Do you have someone to stay with you? Friend? Family? …Partner?”

“I’ll call a friend. Family is in a different state. And no partner. Who knows, maybe I’m a slut too,” you said.

You watched his lips quirk up. “You don’t like people enough to be a slut.”

You snorted. “That is so accurate. Having someone sweaty uselessly humping me is so boring.”

“Uselessly?”

Once again, you’d like to thank the pain meds for your loose lips. “Let’s just say, it’s been a real lack of skill in my bedroom from other humans. My vibrator? Astounding. She does great work.”

Robby cleared his throat as color washed over his cheeks. “Right, well—“

“If you’re a slut, it stands to reason that you probably wouldn’t be useless,” you thought out loud.

“Okay, looks like we should dial back the pain meds,” Robby said.

“So you are useless?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” he stated.

“Absolute babes went home with you apparently more than once. That must mean something,” you mumbled.

“You’re killing me,” Robby groaned.

“Where do you pick up women now that you don’t drink.”

“It’s really none of your business,” he tried to say. You continued talking,

“Coffee shop? I feel like you’d have a coffee shop you go to now.”

He did have a coffee shop he went to now and he didn’t like that you were able to puzzle that out so quickly while on pain meds.

“Look, I think we’re off track here,” Robby tried again.

“You’re hot, you know that?”

Robby cleared his throat and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I think I’ll send Mel in.”

“I’m just going to keep talking like this. Because for the first time in my life I cannot figure out how to shut up,” you stated. Distantly, you knew you’d be horrified by this later. But it wasn’t later. And the words kept coming.

Robby sighed and sat down next to you. “I’m not going to answer your questions.”

“That’s fine. Your prerogative.”

“So it seems we’re at an impass,” he stated.

“Apparently,” you said. “Although, I do have something to confess.”

“Is it going to make me uncomfortable as your current healthcare provider?” Robby asked tiredly. You snorted.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“All right, go ahead.”

“I don’t like you as a drunk, but as a doctor dealing with me on pain meds, I find you surprisingly charming. Long suffering, for sure, but charming too.”

“That is the meanest compliment I’ve received,” Robby half laughed, disbelievingly.

“It wasn’t meant to be mean!” You protested. “God these meds are fucking with me.”

Robby patted your hand and said, “Once the meds wear off and we check your brain again, I’ll discharge you. I…I am going to write down my number and if you feel comfortable, I just want you to let me know you’re okay.”

“Is this how you picked up the women?” You asked conspiratorially.

“No,” he said. Then almost to himself, added, “This is such a strange version of you.”

“Oh I know. I’m going to be mortified tomorrow.”

Robby snorted. “I’m putting my number in your discharge paperwork, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Dr. Robby. I think I might sleep again.”

“Probably a good call for both of us.”

-- -- --

It was two days post-discharge when the memory of your pain‐medicated encounter with Robby came swimming back.

“Oh fuck,” you groaned.

You were sitting on your couch with your leg propped on pillows and your arm in a sling, still in ratty pajamas you hadn’t changed out of since getting home. A dull ache radiated from every bruise and stitch, and the concussion made the world feel slightly tilted. But none of that compared to the slow, creeping horror pooling in your gut as you remembered exactly what you’d said to him.

Are you still a slut?

My vibrator does great work.

You're attractive, you know that?

You dragged your one good hand down your face and wished you could legally induce a coma. For your entire life, you had always been a little socially awkward. Most of the time your sense of humor never quite lined up with everyone else, your grasp of small talk was a battle fought for in awkward silences. Years of forcing yourself to get better at talking finally made you comfortable, but now you wanted to melt into your couch never to see another person again.

“Who was that?” you whispered to no one.

Part of you, the delusional part, hoped maybe you’d hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe it hadn’t been real. Then you glanced at your coffee table. The discharge folder sat there. Hesitantly, you opened the folder and tucked under the business card for the hospital was a Post-It with a phone number and one line written in neat block letters:

PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU’RE OKAY. —R

“Nope, it was real,” you muttered. “Kill me.”

You tossed the folder back on the table and stared at it like you were afraid it would explode. There were two choices now: one, fake your death or two, be an adult and text the confident and normal version of Robby who had put up with your drug addled word vomit. Option one was very tempting.

You spent the rest of the day alternately sleeping and cringing. Every time you drifted off, your brain generously replayed another snippet of the conversation in 4K quality. It was easy to remember his hand on yours, the way he so effortlessly kept you calm and from panicking. You even recalled his panicked look when you asked him if he was still a slut. Groaning you wondered if you could smother yourself with a pillow. But he had been so kind; his kindness was the only reason you hadn’t absolutely lost your shit.

(Realistically, you knew Mel would have been able to calm you down, but still.)

You stared at your phone.

“You should text him,” a traitorous part of you whispered.

“Absolutely not,” the rest of you replied.

You sat with that for ten minutes.

Then twenty.

Then an hour.

You almost threw a pillow across the room. “Goddammit.”

You grabbed your phone.

Fine.

You’d text him.

One simple, neutral message.

Something mature, like: thanks again for your help.

Something that did not reference slut discourse or vibrators or the fact that you maybe, possibly, kind of liked him.

You typed:

hey. i lived, thanks for the stitches i guess

You stared at it.

You deleted “i guess.”

You added:

and sorry if i was weird. pain meds are evil.

You hovered over “send” for a solid sixty seconds.

Then, daring to breathe, you hit send.

Three seconds later, anxiety punched you in the throat. You threw your phone on the chair next to you hoping you wouldn’t hear it if it buzzed with his response. Painfully, you stood and limped over to your tiny kitchen. Making tea with one hand took double the time it did with two, it meant you were busy for double the time it would have normally distracted you for. Perhaps, you could still unsend the message. You checked the clock. Five minutes had passed. Maybe he wouldn’t respond. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he’d changed his number. Maybe—

You heard your phone buzz. Fuck. For a moment you stared at the chair, and slowly limped over to it, grabbing the offending device and terrified to see the response.

Finally, you grabbed it.

Robby (unknown number):

Hello. I’m glad you are safe. How is your pain level today?

You glared. Of course he was more normal than you were in this situation. That really annoyed you. He was meant to be the one who was awkward and cringey. You eased back onto the couch with your tea and wrote out:

headachy and sore. the stitches itch, too.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Robby: Are you having any new symptoms? • Worsening headache • Dizziness • Nausea • Vision changes • Difficulty focusing more than before

You rolled your eyes.

You: you text like a web-md checklist

Robby: That is perhaps the rudest thing you could say to a doctor. I just want to make sure you’re okay.

You: yeah, im fine. thank you for your concern Robby. stitches are driving me crazy tho

There was a longer pause this time. Then:

Robby: I’m glad you’re better. Have you eaten today?

You: none of your business (yes, a friend brought me soup).

Robby: Sounds like you have good friends. I’m glad you’ve eaten. A good diet and sleep are your best healing assets right now.

You: best healing assets?

Robby: Was that inappropriate?

You: no you just sounded like a dork

Robby: Seems to be something I frequently deal with around you.

You: are you blaming me for your inability to talk to women?

Robby: I can talk to women just fine. Something you have already established.

You: touche. so it’s just me?

Robby: I think it is.

You: do you still think i don’t like you? is that why you’re so weird?

Robby: Partially

You: and the other part?

Robby: I’ll plead the fifth, that. Your stitches should be ready to come out in a week or so. If you don’t want to go to the doctor, I can take them out for you. If you want, that is. No pressure.

You: technically pleading the fifth is only something you can only do when dealing with the government, but i’ll allow it since you were very kind to me when i was an absolute nightmare on pain meds. and that would be very appreciated. ill buy you a coffee as a thanks. and i won’t be mean

Robby: You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.

You: was that a joke?

Robby: Yes, evidently not a good one.

You: i am impressed, nonetheless.

Robby: Please keep me updated on how you’re feeling.

You: i make no promises. im terrible at texting

Robby: I’ve noticed. There has not been a single capitalization this whole time. You’re getting a PhD.

You: if you think about it, getting a phd is really the dumbest thing you could do, so i would argue it’s in character.

Robby: We’ll agree to disagree there.

Texting with Robby was strange. It was strange to communicate with someone you once dreaded seeing. It was very weird for him to offer to take out your stitches for you, saving you a trip to the campus clinic or urgent care; neither option seemed attractive to you.

The next week and a half passed like molasses. Each time you thought your body had improved enough to do an extra chore, or your brain had healed enough to open your laptop, your body aggressively reminded you that rest was still required. Thankfully, a few days into your boredom inducing bed rest, the TV became a viable option again assuming you kept the brightness down and the volume at a tolerable level.

Every so often you would text Robby an update or he would ask for one. You found yourself looking forward to the messages. Not drunk and seeking mental health help, he actually was funny and the maudlin angst had been replaced with the occasional dark joke. One time he sent you the middle finger emoji and you were unironically proud of him.

It wasn’t until the fifth day on bed rest did the occasional text turn into something more.

You: what do i do if the stitches are red and kinda making me nauseous?

Robby: Nauseous because you have a weak stomach or because you think it’s an additional symptom?

You: unclear, kinda been sick all day but i’ve also had a bitch of a headache too

Robby: I’m going to video call. I want to see the wound.

You phone rang a moment after you liked the message. Robby’s face appeared and it looked like he was at home. It was instinctually to search his background looking for any hint of his history that he hadn’t already poured out to your at the bar. He seemed to be sitting on a couch or chair, and behind him was a wall full of vinyl records. There was soft lamp light and the faint hum of music in the background.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” you told him wincing.

“I could have ignored your message,” he replied simply. You wondered if there was ever a world where he would ignore someone who needed him.

“I’ll owe you a whole meal when this is over,” you told him.

“You’re way too poor for me to take you up on that,” he replied, making you snort.

“That is unfortunately correct. Still, I’ll figure out a way to repay you,” you told him.

A faint blush appeared on his cheeks and you couldn’t figure out why he seemed flushed by your words. (Later, upon reflection you would hear the double entendre, but frankly, that was his problem not yours.) Clearing his throat, he said,

“Aim the camera at your wound, please.”

“Okay, I can’t really look at it, so you’ll have to tell me if my camera work is off,” you said.

You moved your phone so it reflected at your lap and the ratty cotton shorts you’d been living in. They barely covered any of your leg, which was useful when you had to change the dressing on your wound. Before it started turning red and weeping, it wasn’t that bad. Now, just looking at it made you sick.

“Can you turn on your phone flash light or make it brighter?” Robby asked.

“Sure thing,” You said, turning on your phone’s flashlight.

“Is it warm?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it throb?”

“No,” you replied.

“Are you running a fever?”

“How the fuck would I know?” you asked.

“Do you not have a thermometer?” he asked. For the first time, you heard a hint of exasperation in his voice. It made you smile.

“Maybe? My mom sent me a care package when I got the flu a few months ago. Let me see,” you told him, turning the phone back to your face.

You eased off the couch and limped to your kitchen where you shoved the box your mom had sent. Propping up your phone against the kitchen backsplash, you rummaged through the box and to your surprise, found a thermometer. It was the basic kind you put under your tongue.

“Gotta love a woman who can’t express her love with words and instead sends a care package to her adult daughter in her thirties,” you said, popping the cap off the thermometer and sticking it under your tongue.

You hadn’t glanced at your phone since aiming it at your leg in fear you’d see something that would make your stomach churn even more than it already was. Now, propped up, you could see that Robby slid on his reading glasses and to your shock and horror, he looked hot. So attractive in fact, you almost let the thermometer slip out of your mouth.

His rugged, slightly scraggly beard was reminiscent of how you’d seen him at the bar, but this time it was due to him rubbing his hand through the hair as he waited for you to measure your fever. Something about the addition of the glasses brought into focus how his narrow face was actually quite enticing. You briefly wondered what his beard would feel like between your legs.

“Christ,” you said without realizing that he could obviously hear and see you.

“Are you okay? You seemed freaked out,” Robby replied. “Is your temperature high?”

Thankfully, the thermometer beeped loudly, giving you a chance to pull it out of your mouth and look at it. “99.6.”

“Not too bad. You sure you’re good?”

“I am a bit freaked about the leg,” you said. It wasn’t a lie, but certainly wasn’t the whole truth. You briefly the revisited the idea of smothering yourself. What happened when you hit your head that made you think Robby was attractive?

“It certainly looks inflamed. I would do a good clean and put some antibiotic cream on it.”

“And what if cleaning it makes me gag?”

“Then I guess we’ll have to amputate,” he said.

You stared at him. “I’m annoyed that I found that funny.”

“And yet, you didn’t laugh.”

“Well, the annoyance won out in the end.”

Robby snorted. “Do you need me to come over and help clean it?”

“I can’t ask you to do that. Plus, I don’t think I’ve annoyed my friends enough about this yet. Why bother the very nice doctor when I could bug my friends?”

“So I’ve graduated from Sad Paddington Bear to very nice doctor?”

“Congratulations. It does not come with a pay increase. But what can you do? The economy is in shambles.”

He snorted and shook his head. “I want you to send me an update on your leg tomorrow, please. If it gets worse you’ll need to go to urgent care.”

“Ugh, anything but that,” you complained. “It’s terrible there.”

“And yet so much better than sepsis,” he replied.

“I dunno, juries out,” you grumbled limping back to the couch.

“How is your head?”

“Hurts and I can barely do anything. I can watch TV if I don’t look directly at the screen, so that’s something. Mainly listening to audiobooks of shit I’ve already read.”

You settled back onto your couch and buried yourself back under the covers you had created your nest from. The view of your camera caught the warmth of your couch and some of the quirky decor including the art print of a woman leading a man on a leash with “This Ain’t My First Rodeo” painted above it. Angling the camera away from the slightly inappropriate art work, you felt better with the section of wall that was now showing. It was a corner of your diploma and photo from a christmas party with your friends. Much more appropriate.

“What have you been listening to?”

“A lot of comedy and re-listening to my favorite book series. My entertainment is purely escapism since I spend most of my day reading, writing, or doing math about politics,” you told him.

“You’ll have to send me suggestions. Nothing I’ve read recently has kept much of my attention,” he replied.

You then delved into details of your favorite book series. The conversation spiraled from books to television to the records Robby had on current rotation. More than that, he asked questions about your PhD, hesitantly, and you answered. It didn’t feel like a weird overreach anymore. Robby really was intelligent and normal when not drunk or tipsy. You almost felt proud of him. By the time the phone call ended, you felt calmer about your leg and less worked up over the boredom.

You chose not to think about it too much.

-- -- --

When the stitches were due to come out, you almost didn’t text Robby. It felt like an imposition. Over the past day or so you felt tremendously better. Your head was no longer one overstimulation away from a migraine, you could feel your brain fog lifting, and movement didn’t hurt much. Everything was still a little sensitive, but the real annoyance was how bored and pent up you were. Still, the relief from getting the stitches removed almost didn’t beat the feeling of taking advantage of Robby.

Robby: Can I come by after my shift ends to take out your stitches? I want to look at everything and make sure it’s healing well.

You: you don’t have to but yes please if i think about having thread in my body too long it kinda freaks me out

Robby: Please send me your address. I’ll be by around 7:30 or 8:00pm.

You: you text like an octogenarian. here’s my address.

Robby: Octogenarians don’t text.

You: tell that to my grandma. she’s a whiz with those me-mojis or whatever the fuck they are.

Robby: That is not a real thing. I think you’re messing with me.

You: i am not. but regardless. see you tonight. and thank you again!

Robby: It really is not a problem. I want to do this.

You tried not to let that go to your head. It was weird someone liking you the way Robby did. Most people, even romantic prospects tended to tolerate your rough personality and busy schedule. Your friends were a niche group of individuals far more focused on their careers.

This was new. This wasn’t bad.

At 7:45 you heard a knock at your door. Slowly, only due to your leg—not anything else at all, you made your way to the door. You had slightly tidied up throughout the day. Being couch bound had made your living room a bit of a war zone. Now you had your laundry going and you’d even managed to load your dishwasher.

Opening the door to Robby was strange. You had seen him in exactly two places and now he was walking into your apartment. He even walked like a new person now. He didn’t slouch or slump or plod. He still had abysmal posture, but there was a surety that had replaced the downtrodden-ness of his person.

He wore dark cargo pants, a black scrub top with a navy blue long sleeved shirt underneath. Said shirt was pushed up to just below his elbows and your eyes focused on his forearms before finally stepping back and letting him into your space.

“Can I get you something to drink?” You asked.

“I don’t drink anymore,” he said.

“Congrats. I don’t drink at all. I have about five flavors of sparkling water and generic sprite,” you replied, shutting and locking the door. “I also make a mean hot chocolate.”

“I’m good for now,” he said. “Where do you want to do this?”

“Shouldn’t that be your call?”

“I just need to wash my hands,” he replied, shrugging. His hands were in his pockets.

“Then let’s do the living room. I’m still a little sore,” you told him. “Kitchen is right there. I even have out my Christmas hand soap.”

You pointed at the kitchen in the very open concept front part of your apartment. There was a small hallway just to the right of your front door that held a small hallway where your bathroom, washing closet, and bedroom door opened.

Your living room was a surprisingly decent size for your rent. It was big enough for a couch, bookshelves and your desk. Your kitchen was narrow, and looked even more so with Robby’s broad frame standing in front of your sink. He thoroughly washed his hands and dried them on a paper towel.

Sitting on the edge of your couch, you watch as he pulled over his backpack and grabbed a smattering of tools. There were scissors, hemostats, and various cleaning wipes and creams.

“Can I sit here?” Robby asked pointing to your coffee table. It was one of the few expensive things you owned.

“Yeah, she’s study enough,” you replied.

Robby sat down. Your shorts were plenty short and you found yourself curious how he was going to do this. He seemed confident and self assured. Dr. Robby was a man who wasn’t cowed by his snarky and too-mean bar tender.

“I’m going to slightly readjust you and put your leg on my lap, is that okay?” Robby asked sliding on his ready glass.

“Yes,” you said breathlessly. He glanced up at your tone and lightly put a hand on your knee.

“Don’t panic. This will be over quickly.”

Interesting, he read the slightly shocked and a tiny bit horny reaction you had to worried. You couldn’t help but be a little grateful. Not trusting your voice, you just nodded at him. He gingerly lifted your socked foot and put it in his lap. The fabric of his pants was scratchy against your skin, but you could fill the heat of his legs burning through.

“This has healed well,” Robby replied. He’d donned gloves at some point after putting your leg in his lap and was manually inspecting the wound. You stared up at the ceiling mostly to keep from seeing the stitches but an added benefit was not seeing Robby.

“Oh yeah, this looks great. You should be fine after we get the stitches out,” he said. You just hummed not trusting your voice.

The sensation of removing the stitches far outweighed any pleasantness from having Robby’s hands on your skin. You tried to focus on way his hand gripped your thigh or the way you could feel his stomach against your foot. Instead when you felt a thread pull through you shuddered and tried not to gag.

“Do you need a break?”

“No, I need you to finish this as quick as possible,” you said.

“Yes ma’am.”

He continued his ministrations and you desperately tried to focus on the subtle smell of his cologne. Or the growing yearning in your stomach for him to push you down on the couch and fuck you within an inch of your life.

That had been a startling realization but one that felt like it was always meant to happen. Another thread pulled through your skin and you heard yourself whine sharply. Not even horniess was getting your through this.

After the last thread was pulled from your leg, resulting in a twitch at the awful feeling, Robby took off his gloves and began putting his tools back in the backpack. Your leg was still in his lap.

“I was going to order dinner, if you want to stay,” you heard yourself say. “I can even watch a full episode of TV now.”

Robby snorted. And then said, “I would love to stay. Mainly to make sure you don’t look at your leg and pass out.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” you laughed.

"You didn't look down once that whole time," he said.

"And therefore, didn't pass out."

You managed to open your phone and scroll through the different food options. Your stomach was in shambles from the feeling of getting stitches removed, so picked the deli down the street. Handing the phone to Robby you had him pick his meal.

When he handed the phone back, he had already ordered and paid with his card details. You scowled at him.

"This was meant to pay you back for your kindness."

"It would feel unethical. I know how much grad students makes."

He had since moved to the opposite corner of the couch. From your propped up position, he looked a little tired, but more than that he looked amused. He was laughing at you. It ranckled you. But it also made you a little happy: sad, drunk Robby would never have laughed at you.

While waiting for the food, you both chatted about his work, your students, how taking time off has put you seriously behind and your unread emails are closer to 1,000 than not. Once the food arrive, you both tucked in.

Eventually, Robby asked,

“What’s the hardest thing about the whole PhD thing?”

It felt like a natural question from the previous conversation, so you didn't think twice about answering it.

“Having to not take criticism personally. Anything I finish, make progress on, or whatever gets critiqued and criticized and studied until it feels absolutely useless. But that’s just how it works—it’s how we make sure our research is the most accurate and representative of the world,” you said shrugging. “What about being a doctor? What’s the hardest thing about that.”

“Oh that’s easy, not being able to save everyone,” Robby told you.

“Yeah, I can imagine that would be difficult to contend with.”

“So does no one tell you “good job” or encourages you?”

“Not in so many words. One time I had a bit of a breakdown and planned on dropping out. My advisor said that would “be a waste” so it’s not like people are needlessly mean.”

“You make so much more sense now,” Robby said shaking his head.

“The fuck does that mean?” You said lightly kicking his thigh with your good foot. He grabbed your ankle and stretched it out over his lap. The movement made you tense but, frankly, you wanted this to continue so you forced yourself to relax.

“You’re one of the most tightly wound people I’ve ever met,” Robby laughed.

“I think that’s the pot calling the kettle black,” you grumbled. Hesitantly, you stretched out your bad leg and crossed it over your good one still rest on Robby’s thighs.

“Perhaps that’s why I know,” he said. His hand rested on your ankle and you tried not to stare at the way his hand dwarfed your not-small ankle.

“And what would the good doctor recommend for that? I hate to break it to you, but it’s not like I can call up my parents and ask them to say they’re proud of me and I’m doing a good job.”

“Someone should,” he said quietly. His thumb began to circle the bone of your ankle.

“I think I’ll be fine,” you laughed.

Robby was silent for a moment before saying, “I think you’re very impressive. I think you work very hard. And I’m really honored to know you.”

For an awful minute, you thought you were going to cry. “Knock it off.”

“Make me.”

“If you don’t I’ll make you talk about something even more uncomfortable,” you threatened.

“You can’t make me do anything.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll try.”

“I’ll take the chance,” he laughed. Robby hand drug up and down your leg. You knew it wasn’t smooth—your injury having made sure you missed your monthly waxing appointment—but he didn’t seem to care. Frankly, you refused to let yourself care, even if it danced in the back of your head.

“Brave considering you think I’m mean.”

“You’re not mean,” Robby said, looking over at you.

“Not what you used to think,” you commented.

“True, but I know you better now. You’re just blunt. It’s nice when you get used to it.”

You snorted. “You absolute liar.”

His hand landed on your knee and reached down to flick it. He caught your wrist before you could smack him. Eyes boring into yours, Robby said,

“I’m serious. I think you’re amazing.”

“You do huh?” You asked.

“Clearly.”

“Then why haven’t you done anything about it? I’m not good at schooling my features. You must know how I’m feeling.”

In an instant, Robby’s expression shuttered. “You did pick something uncomfortable.”

“So either this is a personal thing or I am way worse at reading you than I thought. I’m not wildly inclined to believe the latter since my feet are in your lap and I got a special house call for something I could have gone to the clinic for.”

Robby sighed and looked away from you. “It’s a personal thing.”

“Do I get let in on what the personal thing is?”

“I don’t want you to try and talk me out of it. Because you’ll win,” he murmured.

“If it’s not dumb, I won’t. I’m not a starry eyed romantic, Robby. Sometimes people that are attracted to one another shouldn’t do anything. Just because I want you to fuck me into my mattress and maybe also go on a date, doesn’t mean I’m going to do something bad for me or my goals. No offense, you’re not more important than finishing my PhD,” you told him.

He smiled ruefully. “I just am not good enough for you.”

“Oh, that is dumb,” you replied.

“Or maybe you just don’t know how impressive you are,” he challenged.

“Maybe,” you acquiesced. “But maybe not being “good enough” for someone is an archaic measure of comparability and I get to decide what is and is not good for me. Now, if you don’t feel ready for a relationship after everything, that’s different. But if you’re just worried about being…depressed or mentally ill, join the club then.”

“There’s also the age gap,” he added.

“I’m an academic. I’ve seen far less ethical relationships than a decade and some change. Not to mention you weren't my dissertation advisor,” you told him.

“For my peace of mind I'm going to ignore that last bit. And try closer to two decades,” he said.

“I’m an old man at heart,” you said back. “Doesn’t change the fact I want you to fuck me into the mattress.”

“I really don’t want you talk me into this,” Robby said quietly.

“Then you need to either tell me you don’t want this, which I’ll respect or you need to get out of your own way. I’m in favor of the latter.”

“Can I ask something first?”

“Always.”

“What changed for you? You really didn’t like me.”

“Valid question,” you said. He still had a grip on your wrist. Gently you pulled out of his grasp and wrapped your hand around his. “I am so picky about people. I always have been. But even more than that, no one normal does a PhD and I deal with those freaks all day. By the time I got to the bar, I was over dealing with everyone, not just you. Frankly, drunk you was a lot. But no one is their best self when they’re drunk. Sober you? He’s still awkward, a little earnest but very charming. Funny and confident too.”

“You are very different than when you’re at the bar,” he said.

“I’ll lay my cards on the table, Robby. I like you. I think you’re very attractive and getting to know you has been fun and I hate getting to know new people. If you’re amenable, I would really love for you to fuck me into my mattress tonight.”

“You’re still injured.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It isn’t a yes.”

“There’s one more episode of Bake Off before I’m caught up. I’m going to lay back down and if by the end of the episode you’re still undecided or the answer is no, I’ll respect that. But don’t take yourself out of the game just because you’re nervous that you’re not good enough of whatever.”

“Okay, yeah,” Robby replied softly.

You released his hand and he placed it back on your legs. Pressing play, you settled back to a prone position on the couch. The distracting pressure of his hands on your legs meant that most of the episode passed without you taking in too much of what was happening.

Periodically, you glanced over at Robby. He seemed deep in thought. His brow was furrowed and while he faced the TV, he seemed to stare at nothing. Sometimes his fingers would trace a pattern on your calves and then go still. At one point, you saw him stare at you from the corner of your eye, in a reminiscent way to how he used to watch you while he was wasted. Instead of feeling annoyed, you settled more deeply into the couch and held out your hand for him without looking. He took it.

The episode ended and you couldn’t help but feel nervous. No one liked being rejected and you hoped that Robby got out of his own way. You wanted him. You knew he wanted you too. It was torture to not crawl into his lap and kiss him within an inch of his life.

“Before you tell me,” you said. “I just want you to know that regardless of your decision, I am proud of the work you’ve put into yourself. And I’m not fibbing when I say you’re incredibly attractive.”

“You are a lot nicer than your give yourself credit for,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“Then what was that?”

“Honesty, dick head.”

He snorted. “My head still isn’t fully on straight.”

“Neither is mine.”

“Sometimes I have really bad days.”

“Okay.”

“Sometimes I can be mean, too.”

“Join the club.”

“But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want this,” he breathed.

“Help me sit up,” you said grabbing at his arm. He helped you move into a sitting position, your arm and leg still a little sore. When you were next to him, you kept your legs draped over his and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes with conditions,” he told you.

“Ugh,” you groaned leaning your forehead on his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re still healing. I’m not going to fuck you into the mattress tonight.”

“But Robby,” you whined. “I just know you’re so good at sex.”

A surprise laugh erupted from him. “Thank you. I’m still not going to fuck you into the mattress. I will however, if you want, if you feel comfortable and up for it, I am more than willing to make sure any humping isn’t…I think the word you used was, useless.”

“Yeah?”

“I knew you would talk me out of it,” he sighed.

“Wanna see my bedroom?” You asked grinning.

“You look very proud of yourself,” he grumbled, pulling you into his lap.

“I’m not joking when I say it’s been years since I’ve had good sex. I just have a good feeling about this.”

“Because you saw me being a slut?”

“Nope, because you’re a doctor and I heard you went home with the same person more than once. That doesn’t happen unless you fuck.”

“You’re so strange,” he laughed, dipping his head closer to yours.

“Good. I don’t want you under the impression I’m normal.”

“Never a risk, trust me,” he laughed.

His nose bumped your cheek as he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your mouth. The press of his lips was electric. You grinned and twisted your head to press your lips against his. It was exactly how you hoped it would be. His lips were soft against yours, but each movement decisive. His hands, so warm and large, held you on your waist and the inside of your thigh.

“You’re so soft,” he mumbled against your lips.

“I’m pleasantly surprised by the beard,” you replied.

“I oil it,” he replied placing kisses down your neck.

“Hot,” you replied, sounding strangled as his sucked gently on your pulse point. You felt goosebumps erupt along your back.

He laughed and his hand that rested on your thigh squeezed. You wished he’d move it up, maybe press against your already throbbing core. Instead he massaged your leg and continued his ministrations against your neck.

“Christ,” you hissed when he nipped at your skin. “Already so good.”

“You’re so responsive for me,” he said. “I’ll bet you make beautiful noises.”

“You’re more talkative than I guessed,” you replied.

He pulled back and you huffed, already missing the contact. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“You’ve said a lot tonight,” you told him, pulling his face back to yours.

“That you’re smart and impressive. That you’re a good researcher,” he said before wrapping a hand around your neck and kissing you harshly. “Since no one else seems willing to tell you, I will. You’re incredible.”

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered.

“Too bad,” he replied.

“Can we move this to my bedroom?” You asked, hoping to distract him.

“Please.”

He helped you stand and took a quick look at your leg. His thumb was gentle as he caressed the red, puckered line on your thigh. Placing a gentle kiss on it made a well of emotion rise to your throat. His hands gripped your waist and he stared up at you from the couch.

“You’re breathtaking,” he whispered.

Caressing his face you said, “You’re going to give me an ego.”

“Someone has to,” he said placing a kiss on your T-shirt covered stomach.

“You’re going to kill me,” he groaned, pulling him up.

“How’s your arm?” He asked, following you through your short hallway.

“A little stiff, but mostly healed.”

“Please promise me that you’ll say something if you’re uncomfortable,” he asked quietly.

“Pinky swear,” you said stopping in front of your bedroom holding out your pinky to him. He laughed, shaking his head, and wrapped his pinky around yours.

Thankfully, your bedroom was mostly clean. There was some laundry waiting to be folded. It was small enough that it was only a couple steps until Robby was prodding you to sit on the bed.

“Can I undress you?” He asked.

“I’m not exactly wearing much,” you said smiling.

“I know, trust me,” he grumbled, grabbing your leg and rubbing his hand up the skin.

“Will you take your shirt off?” You asked still grinning up at him.

“Anything you want,” he said.

Leaning back on the bed, resting on your elbows, you watched as he flushed. He was large in your tiny bedroom. He reached behind him and in one fell swoop, pulled off his scrub shirt and undershirt.

“That was hot,” you said eyeing him.

“Yeah?” He asked, standing in between your legs.

You couldn’t help but run your hands up his torso. Dark hair dusted his chest and down his stomach. It led down to the waistband of his pants. Even his body hair was soft. Without a shadow of a doubt, you knew he oiled this as well. Something about the intentionality of that action made you clench.

Lightly raking your nails down his stomach, you watched as his muscles twitches. His shoulders, just out of reach, were broader than you expected. With ease, you unbuttoned the cargo pants and slid them over his waist.

“I seem to recall trying to undress you,” he said, stepping out of his pants and socks all at once.

“I got distracted,” you saying eyeing his boxer briefs. He was only half hard and already straining against the fabric.

“Maybe I want to be distracted,” he replied tugging at your shirt. You lifted your arms for him, so your T-shirt could be pulled up over your head. You hadn’t worn a bra since being couch bound, so he had an immediate eyeful of your tits. “You’re stunning.”

“Yeah? Prove it?,” you goaded.

He huffed a laugh and pushed you back on the bed lightly, before pulling off your shorts and underwear. He kneeled down on your floor and kissed the inside of your thigh.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Already so wet.”

“Wetter than I’ve been in a long time,” you told him. He groaned and closed his eyes.

“I want to touch you,” he breathed.

“Please,” you begged. “I want you to touch me so bad.”

In a move that would live in your brain for the rest of your life, Robby stuck two of his fingers in his mouth to wet them before he ran them up and down your slit. The first finger that slid inside you felt foreign. It had been a long time since anyone had pressed into you. When Robby added his second finger you couldn’t help but gasp out a moan.

“You open up so pretty for me,” Robby breathed. “You’re so good.”

His words did something to you. You knew he was doing it on purpose.

“Shame no one else is willing to get on their knees and worship you like you deserve,” he continued softly. He pressed soft kisses up and down your thigh. “Such a beautiful pussy should be kissed and praised.”

The sound you made when Robby began sucking on your clit in earnest was more of a squeal than anything else. It felt like every nerve was focused on the feeling in between your thighs. His fingers worked in and out of your slowly and with a firm pressure that you felt deep in your stomach. His tongue and mouth were far more impressive than you could have imagined.

“Oh my god, you’re so good at this. What the fuck,” you whined, burying your fingers in his hair. You wanted him pull him closer and grind on his face, but his grip on your hips kept you still.

At some point he added a third finger which made you release a choked laugh. With your good leg, you threw it over his shoulder, allowing his fingers to move deeper and hit your g-spot more effectively. The sensation of him between your thighs was overwhelming and you felt your legs trembling just slightly.

You braved a look between your legs and saw him staring up at him. Even without seeing his face, you knew he was grinning at you. Apparently, Robby was a smug bastard in bed. A particularly strong suck had you arching off the bed calling Robby’s name.

“Stop, stop,” you breathed lightly pushing him away. “I can’t cum twice and I want to come on your cock.”

Robby pulled away from your pussy and was drenched with your fluid. He looked proud of himself when he said,

“You really do make the best noises.”

“You really are good at eating a girl out,” you said breathing heavily. “When I am healed I’m going to suck your brain out of your dick.”

Laughing, Robby stood (his knees let out a massive crack that had you giggling), and laid down next to you in the bed. His hand trailed up your stomach before cupping your tit in his hand. Even if you weren’t particularly sensitive on your tits, having his hands on you was a mesmerizing feeling.

You hummed at his touch and pulled him over into a kiss. Your hand ran up and down his side until your fingers slid under his boxer briefs. Unsurprisingly, he was hot and heavy in your hand. He wasn’t quite as big as you feared, but you were glad he slid that third finger inside you.

“You’re so hard,” you said in between kisses.

“We have to talk over this before we start,” he replied pulling back and removing your hand from his underwear.

“Ugh,” you groaned. “You and your consent and safe sex.”

“Would you rather me force you down and fuck you?” He asked unimpressed.

“Maybe not tonight but we should table that idea for later,” you replied rolling on your side to look at him. His ears were bright red at the thought.

“I think you might kill me.”

“Pity, this is a lot of fun.”

He laughed pulled you on top of him. You laid half on him, your head pillowed on his chest. Even though you desperately wanted to know what he felt like shoving his cock in you, cuddling with him was certainly very enjoyable in itself.

“How are you feeling?”

“Arm is a little sore. Leg doesn’t hurt. Emotionally, doing great. You?”

“My knees will feel that tomorrow, but I’m also good. Feeling quite amazing, in fact.”

“I’m glad you said yes,” you told him pressing a kiss on his chest.

“I think we both know that I can’t say no to you.” He sighed. Then said, “I’m clean, I get tested regularly. Haven’t had sex since my last test. Happy to show you.”

“I trust you. I haven’t had sex in well over a year with anything other than my vibrator and was good during my last wellness exam.”

“I can’t wait to see you use this vibrator,” he said. “Watching you fall apart is so beautiful. I want to turn your brain off.”

You snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“You don’t think I can?”

“If anyone could, it would be you. I just don’t think my brain ever turns off. Rather annoying.”

Robby’s hand traced light trails up and down your back making you shiver.

“Guess we’ll see.”

“If you take that as a challenge it won’t be sexy,” you complained. “I don’t care about my brain turning off. I care about this, us, feeling you finally fuck me.”

“Finally, huh?”

“Yeah, I’ve got an IUD, there’s condoms in my side table, there’s nothing stopping us,” you complained poking him.

“You’re injured. There’s a lot stopping us.”

“If you bail on me now because you’re worried about hurting me, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Trust me,” he said. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. One taste of you was addicting enough.”

“As much as I want to see you, if I’m on my stomach on the bed, there’s not much of a chance to hurt myself,” you said.

“I like that,” he said.

“I want you on top of me, though,” you grumbled. “And then when my leg and arm are healed I’m going to ride you like a bronco, I swear to Christ.”

“Whenever I imagined this, I have to be honest, this is exactly how I thought you would be,” Robby laughed as he kissed the top of your head. “So stubborn and smart. The best ideas.”

“Robby,” you warned.

He noticed you never truly told him to stop, and you were not someone who shied away from voicing your opinion on something. He slid out from under you and opened the drawer of your side table. There was a nail file, some tissues, a rather sleek looking vibrator, and a small box of condoms. They were barely within their expiration window. He wondered who you bought them for.

Once he slid the condom on, it took a minute for the two of you to find a position that was comfortable. The two of you propped your hips up on some pillows and you reveled in the feeling of Robby’s body hovering over your own.

The first slide of cock against your folds made you whine. When he finally pushed in, you gasped and clenched at your sheets. He was big and from this position, he was firmly pressed on your g-spot. The feeling of him fully sheathed in you made you released tension you had no idea you held in your body.

Hovering over you, caging you with his body, made your nerves dance and tingle. It was not a surprise to you that you liked a man that could push you around, but the feeling of Robby pressing his weight down—even partially—confirmed what you suspected: you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

“You feel so good around me,” Robby groaned in your ear. “You’re so good for me.”

“Just like that,” you moaned as his slowly pistoned his hips.

“Yeah? Take it. take what I’m giving you, sweetheart. I want you to know how amazing I think you are.”

Each thrust from Robby sent delicious tingles through your body. He braced his forearms by your head and you felt his chest press down on your back. The pressure of him made you groan into the bed. His mouth was by your ear. You could hear each breath, moan, and gasp he let out.

“Don’t muffle those pretty sounds. I want you to fall apart. Let go for me. Be my good girl,” he murmured.

Tomorrow you could be embarrassed by the way your body reacted to Robby calling you good girl, right now you couldn’t hide the tremor it sent through you. Your pussy clenched around him tightly.

“Good girl does it for you?” He asked. You could hear his smile.

“Fuck off,” you grumbled. He slowed in you until he was just lightly grinding against you, making you whine.

“As much as I love your attitude, that isn’t nice. Don’t you want to be good for me? Tell me how you feel. Tell me how I make you feel.”

And suddenly you realized why Robby was so successful with women he slept with. His whispered commands against your ear sent you to another stratosphere. You were confident this man could make you erupt with the power of his words alone.

“You feel so good, Robby,” you panted, trying to grind back onto him but in this position you had no leverage. “You’re so big and I want to feel it forever. Your pressed against me so well and it’s making me crazy. I don’t want this to end.”

“I’m so proud of you for using your words, sweetheart. Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes, please,” you whined.

His hips began to move again and you released a punched out groan at the renewed friction.

“Feel it,” he commanded. “Feel me inside you.”

“So good,” you mumbled.

“Not as good as you are. You're perfect. Made for me. Made for me to slide into. Made for me to ravish and worship. Every sound you make. Every twitch and tremor. I’m memorizing it. Archiving it. I want to watch you give into the pleasure.”

“Ah, your dirty talk is insane,” you told him as he began to thrust into you more earnestly.

“You bring it out of me sweetheart. You make me crazy. So pretty, so young, so smart. And you’re letting me fuck you. I want you to feel as lucky as I do.”

For a few minutes there was nothing but the sounds of his hips slamming against yours and his quiet pants against your ear. You wrapped you hands around his wrists that were pressed above your shoulders. It was an awkward position, but you needed to hold onto him. Each thrust of his hips and press of his body made soft groans erupt from your mouth. You found yourself wanting to be more vocal for him.

“You’re so perfect under me,” he grunted. “You fit me so well. Such a good girl for me.”

“Fuck,” you hissed. Your body clenched so tightly even Robby’s pace faltered

“Are you getting close, sweetheart?” He almost cooed.

“Yes, please keep going just like that,” you mumbled against the pillow.

“Ah-ah, I want to hear you,” he said, redoubling his efforts.

“Please, Robby,” you said louder. “Keep going. I want to cum on your cock.”

“Do you need me to touch your clit?” He asked.

You nodded. “Yes please.”

You were sure how he managed to hold himself up and also snake a hand under you to rub two thinking fingers along your clit. Frankly, it was none of your business, because the sharp increase in pleasure make your hips buck. Being caught between Robby’s pistoning hips and deft fingers was getting you closer far faster than you expected.

“Jesus Christ, I’m getting close.”

“Yeah? C’mon, then, be a good girl. Cum on my cock for me. I want to feel you clench around me. I want to feel you lose control because of me.”

“Robby,” you whined.

“Don’t you want to be a good girl for me?” He asked. You could hear the breathlessness in his own voice as his hips became a little more frantic.

“Yes,” you moaned.

“Say it.”

“I want to be a good girl for you,” you cried. In this moment you would have done anything he asked you.

It was only a few strokes of his cock and fingers before you felt your body tighten and sparks fly. It was a slow build up at first, it almost crested gently. But once the orgasm hit, your muscles locked up and each continuing rub of his fingers and movement of his hips overwhelmed your body until you were shaking underneath him.

“Such a good girl,” he growled in your ear as he managed to hold back his own orgasm. “Squeezing me so tight. Can’t wait to cum in this pussy.”

It was another two thrust before Robby buried his face in your neck with a long groan, as he lazily fucked you through his own orgasm. Goosebumps erupted down your back as his beard almost tickled you. For a minute, he was sheathed deep inside of you, blanketing your body with his own.

It felt luxurious.

(It felt safe)

You wouldn't have admit that last part out loud, but there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that Robby’s arms would be a safe place to fall. For more than a few minutes, you soaked in the presence of another person against you, appreciating the feeling of his body heat, the scratch of his hair, the puff of his breathing. It was so human and so monumental.

When he went to move, you whined and halfheartedly managed to pull him back down against you, resulting in his deep chuckle. Some of his weight on his knees, he wrapped his arms around your middle and began to place featherlight kisses along your shoulder making you shiver against him.

“You feel so good,” he mumbled against your skin.

“Same,” you sighed, fully blissed out. “I just want to stay like this for a minute.”

“As long as you want, sweetheart,” he said, continuing his kisses. It almost tickles and you can’t help the shudder that travels from your neck through your hips.

“Sweetheart, huh?” You asked. “I think that’s an oxymoron.”

“You’re not very nice to yourself.”

“I’m just well aware of how I come across.”

“I really don’t think you are,” he said frankly. He placed his lips against your ear and whispered, “You don’t seem to know how every time you walk into a room, you absolutely own the place. Or how everyone turns and listens when you talk. You’re competent and commanding, and more than that you're kind.”

You couldn’t help but snort. “Am not.”

“Don’t know what planet you’re living on, but you go out of your way to make sure bar patrons get home safe, you cover shifts when it’s inconvenient, and you called Jack even when you didn’t have to. I owe you a lot for that.”

“You would have been fine,” you protested weakly. “I’m just being a good community member.”

“I don’t know if I would have been. And sweetheart, being a good community member is being kind,” Robby said.

“I just don’t believe you,” you finally said.

“Then I’ll keep saying it until you do. Just like I’ll keep telling you how brilliant you are and how amazing you are. And maybe one day, I’ll hear you say it back.”

“Doubt it.”

“I believe it enough for the both of us,” he said kissing your cheek.

He slowly peeled himself away from you, and almost immediately you missed the weight and warmth. You heard him dispose of the condom and wander into your bathroom. At some point you needed to move, but frankly, you were still boneless after a good fuck and even better orgasm. Feeling the bed dip at Robby’s arrival, you felt him gently run a washcloth between your legs. It was intimate and caring in a way you were unfamiliar with. Vulnerable in a way that made your throat feel scratchy.

“Let me help you readjust,” Robby said, after finishing. You heard the washcloth tossed into your laundry basket.

You let Robby ease you off the mound of pillow propping up your hips. The bad leg was a little stiff, but not painful as you rolled over on your side. It’s the first time you caught a glimpse of Robby. His skin was still flushed and his glasses were perched precariously on his nose. There was a crooked smile on his face as he leaned over and kissed you.

It was his eyes that caught your attention the most. They always held emotion. You had noticed the pain and heartbreak all those nights at the bar. Now, however, slowly laying down next to you, his eyes were soft, creased with a happiness that seemed to be foreign on his face.

“I’m glad you let me talk you into this,” you admitted.

He shifted so you were wrapped in his arms, chest to chest, nose to nose. The blankets were still kicked to the end of the bed, but neither of you felt cold. Brushing you nose with his, he said,

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. This was very nice. Memorable. I can confirm that you do fuck. And you fuck well,” you announced.

Robby chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.

“Was that all this was? A fuck?” His voice was vulnerable.

You knew the question was coming, which is why you didn’t stutter over your answer,

“Depends, on if you plan to keep your promise of reminding me how great I am all the time.”

“I think it’s something I could make time for,” he said grinning.

-- -- --

More of an author's note: I can't remember if I saw the sad paddington bear thing on tumblr or not. If I accidentally stole this from someone let me know and I'll tag and credt. I just couldn't find anything when I looked.

Hope you all enjoyed!

-- -- --

join the taglist for my stories here.

[miramindlesslywriting]

one of my favs. reposting selfishly

[inkdippedquills]

won’t catch me complaining 🫶🏻

[dailyralsei]

good day all

[wilderficreblogs]

what does your blood taste like to a vampire

[rawme-price]

Have u ever considered using Ai to expand ur blurbs? I love all the idea you put out, but they're so short!!

Id rather kill myself.

[askinnyblackman]

this isn’t the first time the DHS has tweeted literal nazi propaganda but uuuhhhh I feel like things are going to get Very Bad unless we do something. about the nazis. who are running the US government

[askinnyblackman]

clarified dogwhistles

[forevergulag-deactivated2026013]

[transhuman-priestess]

THE PAINTING IS LITERALLY WHITE ANERICA DRIVING DARK, “SAVAGE”, NATIVES OFF THE LAND!!! YOU DONT NEED TO FIND DOGWHISTLES THEYRE CALLING THE POOCH’S FUCKING NAME

[transhuman-priestess]

THIS!!!!! EXACTLY THIS!!!!! YOU DONT NEED THE FUCKING DOGWHISTLE WHEN THE PAINTING IS LITERALLY ABOUT DOING GENOCIDE AGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

[jackrrabbot]

love in limerence

captor!jack x fem!reader

word count ~15.6k (kill me now)

content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, captor/captive trope, very dubious consent, stockholm syndrome, coercion, manipulation, unprotected (piv) sex, vaginal fingering, age gap, single internal thought of jack wanting to knock reader up, blood (reader trips on a rock), obviously ooc & dark!jack (but still somewhat ic, hopefully)

author's note: um. yeah. this is a thing i wrote. it's either my magnum opus or the worst thing ever, i genuinely have no clue. forgive me if the smut is bad bc i was just not feeling it lol. heed the warnings and don't get mad at me. that being said, enjoy :)

masterlist

jack picks up a pretty stranger who's stranded by the side of the road on his yearly trip to his cabin. he's decided—you're his.

Jack is nine hours into a ten-hour drive upstate, heading to his cabin.

It’s a long drive from Pittsburgh, but one he’s familiarized himself with. A landmark here and there, splattered roadkill, and the vast emptiness of miles and miles of open road ahead of him are all that his mind needs to remember why he’s doing this.

To get away. To forget, even just for one week, once a year, the smell of blood. The way the shine in a patient’s eyes dims when he can’t save them.

There are some memories so ingrained in him that he can’t forget. 

He’ll never forget the way in which that awful disease took his wife, then took her life. Then there are the memories overseas. But those are further away now, replaced by new, horrible ones created in the hospital of his current employ. 

Up in the mountains, there’s an eerie quiet that cascades its tendrils throughout the forest blanketed with nothing but green needles of fir. But it’s no worse than being surrounded by a cacophony of death. 

He needs this. 

His body aches. His mind? It fares far worse, but he tries to keep himself in check with a few pointless breathing exercises and under the surveillance of a therapist. It's not easy being an attending, though; no one ever said it was. He does it anyway.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed interns and residents will always need a mentor—someone to guide them with a firm grip—and he supposes he’s the person for the job. He tells Robby that the two of them are like bees in this way, in charge of keeping the hive together and in control, even if it's not what either of them wants. 

Jack’s sure that, at the very least, he doesn’t. Not as much anymore as when he initially thought it would be good to do something with his life after his leg got blown off. But still, he stays. The job comes with its fair share of excitement, heartfelt teaching moments, but really, it’s because he has nothing else. Medical knowledge. Medicine. The language his body speaks when he sutures or cuts or debrides or removes.

It’s why he goes back into the Pitt after his escape. And it’s the Pitt that leads him back to the mountains every year.

It’s late afternoon. He’s weary, his residual limb is chafing, and he’s hungry—hungrier than he’s ever been. But this is well timed because after years of coming back here, he knows that it means he’s almost there.

He’s driving down the final, long stretch of empty highway when he sees you in the distance. You’re parked by the opposite side of the road, bawling your eyes out as you sit on the hood of your car. 

Jack pays close attention to details. He has to—has learned to—in the army. Otherwise, patients die, or he realizes too late that he’s drowning and needs to take a breath. And he desperately wants to avoid a rooftop attempt.

If there’s anything out of the ordinary or out of routine, he takes careful note of it. But he doesn't avoid it, because he’s learned to be quite good at improvisation. He’s an opportunist. He’s used to the chaos and uses it to his advantage, whether it be in the field or in the E.R. 

He lives in it.

It’s always a fight between the angel on his shoulder telling him he needs to stick to what’s correct and “standard” and the devil telling him it’s the radical and offbeat that he should embrace and pursue. 

Therapy isn't a catch-all, after all, and he can admit to struggling to walk along this razor’s edge. More often than not, the devil wins out—but in his favor.

He’s had many a complaint about him from some of his more strict peers, but in the end, it’s his quick thinking that saves lives.

He's not afraid to jump headfirst into uncharted waters. Whether it be trying his hand at a new, risky procedure or throwing himself into the beds of the women who’ll have him—he’ll do it with ease.

Routine is a good marker for stability, but all Jack’s ever known is for things to go wrong. He acts accordingly. Does what he must when the situation—or impulse—calls for it.

So when he decides to slow down and stop right beside you, not caring that there may be a stray car behind him—though he doubts it—it’s because this isn’t routine. 

Encountering people in this isolated strip of road with a broken-down car isn’t commonplace. And it sure is a precarious situation. Especially with the last vestiges of the sun already disappearing. Odd for a summer day, but maybe this is something like fate. 

Hm. 

Not quite fate—because he doesn’t want to believe anything but his own choices have led him here—but more like the catalyst for something he knows is coming.

He’s an E.R. physician. Was a combat medic. He’s programmed to help people. You need help. But he can’t help but wonder, is this obligation kicking in, or desire? 

Because he’s never been able to resist a pretty, crying girl, nor has he ever willingly left someone to possibly get hurt, but you’re not supposed to be here. 

His stomach rumbles, even louder now, as you make eye contact with him through his window, and he thinks this is simply impulse making itself known. 

He goes with his gut and rolls his window down. You wipe a few loose tears and get down from the hood of your car to approach him.

“Car broke down?” he asks. His tone is flat and neutral, purposeful so he doesn’t scare you off or betray that he’s affected by the low cut of your top and the swell of your breasts as you stand by the window of his truck. 

He hasn’t had anybody in his bed, not for some time, but it’s not any fault of his own, and his therapist wants him to try something new.

He knows he’s a catch. It’s not arrogance. It’s fact. He’s a respected specialist in his field, he has a dragon’s den of wealth, he’s handsome—aged like a fine wine and rich with experience. But he’s rough around the edges, a terrible flirt, and can barely speak to people without either rambling or giving them nothing back but stony silence. 

Sex is simple. Relationships are not. His therapist urges him to build more meaningful connections, but it’s something he’s struggled with since his wife passed. 

Connection. Letting someone in. 

It’s easy to excuse a quick tryst when he works such long hours in the E.R., but perhaps his therapist is onto something. A bee needs their queen, after all. 

Or something of that ilk. 

He’s trying to excuse the needling feeling in the back of his mind that this meeting isn’t just a culmination of his choices alone. But yours and his, combined—even if you may not realize it.

It’s a dangerous thought, because he’s a man of action, and he’s not afraid to break a few rules every now and then.

He’s a gentleman, first and foremost, however. Something his father wasn’t, but sure enough, he preached about it every day to poor Jack. The least he can do is hear you out before doing anything rash.

You sniffle. “Yeah, I—I was headed to my next stop, and my car just… gave up. I’ve been stranded here for a while now, waiting for someone to come by. There’s no cell service.”

He figured as much. He takes this faraway road up to the mountain year after year, and he’s never encountered another soul. But you found it, he found you, and he’s just glad that no one else got to you first.

“Let me take a look. It’s not safe for you to be out here.” He parks his truck and you step back to let him out. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

You tell him your name, and he offers a simple “Jack” in response when you ask him for his. 

He’s never cared much for his name. It serves its purpose as something to identify him by. But with it comes a leaden weight that he bears on his shoulders every day. Jack, the physician. Jack, the decorated vet. Jack, the mentor. Labels he goes by that only give people more ammunition to rely on him. And also labels that don’t fully encapsulate him at all.

He’s also a trauma-and-grief stricken amputee. A physician who happens to be a patient. A helpless, hopeful, horrible romantic.

Not everyone knows, almost no one does know, the full extent of who he is. Maybe Robby. But even he—Jack’s only true confidant—is slipping away from him with his own slew of problems, and Jack’s too good a friend to burden him with his.

Jack’s never been a fan of playing the victim or reveling in his own pity parties. He’d much rather pack everything in—his inner turmoil like an abdomen—using avoidance and isolation to stop the hemorrhage of his fractured psyche. His therapist ought to quit him, but she hasn't, so he tries to let himself bleed. But in everyone’s eyes, he’s nothing short of a hero.

It’s a work in progress.

Jack lifts the hood of your car and turns his head over his shoulder to look back at you. You’ve stopped sniffling, but your eyes are red-rimmed and stained with tears. You’re still pretty. Even prettier up close. 

He realizes he’s at something of a crossroads. 

The connections to your battery are corroded, and you’ll need a jump start. He has jumper cables in his truck. It’s a simple fix, really. But it means that you’ll be out of here faster than he can blink.

All he knows is your name and that you’re traveling to your next stop. You’re younger than he is, at least twenty years or so. But that’s it. 

That can’t be it.

He doesn’t want to do the wrong thing yet. He has some restraint but also a sense that you’re someone special. Someone he needs. Irrevocably.

He really needs a sign now. Something that confirms the ache in his gut that keeps growing the longer he looks at you isn’t just because he hasn’t eaten yet. 

“Where’s home?” he asks. 

You raise a brow. “…Why?” 

You’re hesitant, wary about him—he sees that plain as day. And he wishes he could be honest, but that’d only serve to run you off. Though, you’d have nowhere to run.

He doesn’t tell you the truth because he wants you trusting of him. Not in fear for your life when he decides you’re his if you give him a sign.

Jack turns back around and fiddles with the insides of your car. “You seem familiar. Maybe we’ve met somewhere.”

“Really? Um… Pittsburgh. That’s all I’ll say.”

His ears perk up, and his fingers twitch against the frayed cord of the battery connection. Fuck. That’s all he needed to hear. “You’ve been running circles around me all this time, sweetheart?”

You go quiet, because maybe you don’t believe that you share a home city. Or maybe you don’t believe in such a coincidence. It doesn’t matter to Jack, though. It’s confirmation enough that his instinct about you is right. This seals the deal.

His therapist won’t like it, but he’s taking a shortcut. Falling hard and fast is more his style, anyway.

“You have jumper cables?” he asks.

“I don’t.”

He closes the hood and rests his palms on it, hunching over and turning his head to you again. “You’re traveling, on your own, for who knows how long, and you’re not more prepared?” 

He admonishes you because you deserve it, even if it doesn’t matter as long as you don’t get back in your car and drive off. 

He’s known for his preparedness. Jack “Go Bag” Abbot—another label he’s been given, but rightfully so, because he’s nothing if not ready for what life has to throw at him. 

It’s fine. More than fine. He’s with you now. He has to remind himself that you’re not one of his residents who needs to learn a lesson; you’re his…

He’s not quite sure yet. All he knows is you’re tethered to each other, and he’ll take care of you. You’ll want for nothing.

You furrow your brows and cross your arms over your chest. “Well, do you?” you ask, clearly offended by his dig.

“Doesn’t matter. The problem is the fuel pump.”

You scoff and stare at him for a few seconds before walking up to him and leaning against the hood. “What now?” 

You’re so close to him, he can smell hints of your balmy sweat clinging to your skin. He looks at you dead on, trying to force eye contact, but all you give him is your side profile. He takes in what facial features of yours he can, committing them to memory. “It’s getting late. Spend the night in my cabin.”

“What?” You shake your head and finally look at him. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re a nice person and all, but… could you just take me into the nearest town? Somewhere I can call for help?”

“Can’t. Don’t know how to get there, and especially not in the dark. You really got yourself in a pickle here.” Jack turns around and leans against the hood, then places his palm on your bare knee, giving it a gentle rub. “This is my vacation time you’re eating up here, honey. I’m offering you a place to stay out of the kindness of my own heart.”

“But, I can’t just leave my car here.” You stand, uncomfortable with his touch.

The corner of his lip twitches. “Sure you can. Let’s get it on the shoulder first.”

You eventually give in to him, because, Jack knows, you're sharp. You wouldn’t have been coming back from a conference you presented at if you weren’t. 

You also tell him other things. Like how you’re supposed to be back at work in a week. Like how you’re worried that your friends and family will think you’re missing when you don’t check in with them tomorrow. Like how you were supposed to have checked into your hotel room for the first part of your road trip tonight before heading back home.

But it just so happens that he’s your only lifeline, and those aren’t things he’s concerned about.

It does take him some time convincing you that he isn’t some unscrupulous man or a serial killer before you get into his truck. More time than he would like.

But after a few reassurances that he’s trustworthy, and a granola bar and a few sips of water later, you decide to take a chance on him. You’d already waited hours for someone else to arrive before he came upon you, and without any cell service, what else could you have done?

You eventually fall asleep, not because you trust him enough to, but rather because you’re exhausted from the day’s stress. He knows that, but still, he pretends it’s because you feel at ease around him.

As he looks over at your shadowed silhouette, he thinks maybe he’ll need to extend his short vacation. Lord knows he’s more than earned it after repeated double shifts over the years. It’d be another deviation in the routine, but it’s never stopped him before, and it's one he might need if you prove to be difficult.

A week isn’t enough time to do what he wants with you, let alone convince you that you want it with him too. 

Duty will call him back to the Pitt. It’s inevitable. But for once, he wants to put the never-ending cycle of his life on hold. Robby won’t be happy with him taking a leave of absence, but he’ll understand why. Jack will see where things lead. 

Maybe he’ll turn you around sooner than he thinks. Take you home. Put a ring on your finger. Fuck a baby in you. Not necessarily in that order.

Imagine that.

The road winds and twists, but he knows it well, and only the cover of night keeps him from stealing more glances at you. An hour passes before you arrive at the cabin. 

It's deep within the mountainside, isolated, but stocked with everything you two could possibly need for the next few weeks, or months if necessary. There’s no wifi connection, but that shouldn't be a problem. Jack has enough to keep himself entertained, especially with you around now to keep him company.

He runs the crook of his pointer finger over your cheek, and you stir awake. 

He whispers your name. “We’re here.”

Jack helps you carry in your things, and you watch him like a hawk as you take a seat on the couch. A small duffel bag with several changes of clothes and a purse with your work laptop and phone are all that you brought with you for the work conference and celebratory road trip afterward. He tosses your things into the bedroom before going back out to his truck.

After he’s spent no time unloading it with a few essentials he’ll need for the time ahead—mainly food—he closes the cabin door and sees you standing and shaking your leg against the floor of the living room, checking your phone for what he assumes to be a signal. 

“There’s no signal here,” Jack states, while carrying the last bag of food to the kitchen. 

With a frown, you put your phone into the pocket of your shorts and immediately ask, “So, you're driving me into the nearest town first thing tomorrow, right?”

He doesn't answer your question. Instead, he deflects. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Just relax.” He opens a cabinet and starts putting cans of food away, leaving two cans of soup for you both on the counter. “Let me make us dinner—I’m starving.”

You stomp up to him, keeping a few feet of distance away. “I can’t relax. I'm here, with a stranger, in a cabin in the middle of the woods, and I'm supposed to be at a hotel right now. Why can't you just tell me you'll help me?”

Jack puts his palms on the counter and cocks a brow at you. You’re being a bit too bold for his liking. He can't have you petulant. He wants you soft, sweet. It's a side of you he hasn’t had the chance to see yet, and he’d really, really like to. But you're not going to make it easy for him to get that out of you, are you? 

He’s not in the business of hurting people. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s okay with a little manipulation and coercion, yes, but it’s something he typically reserves for the students he can easily pick out from a crowd and know they're bendable to his will. 

It can’t just be him faking gestational age results for his patients to get an abortion or exaggerating their illness so they’re taken seriously, after all.

It’s not wrong or right. His actions nestle somewhere comfortably in the gray. It’s his mission to save. The mission is wired in him—even if he’s bending over backwards every day and nearly killing himself to follow through with it. And he can’t deny the rush he gets getting away with his schemes.

He debates on telling you another lie to make you more amenable or the truth. But now that he's got you where he wants you, he figures he can make do with being honest. It's his preference. It’ll get the hard-to-swallow pill out of the way.

And like he has to tell the family of his patients that slipped through his fingers and into the afterlife, he gives it to you straight. No frills. “Because I'm not going to, sweetheart. Once I'm on this mountain, I don't make a habit of leaving.”

You step back and nearly knock into a dining chair. “What? What're you saying?”

“You’re staying here. With me.”

You shake your head. “Wh—I’m—I'm not staying here! You're insane! You have to help me. Why would you want to keep me here?”

“We’re staying in this cabin. End of story. I don't mind that you're here. I don't usually have company.” He smirks, but you’re too out of it to notice.

You start hyperventilating, tears start flowing, and they would break his heart, but all they do is set him on fire. He wants this view, but with you sprawled beneath him, and because of how many times he’s made you come. Fuck, he shouldn’t think these thoughts. It’s too soon.

He can’t reasonably convince himself not to touch you, but at the very least, he won’t fuck you. 

He wants you begging for it.

“You’re… stranding me here? Because you're—you’re… lonely?” you squeak the last word out, anxiety affecting your ability to speak and making your tongue work against you.

He thinks about it.

He is lonely—has been for a long time. But you’re well worth the wait.

Since his wife passed, he hasn’t been interested in finding love again. He couldn’t commit to a long-term relationship if he tried. He has tried, in vain. She made him whole. She's gone now, and although his heart shrunk and mended together in a gruesome, amorphous blob, he's willing to make a you-sized hole to squeeze you into. It’s more effort than he’s put toward anyone in years. 

“I’m not changing my mind. But you should enjoy this. I’m not going to hurt you or let anything bad happen to you.” He stares you down, and your eyes widen noticeably through the sea of tears.

He’s an immovable force. And you’re stuck. The reality is sinking in, and that makes you grasp at straws. 

“M-my friends, family, coworkers. They’ll be wondering why I haven’t reached out. They’ll get worried. You’re not going to get away with this.”

You don’t mention having a partner. Whether you do or don’t doesn’t sway him in the least, but it does make things a little easier.

He huffs a laugh, and his smile lines ripple across his face. “Get away with what? Feel free to walk out that door. But you won’t. And what makes you think I care about the other people in your life? They won’t find us.” 

That snaps your mouth shut. He’s right, and he knows you know it. As long as he has the keys to his car—which he’s planning to hide in a very safe place—all you can do is sit pretty. You don’t have hiking gear. You don’t even know where you would go from here. There’s no way to contact anyone.

He tuts. “Imagine if no one else came by, sweetheart—what could’ve happened to you out there. This really is the best-case scenario. Just indulge me, yeah?”

“I can’t believe I trusted you,” you hiss. “You’re—you’re sick.”

He sighs, rolls his neck, and rubs his shoulder, massaging the tense muscle there. “I’m not sick. I’m hungry. My leg’s killing me. I’ve been driving all day.” He rolls up the pant sleeve of his cargo trousers and shows you the prosthesis on his right leg.

He’s not sure why. You would have found out sooner or later. He certainly doesn’t want your pity—and he doesn’t think he’ll get any from you. But maybe you’ll appreciate seeing him as someone who’s just human—not an all-evil, infallible monster. You certainly don’t see him as a hero, and he thinks it’s a nice change of pace for once.  

“I—is that supposed to make me feel bad?” you ask, but your bite is duller than it was before. 

“No. I’m just telling you what I’m feeling. I’m trying to open up to you.”

You cross your arms over your chest, and your brows pinch in frustration. “You can’t just… this is wrong! I don’t care if you’re hungry or in pain.” You shake your head. “I don’t want you to open up. I want you to let me go.”

Jack’s patient enough, but even he sees it’s pointless to argue. He’d rather not go back and forth in circles, if he can help it. “If you’re not going to eat, why don’t you take a look around the cabin, hm? It’ll be home for a while. We’re done talking.”

Jack opens another cabinet, pulls out a bottle of painkillers, swallows them down, and ends the conversation there. 

You stand stock-still in the dining room, angry, dumbfounded, scared, but when you see he's making no move to engage with you or relent, you rush past him down the hallway and further into the cabin.

There's a bedroom back there, a bathroom, and a doorway that leads to an outdoor deck, outfitted with a hot tub and lounge chairs for stargazing. 

Jack expects you to throw a fit once you find that there's only a single bed in the small, but cozy, room, but it'll have to fit the both of you. He refuses to give up the luxury of a comfortable resting place after being used to sleeping on hard, dirt-caked, earth and shitty on-call room mattresses.

He hears the bedroom door slam shut and the lock click, and he closes his eyes and rubs his forehead, easing the tension headache that's developed. His whole body is killing him now, even more than usual, and it's all thanks to you. 

He convinces himself that this is only a growing pain, that you'll loosen up as the days, weeks, and hopefully not months pass. He'll give you as much time as he can before his restraint splinters. For now, you can go without dinner. Though, he would have liked to share a meal together.

He'll know soon enough whether you'll eat out of his hand. 

Jack’s eaten. He cleansed and lotioned his residual limb. He's ready for bed and ready for what should be an interesting start to your experience together tomorrow. You've not come out from the bedroom since escaping to it earlier, and he wonders what you’ve been up to. It's best if you get some rest too. 

But when he pulls out the key from on top of the doorframe and unlocks the door, he sees you in bed, already asleep. 

It's fortuitous. If he's careful, you won't scream at him to get out. He won't. Not even if you beg. And he's sure as hell not letting you sleep on the couch, either. 

He silently—as much as he can with crutches against the hardwood floor—crosses the threshold of the room and sits on the edge of his side of the bed. He settles himself underneath the covers, flat on his back. He waits for what seems like forever before turning to you.

He can’t resist. 

You’re faced away from him. The sound of your breaths is soft, but he can see the strong rise and fall of your back through the oversized shirt you changed into. Moonlight pours in through the split seam of the blackout curtain and casts its light onto you. 

He presses himself to your back, throwing an arm over your waist, careful not to let his hand stray where his mind tells him to. He didn't think this possible. Being here, in this faraway cabin, with someone like you. With anyone else other than his wife.

Even the forest's haunted silence grows too loud sometimes, but the sound of your light snores eases his mind and calms his heart.

His hand betrays him. His fingers dip below the hem of your shirt, and he realizes you’re only in your underwear. His breath stutters, and all he can do is stuff his nose into the side of your neck and breathe in your scent to keep himself from doing something he’ll regret. 

You’re too reckless. Did you really think that lock would keep him from you?

His fingers splay over your lower stomach but travel no further down. It’s enough. For now. 

He drifts off to sleep and dreams of you.

Nearly a week has passed since you both arrived that nightfall. That first morning together, Jack awoke to a complete mess of the cabin. He hasn’t slept that peacefully or for that long in such a long time and was surprised to find you already up and at it, frantically searching for what you’ll never find. The cabin was stripped from wall to wall in search of his car keys. You couldn’t find them. You adamantly resumed your search every morning up until today, but the result was the same. He’s glad you seem to have given up, because he’s tired of cleaning up your mess.

Say you find his keys (impossible) and make it out of the mountain, where would you go? Jack knows the surrounding area like the back of his hand and where the nearest town is. It’s far. There’s no cell service for over half the journey there. He doesn’t have a map handy, either. 

He can’t fault you for trying, however.

You still refuse to eat. With him, at least. And when you do eat, it’s not much. He’s always thought of himself as a half-decent cook, but he’s deluded if he thinks poor taste buds are the reason why you’re not wolfing his dishes down. 

You've been holed up in the bedroom for the majority of the time here, with nothing but a few books and a miniature TV and DVD player to pass the time. For the most part, the only instances he sees you are when you rush out of the room to grab the meal he so generously makes for you or to use the bathroom.

Jack’s a reasonable man. He attempted—many times—to pull you out of the room with sweet words and reassurances that he wouldn’t do anything to harm you, but those all seemed to fail. There’s only so much patience in him, and it seems he’s run dry. He expected it would take some time for you to adjust. A week should have been enough. 

He'd much rather spend time together loved up than fighting you and decided today is the day to start up the engine. It won’t be a smooth nor slow traverse through the laid- out tracks, but as long as there isn’t a train wreck, you’ll reach destination him.

Jack is glad you’re “letting” him share the bed with you, at least, but it’s only because he forces himself under the covers and you can’t do anything but let him. It appears you’re both too stubborn to sleep on the couch, but he’s more than okay with that.

You do make sure to let him know your dissatisfaction about it. Not a day goes by that you don’t yap in his ear about how he’s been subconsciously grinding his erection against your ass in his sleep and that it’s disgusting. He has the same response every day. A grunt, a sloppy peck on your cheek, and a “Good morning to you too, sweetheart.” 

You huff and puff, but he makes no attempt to console you or tell you it’s just a natural reaction to the proximity. Because it isn’t. Even in his sleep he wants you. You’re lucky he’s done nothing more heinous to you while unconscious and completely at his mercy.

If he forces you to get along with him, he knows in his heart of hearts it will only lead to resentment and is counterintuitive to the reason why you’re here in the first place. But time is ticking, and he’s no closer to getting you loose and wanting for him. It’s clear he’ll need a more head-on approach.

You can’t comprehend the simple fact that he’s only doing this because he cares for you. The walls you put up are driving him further into madness; you refuse to hear him out, and you think you’re somehow above him for turning your nose up at his reprehensible morals. 

But he’s knocking down those walls tonight. It’s evening now, and he’s preparing dinner. For the both of you, and to share at the dining table this time.

He unlocks the door to the bedroom—to which he wonders what the point of it is if not to irritate him—startling you from where you lie in the bed, reading a tattered fiction novel. You drop it by your side and sit up straighter, covering yourself with the blanket. He realizes you're running out of fresh clothes because you’re in nothing but the same T-shirt you've been wearing for the past few days and your underwear. 

There's a washer and dryer in the hallway, but you're so unwilling to spend even a second in his vicinity that you’d forgo laundry. It's laughable. You’re so childish it only makes him want to discipline you more.

He crosses his arms over his chest and leans on the doorframe. “Come out. We're eating dinner. Together.”

“No,” you say, firmly. “I’m staying here until you let me go. Enjoy your vacation without me.”

“You really think I'd keep you here if I didn't want to spend time with you? Keep it up and you’ll never see your family again.” He casually throws the words out but tries not to dwell on how easily you bring out this side of him.

His deep-seated, ugly possessiveness. His obsessive nature. 

Jack realizes he’s been too lenient. He’s the one who has dominion over you, not the other way round, and he’ll be damned if you think he won’t take what he wants.

He cocks his head in the direction of the hallway leading to the kitchen. “You’ve had time to sulk. Now let's go. I won't ask again.”

“Or what?” you bark back. “What else could you possibly do to make things worse?”

You say the wrong thing.

He trudges into the bedroom and up to your side of the bed, fed up with your behavior.

Jack smiles, and your eyes narrow in suspicion. “If you want to act like a child, I’ll treat you like one, kid.” 

He drags you and pulls you into his arms, then throws you over his shoulder. He scoffs because it’s like lifting a sack of feathers, and yet, you thrash against him and pull at his curls in an attempt to make him let go of you. He grunts in annoyance at a particularly harsh pull of a few strands at the nape of his neck. 

If only it were because you were forcing him away from the tight clench of your cunt as he ate you out, but alas, that’s not the case. You keep up your puny attempts to fight him off, but he doesn’t give in, nor do they deter him.

In his free time, when he's not at work or wracked with panic attacks, he’s in the gym. It keeps his mind occupied, even for a short while, and his body in shape. He's always been fit, but once he became a below-knee amputee, exercise especially improved his coordination and balance on his prosthesis.

Your weight introduces an asymmetrical load to the left side of his body, slowing his gait and stretching out the relatively short distance between the bedroom and the dining table. But he takes it all in stride because at least you’re finally being dealt with.

Your legs kick against his torso at a bruising pace, and he sighs. “Stop. You'll just tire yourself out. Don’t make me spank you.”

It’d be really easy for him to pull your underwear to the side and spank your ass raw, but he’d prefer to have you over his knees for that.

“F-fucking—let me go! Don’t touch me!” You pound your fists against his upper back, but he’s finally back in the dining room and plopping you on a chair. You wince as the hardwood greets your ass.

Your chair is tucked right against the wall, and Jack uses that to crowd you in as he stands directly in front of you. “Sit there. I don't want to use force, but you’re making this difficult. Maybe I’ll tie you up if you don't want to listen. Plug your cute mouth with my cock instead if you don’t want to eat, hm? Would you like that?”

Your breath hitches. He hasn't used such vulgar language with you before. “Y-you wouldn't."

His rough palm settles over the nape of your neck, and you shiver, his touch sending a bolt of lightning through you. “Oh, I would, honey. In fact, I have some traction rope in my go bag right now. But I'm giving you a much nicer option. Take it.” His voice is deep, in a near growl.

The way he says it, you should know it’s not just a threat. It's a soon-to-be reality if you don’t listen.

He does truly consider getting the rope and restraining you that way. Tying you up should be no more emotionally taxing than when he tied the tourniquet around his right leg eons ago now. 

He would feed you your dinner, though. Just… in between mouthfuls of his cock. What he wouldn’t do to see the image of you, on your knees, servicing him between the plush of your spit-slicked and swollen lips and those eyes telling him that you can hardly breathe.

It appears he can no longer get away with not threatening you. You're just too fucking stubborn. He doesn’t necessarily enjoy it, but he would be lying if he said he doesn’t feel a sick satisfaction at the thought of having you under his heel.

He sees the way your eyes widen and gleam with the promise of tears as his darken with nefarious intent. It makes his cock jump in his shorts, and he knows you catch that too.

He should’ve done this a week ago. But his father’s voice rings in his ears, telling him no one will ever love him, especially if he doesn’t know how to treat a lady. But he was a hypocrite, his father, and yet, his mother stayed. 

He doesn’t want to think about the volatility of his upbringing.

He wants to focus on you. Snappy, hell on earth but a blessing in disguise, you.

You don’t have to do much to rile him up. His thoughts about you run away from him far and fast enough. Just you wait until he finally gets his hands on you the way he wants to.

“O-okay. I'll do whatever you say. Just don’t tie me up. Please.”

Jack gives your neck a light squeeze and pinches your cheek with his other hand. “Good girl,” he coos. “Let me serve you a plate.”

He stands in the kitchen for a few minutes, preparing both of your plates before walking back over to you. He sets them on the table before taking a seat himself.

Your plate is full with a steak, a fresh bed of side salad, and steamed potatoes. The steaks are perfectly done—medium rare—and just how he likes them. He brought a few slabs with him in a freezer for the trip and was glad to see you weren’t a vegetarian when you seemed to nibble on the other foods he made you that had meat on them. 

You go to pick up your fork and knife, but he tuts, bringing a hand over yours to stop you. “You've been such a pain in the ass this past week. I meant what I said. I'll feed you myself, since you want to act like a little baby.” 

Jack takes your fork and knife, cuts into your steak, but pauses for a second as he hovers the fork over your plate. He decides he’ll feed it to you by hand instead. Food tastes better that way. It’s more grounded. More intimate. 

He plucks the bloodied flesh off the prongs of the utensil and holds it in front of your mouth. 

“Say ahhh,” he prompts, in the most lighthearted and teasing voice he can muster while jiggling the steak in front of you to entice you. 

You gape, scandalized and embarrassed by his patronizing tone, but Jack uses the opportunity to stuff your mouth with the flavorful meat, dipping his fingers in between your lips longer than appropriate or necessary. Your teeth scrape against his thumb and forefinger as you try to bite down on the steak. Only when he sees you’re struggling to swallow does he pull his fingers from your mouth. 

He sucks on his fingers to clean off the excess butter and grease, and he hums at the taste. Piquant. “You like that? Tell me what you think.”

He sees that your eyes are lidded and you're licking your lips for any remnants of the flavor-packed juices. Your hands grip the tablecloth, and your body leans closer to his, ready for another bite. 

God, you’re a vision. So docile and under his control. 

He cuts up another few pieces, and you wait patiently for him to feed you another bite. He's happy you seem to enjoy what he made for you both. He prepared it especially well tonight, knowing that he intended to have you eat it with him and because you haven’t had a full meal since arriving.

You nod your head slightly. “Y-yes. It’s good.”

The corners of Jack’s lip curl up in a devilish grin. “Let me feed you just a few more bites, and then you can dig in yourself. I gotta eat too.”

He feeds you a few more pieces of the steak, making sure to give your lips a proper caress each time his hand draws back for another bite.

Once he’s had enough of touching your lips and fingering your mouth, he lets you scarf down the rest of the plate on your own. 

You both eat in peaceful silence, the sounds of chewing and the see-sawing of the knife slicing into the meat the only things to fill the gap. You outpace him by just a smidgen and wipe your plate clean. It’s not long before you both sit back in your chairs with your stomachs full. 

Jack thinks dinner was… quaint, almost domestic, in the way two lovers would share a candlelit dinner. 

Whenever he decides you can both go home, he’ll take you to a favorite restaurant of his.

He quickly gathers your plate and utensils and stacks them over his. 

Your eyes don't meet his as he stares at you with his fingers interlocked underneath his chin and his elbows propped up on the table. “What do you say?”

You clear your throat. “...Thank you.”

“Look at me.”

You do. 

“You’re not staying cooped up in that room anymore. You’re going to enjoy the rest of our time here. Got it?”

You chew on your lower lip before nodding. He sees your internal struggle. He hasn't touched you. He’s been giving you space and feeding you all the while. But Jack’s aware that this isn't what you want. Where you want to be. And especially not with someone you know nothing about. But he sees that you're less combative now, and maybe all you really needed was a decent meal and the threat of his cock in your mouth to set you straight.  

Jack stands up from his chair, and your head lifts up, following his movement. He sees your eyes flash with something—fear—but a little curiosity too. 

“Follow me. You haven't seen the deck yet, sweetheart. No point in having the amenities if we aren't going to use them, right?”

Jack takes a chance and holds out his hand. You stare at it for a few seconds before tentatively clasping yours in his, then follow his lead into the hallway.

He stops at the door leading to the deck and urges you to step outside. “Go sit on one of the lounge chairs. Wait for me.”

“What—” you start to ask.

“Gonna clean up the kitchen and do some prep for tomorrow's meals. I set up the hot tub already. Just turn on the jets.”

You shake your head. “But, uh, we—we just ate…”

He takes a glance at his watch. “It’ll take me about thirty minutes. Perfect timing. Can’t wait for me that long?” He smirks.

Your brows turn down in a frown. “Whatever.” You step outside, and Jack heads back into the kitchen.

Jack returns—with two towels—to you running your fingers through the simmering pool of water. You turn to him as he watches you from the door.

“The water’s ready,” you say.

“Good.” He closes the gap between you and sets the rolls of towels down on top of the tub steps. “Now let’s get you naked,” he mumbles. He starts to pull up your shirt by the hem, but you stop him by grabbing his hands.

“C-can’t I just, I dunno, keep my clothes on?”

Jack tilts his head at you. “This is a hot tub.”

He escapes your hold on his hands and pulls your shirt over your head, exposing your breasts to him. He starts tugging at your underwear, but you resist, a bit more forcefully this time. 

With one arm covered over your chest and the other pressed against his, you ask, “Please, just… not that. I—I’ll do it myself. Could you turn around?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” He tries to pull down your underwear again, but you step back into the wall of the tub before he can. He looks into your pleading eyes and sighs, acquiescing. “Fine. Only because you asked nicely.” Jack turns around and decides to use this time to strip himself as he waits for you to enter the water.

He hears a small slash, then turns around and goes to sit on the ledge of the tub, careful to keep balance while loosening his prosthesis and placing it on the topmost step.

With his prosthesis carefully set to the side, he lowers himself into the water and groans at the feeling of the warmth overtaking his aged body and seeping into his muscles.

The sun has already made its slow descent over the horizon, bringing on the soft, muted deck lights. You’re sitting on the opposite side of the tub, directly across from him. Only your head peeks out of the water, and your eyes are closed. Your face glimmers as the hot tub’s ranging LED lights bounce off the water, and it looks like you might actually be enjoying the moment. 

Your shoulders are loose, the typical pinch in your brow has disappeared, and you have a ghost of a smile flickering across your lips.

Thirty silent minutes pass in relaxation before Jack decides to make a move.

There’s only a few feet of distance between you two—as the tub is a modest size—but Jack still feels like there’s an insurmountable rift.

It's not insurmountable, though, because when he asks you to “Come here,” you open your eyes and hesitantly tread toward him as he gestures with his pointer finger.

He pulls you into him by the waist, and you squeak, not expecting to make chest-to-chest contact and be wrapped up in his corded arms. You place your hands on top of his freckled shoulders while his settle against the small of your back.

“Isn't this nice? Now that you’re not fighting me?” he murmurs as he noses the slope of your neck and lower jaw. He can feel your nipples, wet and pert against his chest, gliding across his skin and dog tags as you shift to get more comfortable in his hold.

“You threatened to tie me up and use me,” you deadpan. “On top of trapping me here. There doesn’t seem to be much room for anything else but compliance.” You huff and squirm a little as he licks up the water droplets along your collarbone.

Jack shrugs his shoulders and raises his brows in noncommittal agreement as he moves to nip at your earlobe. His teeth grate along your flesh, and you shiver.

You’re such a sensitive thing.

He turns his head so he can rasp directly in your ear. “Yeah. Well, you can’t deny I've been taking good care of you so far. Can see why it'd be frustrating for me when you act like that.” 

Your nails dig into his shoulders the slightest. “Why are you doing this to me?” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t respond—chooses not to. He isn’t sure what to say. Is it because he just happened to see you on that road? Well, yes. But would he have really taken them in if it were anyone else? Is it because he loves you? Surely it’s too soon for him to say that, but he certainly has an affinity for you. And it’s growing stronger by the day.

Instead of telling you about his conundrum, Jack’s hands trail from your lower back to the curve of your ass, but you attempt to pull back from his hold.

Your voice is shaky with nerves. “O-okay. I think it’s time to let me go. I got in. Now I'm ready to get out.” You push lightly against his chest but start flailing—splashing water everywhere—when he shows no signs of letting go.

Jack spins you around so that you're pressed between him and the wall of the tub. “No,” he says, plainly and with finality.

His hands are even bolder now, fully groping and spreading your ass between his palms. He sucks the curve of your neck, and you throw your head back as he grinds his hardening cock against your folds. 

He’s long. Thick. Bigger than you’ve ever had, and it’s not fully erect yet. You freak out even more because you don’t understand the clashing thoughts running through your mind about how he might impale you with it. 

“You—you can’t just—” you start to say, but your words are left hanging on a pathetic whimper as Jack bites the delicate skin between your neck and shoulder blade. 

He groans into the bite, then laves his tongue over the punctured area, drawing a light moan from you. More from pain than pleasure, he presumes.

Your cute noises only serve to make him rut against you faster, but this isn’t for him. He just wants to feel you up a little. Isn’t that okay? He’s been very patient so far.

You start to say something again, but he shuts you up with a forceful kiss and a rough squeeze of your tit. You gasp into his mouth as you try to tug his hand away from your chest, but he’s so much stronger than you, you give up. Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck to harshly pull at his hair. If anything, it makes him deepen the kiss.

He lets you break free from his lips only once you both need air.

Jack wills himself to pull back from your body just a bit more to fully look at you. 

Your eyes are watery but look hazy with lust, and tears have yet to fall. Your breaths are quick and ragged, and your hands move from the nape of his neck to return to his shoulders, nails scratching the freckled skin lightly. He’s wondering if you're more affected by his touch than you’re willing to admit. 

A single one of your tears ends up escaping you, plopping into the tub. 

Jack tries to console you. “Shhh, don’t cry. It's okay. I won't do anything you don’t like.” 

Your lower lip wobbles. “I…” You shake your head and blink back more tears. “We shouldn't be doing this.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Jack doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s leaning down and gently sucking one of your nipples into his mouth while rolling the other between his fingers.

You sink your nails into his skin and arch your back into his hand and mouth, hesitating on what to do as he continues to work his tongue over your nipple. In your hesitation, he starts tugging your nipple with his teeth and rubs tight circles over the other. You hold back from moaning out his name and instead force out a ragged, “Please. No—no more.”

Jack gives each nipple a wet kiss before finally letting go. 

He can’t say he isn’t disappointed. Frustrated. His cock is leaking pre-cum into the chemically treated water, but all he cares about is that he couldn’t get you off. 

There’s still time. There’s nothing but time. And he’s closer to you now than ever, so he guesses that this is an overall win.

He floats back to the opposite side of the tub and notices you look somewhat surprised. As if you can’t believe he has the restraint or the wherewithal to bide his time.

It’s not as if he doesn’t want to touch you. Fuck you. Make you fall apart and mold you the way he likes, but part of his desire is to make you want—need—him just as badly as he does you.

You’re the one person he wants to nag him, use him, submit to him, but you want nothing to do with him. 

It doesn’t mean he won’t keep pushing boundaries, testing your limits.

His voice is tinged with hurt as he dismisses you. “Towels are on the step. You can leave your clothes. I’m doing the laundry tonight.”

You give him a pensive look, then scurry out of the tub, draping yourself in a towel. You look back at him before walking through the door. “You’re really not going to let me go?”

When all he gives you is silence, you run inside.

Jack lies in bed later that night, and, for the first time since being here, does not fall easily asleep. 

But you do something unexpected. You turn, face him, and pull his body into yours. You give him a view of your face, soft and relaxed, and not your back. For the past week, he’s had to manhandle you into embracing him only once you’ve fallen asleep.

You're knocked out cold, your actions aren’t your own, you're under the influence of a dream, but still, you’re reaching for him. Jack’s disappointment dissipates just the slightest bit as he wraps his arms around you.

The next few days pass by in a blur, and now it’s the end of week two since the start of Jack’s vacation.

Since having dinner together and the bathtub incident the other day, you’ve been less up in arms about him—still reluctant—but overall more receptive to him. You’ve shared small talk over meals, got to learn that he was a combat medic, now a doctor, and heard the story behind losing his leg and wife. The words flowed easily from Jack.

He’s never shared as much and so quickly with anyone, but he supposes it’s because you’re you that he felt comfortable telling you these things.

He’s learned a bit more about you too. That you went to college for this. That you have interests in that. That you’re not really an outdoorsy type. That fact in particular made him smile because it reminded him of his late wife.

There’s no doubt you’re your own person. And he’s not at all trying to replace you in her image. Yet, he can't help drawing parallels between you two. You’re sweet. Only feisty because of the situation. You’re stunning. That’s more than obvious. 

You’re also just… good to be around. 

Not only have you shared meals, but you’ve also silently helped him clean up in the kitchen and clean the cabin, do laundry, and even joined him in his Shaolin monk breathing exercises out on the porch every morning.

Jack’s content with this. He knows you’re being diplomatic, careful not to upset him too much, or he’ll make good on his promise and have you posted to the bed. He's crossed your line and touched you, seen you naked, and he assumes that you’re fearful he might go even further if you cross him. 

He won't. He'll toe the line. As long as he doesn’t put his cock in you, he foolishly reasons that everything else is fair game. You may put up a little fight in the meanwhile, but his body is taut with all the restraint he’s had and is almost ready to snap. Letting you escape to the cabin after being in the hot tub together nearly killed him.

But he’s been happy to have you out and about and joining him in even the most mundane of things, so he hasn’t attempted anything else. Nothing all that dramatic, at least. He’s stolen a few kisses here and there and groped your ass every time he walked past you, but that’s all. You don’t seem too upset about it, or if you are, you keep it to yourself. 

It’s odd, because for as much as he would like to ruin you, he’s blueballing himself holding back from it; you are the first woman in a long while that he feels “patient” enough to wait before jumping into bed with.

It’s almost as if this might really work. That you’ll let him in and he’ll have something, anything besides his grief, the medicine, the past, the Pitt, to make his way through life with.

So it's quite unfortunate when you're sitting at the table and having breakfast together, when you say something that breaks the spell.

“Jack. You need to let me go.” 

He swallows down a piece of bacon and takes a sip of his coffee. Your face is grave and deadly serious. 

“What? Why are you bringing this up all of a sudden?” he asks.

You put your fork down and wipe your lips with a napkin. He frowns a little. He likes the sheen the bacon’s grease gives them. 

“I think we’re at a place now where we can have a somewhat normal discussion about this.”

Jack's mouth twists down and to the side. “I’ve been enjoying our time here, haven’t you, sweetheart?”

You scowl, and your fists clench on top of the table. “I have a life to get back to. People I care about. What am I, your pet?” You stop and take a deep breath, trying to gather yourself before completely blowing up at him.

“You're not my pet. You’re my other half.” Jack’s not quite ready to admit he loves you, but this is as close as he’ll get. If only you knew how much he’s already put his all into you. “I’m who you should care about. But you don’t see it that way, which is why more time would do us good, don’t you think?”

“Jack…” You’re pleading now. “I—I’ve been nice. I’ve spent time with you. Let you touch me. You’re…” You choke out your words. “You’re decent. I won't tell anyone anything if you just take me out of here. Just take me back to my car. I'll find someone else—“

Jack downs his coffee in one fell swoop and slams the mug onto the table. “—No. No. What do you think this is? We’re not friends. This isn’t some playdate.”

You stare at him with owlish eyes for a few seconds. “...So, what, we’re just gonna stay here forever? Is that even possible?”

“If that's what it takes for you to understand—we’ll spend eternity here. The day you open up your legs and beg for me is the day we can pack up our things and go home. Together.”

You bare your teeth at him like a dog poised to bite. “I won’t give in.”

But Jack doesn’t think that’s true. You’re not a feral dog. You’re strong. Self-assured. But slowly showing signs of weakness, which makes you more akin to a fussy cat. 

He’s noticed you curling into him more at night. Caught you peeking into the shower at him through the glass when he leaves the door cracked, just in case you might want to join him. Whenever he’s hard, leaking, and too tempted to touch you, he jerks himself off into the toilet, moaning your name loud and unabashedly, and he swears he can hear the floorboards creak and the door groan as if you’re right outside listening in.

You can bitch all you want, but you’re already giving in. It won't take much longer now.

“Me neither. Guess we’re both not getting what we want, are we, kid?”

Jack takes both your plates and walks over to the sink, while you stay seated in your chair, staring daggers into his back.

He turns on the faucet to do the dishes. “By the way,” he starts, “I think you’ll be happy to know that I’ll be gone for a few hours.” 

He sees you give him a suspicious look out of the corner of his eye. 

“You’re leaving me here?”

“Going on a hike. It’s something I've always done on the day before last of my vacation. This… I used to do this hike with my wife,” he says, with a wistful tone.

You're silent for a few seconds as you take in the new information. “But… this vacation isn’t ending.”

Jack chuckles. “It’s the thought that counts. Figured I’d get it out of the way now.”

You don’t respond, and he thinks the conversation ends there, but then you ask, “Can I come?”

He stops the faucet and turns to you, a surprised look gracing his face. He can see the gears turning in your head, but he can’t pinpoint what you’re thinking. Most likely nothing good. “You don't have any hiking gear. Wouldn’t be safe.”

“Please, Jack.” You get out of your chair to step up to him and grab his upper arm. “I need to see something else besides the inside of this cabin.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he narrows them at you. “You’ll run off.”

You shake your head. “I’m not stupid. I’ll die out there if I do. Please?”

He crosses his arms over his chest and contemplates. Maybe you do need some fresh air and a change in scenery. It’d be good to clear your mind. 

Who is he kidding? He can’t say no to you.

“You’ll be good? Do as I say?”

You nod, and then he’s pulling you in by the waist and giving you a sloppy kiss. You yelp in surprise into his mouth as he slips you his tongue, but then you’re kissing him back. 

It’s tentative. But he can tell you're just on the verge of doing it because you really want to, and not just to appease him. He’s stolen plenty of kisses from you, and none have felt this… honest. 

Your fingers grip the collar of his shirt but make no attempt to pull him away from you. He pulls away of his own accord. 

He huffs a laugh when he sees how fast you're breathing and how bashful you look. You’re so damn cute. 

“Don’t make me regret this. I’ll fasten a leash for you if I have to.” Jack’s eyes stare into yours and sparkle with something dangerous.

You gulp. “I—I won’t. Promise.”

The path Jack takes for his yearly hike on the penultimate day of his vacation has been marked in his mind over the years, but based on the overgrowth, it would look like it's never been explored before. 

The sun is bright and shines through the thick canopy of pine trees. The unnatural quiet of the forest is more muted at this time, the birds and buzzing of flies covering up the auditory vacuum of nothingness.

You’re trailing behind him, pace slow and careful, especially with your sorry pair of tennis shoes. Jack’s used to being the one people have to slow down for, so he doesn’t mind. But he really shouldn't have let you join him either way. It’s dangerous. And it’s a long way down the slope of the mountain and back up again. Even with all his practice and comfort on the trail, he’ll need to take a break or two every half hour. 

But he couldn’t refuse the look you gave him. And he’s curious as to the reason why you wanted to join him. Surely it isn’t because you couldn’t bear to be alone without him.

“You okay back there?” he asks. 

You grunt as you step up and over a dead tree. “Why do you care? I twist my ankle, and then I'll be really powerless against you,” you mumble under your breath.

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to join.” Jack shrugs but stops and turns around, making sure you don’t fall too far behind.

He takes your comment on the chin. You’re right. A twisted ankle would take weeks or even months to heal, it would keep you off your feet, and most appealing of all, you’d need to rely on him to get on the other side of it.

But he wouldn't want that to happen. He really did mean it when he said he didn't want to hurt you. The same goes for if you were to get hurt indirectly by his hand. He's responsible for you now, after all.

“Be careful,” he tacks on as you catch up to him.

A little over two hours into the hike later, you and Jack happen upon an idyllic stream, which also happens to be where the stopping point is. 

Jack returns to this stream every year. And every year a complicated mix of emotions swells up in him. Mostly good, some sad, but all very bittersweet in the end. It’s the first time he’s had another person join him since his late wife, but he’s always said that she would be the last.

He can’t go through the heartbreak of coming back yet again with another dead wife. But it seems like you’ll be the exception.

He watches you as you squat on the stony embankment and peer at a dragonfly. You don’t look all that impressed by it. 

“Alright. We made it to the end. Let’s turn back,” he says.

You slap your knees and stand, following him as he walks ahead of you back in the direction of the cabin. No more than several hundred feet away from the streams and after what’s only been a few minutes, he stops. He doesn’t hear your footsteps anymore. He whips his head back to look at you, but you’re not behind him.

Shit. Weren’t you just there?

He realizes where you are when he retraces his steps and sees you in the distance near a landline buried under thick vines and surrounded by dense forestry. 

Of course.

He didn't think you would spot it, but this must be the reason why you decided to come. To take a chance and see if there happened to be a landline on this mountain. Which there is. But it's out of service and has been for several years due to its out-of- the-way location. 

Jack jogs up to you, just in case you decide to run off again.

He didn’t think you’d have the gall to disobey him, but truthfully, he’s just glad he found you.

He approaches and sees you sitting inside the booth with your head rested sideways on your knees and your arms wrapped around your legs. 

He bends down a little to get a closer look at you, but your face is completely hidden from his view. “I could’ve told you the phone doesn’t work.”

“Jack...” You lift your head up from your knees, and he notices that your hairline is bloodied. His heart jumps in his throat. 

“What happened?”

You lower one of your legs and wince. “T-tripped. Cut myself on that rock.” You point to it, but he doesn’t care. All he sees is the large gash right above your knee that’s currently bleeding out.

“Christ,” Jack spits out. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay. Why’d you run off? I told you to be careful.” His physician instincts kick in, and he reaches around for his backpack and unzips it to pull out his medkit and a rag. 

He tosses the rag to you and tells you to apply pressure to the wound. He grunts as he takes a seat by your legs inside the booth.

“Saw… ngh… what I was looking for. ’Course the phone’s out of commission. J-just my luck.” You look up from where you're pressing the rag to your wound and at him. “Are you going to punish me?”

Jack can’t help the guilt that rises in him when he looks into your eyes, so he instead focuses on your thigh. He reasons with himself that this is different, that you’re physically hurt, and that he shouldn’t feel guilty for taking you in. This is not the same. You would’ve been fine if you had just stayed inside.

“This is punishment enough. You should be more concerned about your leg. You’re going to need stitches.”

“Oh, so now you’re worried—”

“—Shut up.” Your lips press in a thin line while Jack opens the medkit and pulls out a pair of gloves, a suturing needle, and thread. “We’ll do them here.”

“You have that… in your bag?”

He cocks his head and raises his brows, crinkling his forehead. “I’m always prepared.” He puts on the gloves and starts to thread the needle, but his hands are shaky.

You watch him with wide eyes and worry. “Are—are you okay?” 

Jack looks at you. It’s an honest question. You’re concerned for you, whether he can keep you from bleeding out, but with that is an underbelly laced with concern for him too. He can see it in your eyes. It’s sweet. 

He sighs. “I have tremors sometimes. Caffeine this morning didn’t help.” 

He takes a few deep breaths, recenters himself, and attempts to thread the needle again, but his hands are still too shaky. 

“Jack, just take your time. I trust—... you’re a doctor, right? You can do this.” You give him a firm, confident nod, but you’re sweating bullets and your breaths are uneven. Not good.

But… maybe it is a good thing this happened. He can use it to his advantage, at least. Twist the knife a little more. Would someone who’s only bad really care to stitch you up?

He would, either way. It’s his personal mandate. But he’d do anything, especially for you. Maybe this will help you see that.

He gives you a quick glance, and you look at him like he’s just another normal person fixing you up. 

He refocuses on your thigh.

“We don’t have time.” Jack threads the needle after his third attempt. Maybe your encouragement and your budding change of heart is all he needs. “This is going to hurt. You ready, sweetheart?”

The hike back is grueling, even for all of Jack’s strength. You’re in no condition to walk two hours back all the way on your own, and you have to lean on him so he can help carry your weight.

Your wound is stitched up and has stopped bleeding through its bandage, at least. But he’s sure it burns, you’re weak, and you weren’t meant to be on this hike with him in the first place. 

He curses under his breath for the umpteenth time. “Couldn’t have tripped in the first few minutes of the hike?” He grunts as you both walk up a steep incline.

You don’t respond. You’re too out of it.

He slaps your cheek lightly with the hand not currently holding your arm over his shoulder. “Stay with me.”

You lift your head up from the ground to make eye contact with him. “Sorry. Just tired. Thirsty.”

Jack huffs in exhaustion. “Me too. Let’s take a little break.” You both reach a plateau, and he sets you down on a nearby tree stump. He pulls out his water bottle and a few painkillers from his bag, forces them into your mouth, and holds up the bottle for you to drink.

You swallow the pills and a few gulps of water down. He wipes your lips with the pad of his thumb before taking a few sips himself.

Two hours later, somehow, you both make it back to the cabin, alive. Drenched with sweat and covered with dirt, but alive.

Jack didn’t think he would be in this scenario with you and can’t help but chuckle to himself as you both walk through the entrance.

It’s a good thing he’s in your life now. He can’t imagine the danger you’d have put yourself in if you happened to go on that solo road trip.

He throws his bag on the couch, then leads you into the bathroom and sits you down on the toilet. “Gonna change the bandage now. Your stitches should hold.” He reaches for clean bandages in the cabinet beneath the sink.

You stop him by grabbing his wrist suddenly and with some force, feeling better now that the painkillers have kicked in. “Jack. Stop.”

He looks at you with a raised brow. “What?”

You chew on your lower lip. “Why are you helping me? I tried to call for help.”

“What do you mean? Stop distracting me. Let me do this.”

You push against his chest as he tries to open the cabinet again. “I don’t want you to!”

He grabs you by the shoulders and shakes you. “What are you fucking talking about?”

“You trapped me here. But all you’ve done since is feed me and try to talk to me and fucking suture up my wounds!”

Jack holds himself back from flashing you a devilish smile. So, he was right. Helping you out there, stitching you up, and carrying you all the way back changed your tune. Or at least, made you feel more conflicted about your growing feelings for him. He feels an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his body at the thought. It isn’t lust, though he does have enough of that for you, and in droves, but more like… a sense of accomplishment. Worth. Like you’re teetering on the cliff’s edge of his master plan to seduce you, and it won’t take but a gust of wind to knock you over.

“I told you. I wasn’t lying about you being mine to care for.”

You stare at each other, daring the other to say something first. You’re the bold one. “I wanted to find that phone booth. But when I realized it wasn’t working, well, I wasn’t too sad about it,” you murmur and look down at your lap. “I hate you less and less every day and it scares me.”

Hearing it directly from you does something to Jack. Makes him damn near giddy with affection. Makes him change his plans. He was willing to wait out another week before attempting to take the plunge, but why admit this to him if you don’t want him to do something now? He’s making his final play. 

Jack holds you by the back of the head and plants a kiss on your forehead. “It doesn’t have to scare you.”

You don't respond, and he takes that as a sign to redress your wound. He grabs a bandage from under the sink and applies it to your thigh with ease. You watch him with something not unlike appreciation. 

He pulls you up from the toilet by your wrist after redressing your wound. “Get in the shower. You’re disgusting. But you’re okay now.” The corners of his lips quirk up, and he breathes a small sigh of relief. 

You really are trouble. Worthwhile trouble.

“What about the bandage?” you ask.

“Waterproof. He gestures for you to lift up your arms so he can undress you. “Lift up.”

The hike wore you out, and you still have a bit of pain. So you do as he says. 

Jack peels off your grime-covered, tattered T-shirt and bottoms—to which you don’t object to—and also undresses and removes his prosthesis. He leads you into the shower and onto his bench with the help of a grab bar and your steady hand.

He sits you comfortably in his lap as he turns on the shower. 

“We could’ve showered separately,” you mumble, looking down at his cock pressed in between your bodies. It twitches under your heady gaze.

“Don’t really see the point in that. We shared a hot tub together, remember?” Jack reaches over the length of the bench to grab a bar of soap.

“Are you going to touch me again?”

He chuckles. You’re so direct except for when it’s to tell him you want him. “You’re already in my lap, and I’m cleaning you, so yeah.”

He takes his time with you at first, slicking you up with his soap and washing away the dirt on your skin collected from the hike—careful to avoid the bandage. But his touch soon goes from gentle to curious to greedy. He puts the soap aside, not bothering to pretend to wash you anymore, and instead gropes your breasts. 

His palms encompass them, squeezing and plumping the soft flesh to his heart’s content. You squirm in his lap and he gives one of your tits a harsh slap, drawing a moan from the back of your throat.

You don’t say anything, but your moans and hitched breaths do enough of the talking for you. You continue to wiggle on his lap, gliding your cunt over the underside of his length, but it’s more of an instinctual reaction to his touch than an intent to use him. It appears you’re still too shy for that.

He grunts. “Stay still.” 

He twists your nipples, and you cry out in pain, so you do as he says. Your hands move from your sides to on top of his shoulders, just to ground yourself to him. You can feel their steady rise and fall with every breath he takes.

His touch explores further down to your wet cunt. He splits the seam of your pussy with his pointer finger, making you reach back and pull on his hair with a single hand. It seems to be a habit of yours.

His voice is ragged with lust. “She’s so wet, honey.” He slips a finger inside, and you whimper in his ear. “So tight, too. You get like this for your captor, huh?”

“N-no, I don’t—”

He slips another finger inside your cunt, and you break on a moan. 

“What was that?” he teases. He removes his fingers from your cunt and pushes them into your mouth. Your eyes are lidded as you swirl your tongue around his digits and suck off your juices.

“Fuck, you look so good like this.” Jack doesn’t quite believe the sight he’s seeing. But he was right. He’s worn you down. And he’s the only one who’ll ever have the privilege of building you back up.

He pulls his fingers from your mouth and inserts them back into your cunt, massaging your walls and sinking them in as deeply as he can. They don’t fill you like he knows his cock will, but they’re good enough for now. 

His hands are rough and worn with the history and experience of saving lives, and his digits are thick, plugging you up just enough to make you want more.

With the press of his thumb, he strokes your clit in tandem with the rapid movement of his fingers fucking your hole. The noises coming from you and your pussy are lewd and loud, audible even over the spray of water.

The persistent rubs on your clit, his sweet whispers, and coarse, thick fingers inside you make you come undone. 

“J-Jack…” you breathe out as you come.

He watches you unravel before him with reverence. Your eyes are glazed over, your lips are parted in a cute “o” shape, and your moans make his cock thicken up and twitch against his abdomen.

He gives your clit a few more gentle rubs and a quick slap in gratitude for giving him that view of you.

Jack says your name and words of praise in between a few heated kisses. “You did so good. You’re so good.”

You’re spent, in more ways than one, and probably ready to head to bed, but he’s not done with you yet. He pulls you off his lap, and you stand on wobbly legs and reach for a towel while he shuts off the water.

You wrap yourself in the towel and help him up out of the bench so he can reattach his prosthesis.

He catches your eyes widening ever so slightly as you look down, and he chuckles. 

His cock is now fully erect, thickened up, reddened, and ready to snug into a warm, wet, cunt. 

He lifts your head up by the chin to look into your eyes. “You don’t have to help me, sweetheart. I got it.”

You shake your head and your eyes turn away from his. “I—I’m just trying to be nice.”

“You are, are you?” He smirks. “I wonder why.”

“Hmph. I’m not a monster, maybe?”

He hums, not convinced.

Once his prosthesis is reattached and he quickly dries himself off, he sweeps you off your feet—earning a yelp from you—and carries you out of the bathroom to the bedroom. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, pressing your palms against his chest.

Jack looks down at you with a gleam in his eye. “It’s time. I’m gonna fuck you.”

You look up at him with a nervous expression. “Jack—”

“—I saved you. Don’t you think I’ve earned this? Earned your trust?”

He kicks open the door to the bedroom and throws you ungracefully onto the bed. You try to scurry up the sheets, but he holds you by your ankle.

“I wouldn't be in this situation if it weren’t for you!” You try to kick your leg free, but it’s like trying to slip through a handcuff. His grip on you is tight, but he’s not even trying. 

You won’t escape.

Jack drags you closer to the foot of the bed and spreads your legs. “Has anyone else ever made you come that hard before? Don’t lie.” 

You try closing your legs, but Jack holds them open. “W-what does that matter?”

“I can give you so many more. Just say the word. Say you want me inside your cunt. Say you’re mine. That’s all I want.”

“J-Jack. No. No! This is wrong.” 

He leans over you and cages you in by his forearms. His face comes up so close to yours that he can feel your breath on his skin.

“It can be right for us. And you already came on my fingers. Your words don’t mean much.”

“Putting your dick inside me is something else entirely!” you screech and try pushing him away, but all he does is chuckle.

“Don't you know it was always supposed to be this way? You. Me. You underneath me. Don't fight it anymore,” he coos in your ear as he unwraps your towel and throws it to the ground.

He holds you down by the column of your throat as you start to thrash against the bed again.

It’s obvious you can’t fight him off. You’re expending energy you don’t have into thin air. You stop thrashing and look up into his eyes. “Jack. Listen to me. This—this isn’t something we can come back from. I…” You take a deep breath. “You held me here against my will for Christ's sake. I just—“ you cut yourself off.

“‘I just’… what?”

You cover your face with your hands and groan.

Fine.

Jack already knows what you’re getting at. You’re shy. This is immoral. You’ve fallen for someone you shouldn’t. Etcetera etcetera.

It does please him to see you battle yourself with this, and he would take the time to tease you more about it, but he needs to be inside you.

He’ll still try to get you to beg, but you might as well have already given him permission to do whatever he wants with you.

His hand trails from your throat to the seam of your cunt, spreading you open with two fingers. He huffs a laugh when he leans back and sees how wet you are. Even wetter now than when he fucked you on his fingers mere minutes ago. “You’re worried about how things look? Don’t be embarrassed, sweetheart. I’m handsome for an old man. And I’ve been nothing but good to you. No one would bat an eye at you falling for me. No one has to know, either.”

You peek through your fingers at him for a few seconds, then finally move your hands back to your sides, clenching the sheets.

Jack could come right there on the spot.

You’re looking up at him, with hearts in your eyes, but you’re chewing your lower lip raw in guilt, shame, humiliation. The contrast is… stunning.

“Here, I’ll make things easy. Decisions are just so hard, aren’t they? Just don’t think. I’ll take all the blame.” 

Jack raps the head of his cock against your clit and glides his cock along your folds to gather up your slick before slipping it inside your hole. He groans as he watches your eyes slam shut when you clench down on him, and he nearly crashes his upper body onto yours.

Fuck. You’re tight. How’re you going to take all of him?

You gasp, and your hands try to reach for him, but he draws his body back from you. “Jack, f-fuck, you’re—you’re inside me!”

“Yeah. I am. It’s good we got that out of the way. But if you want more, you’ll have to ask me like a big girl.” He pulls out of you, then drags the veiny underside of his length through your folds and pulls a whine from your throat. He uses his thumb to push the head of his cock inside you again but pulls out just as quickly, and taps your clit, your sticky arousal stringing with the action. 

He keeps teasing you like that while using his other hand to grope your soft skin. He pushes your hands away when you try to grab him—either to push or pull him into you—he’s not sure. But he won’t let you feel anymore than he’s giving you.

He pushes into your plush warmth once more, only feeding you the tip, and stays there. Unmoving. He holds you still by the waist when you try to grind down on more of his length.

“No,” you breathe out. “Jack, please—please do something.”

He leans down to nip at your neck. “Please what?”

“Please. Just—just…”

“C’mon. You can do it.”

You start crying as he plucks your nipples to get a response out of you, but all it does is distract him. He’s always been a sucker for your tears.

You relent only once Jack’s tweaked your nipples to the point where they’re throbbing. “O-okay. F-Fuck me, Jack. I want you to fuck me. I—I need you.”

“Hm. What else?” When you take too long to respond, he drives his hips forward, kissing a spot deep inside you that makes you see stars, then pulls completely out. 

He slaps one of your breasts—drawing out a high-pitched moan from you—then snakes his fingers down your body to fill the gaping hole where his cock once was. He grunts as he feels your cunt swallow up four of his fingers. Still, he doesn’t move.

His digits just sit inside you, and you whine, but you force out a weak response. “I… I want you to come inside me.”

Jack chuckles and cradles your cheek. “Was going to do that anyway, sweetheart. What I mean is, who do you belong to? If we went back home today, would I have to worry about chasing you down? This won’t be a one-time thing. I won’t let it be.”

You shake your head. “I’m yours, Jack. Look at what happened when I tried to run. You don’t have to worry.”

“Do you love me?” he asks.

“…Yes.”

He slaps your clit with his other hand, making you cry out and flinch. “You’re lying.”

You gasp as your clit twitches and you shake your head. “I… I think I could. I know I could. With more time.”

He hums. “That’s good enough, I guess.”

Jack leans over you and kisses you deeply. It’s a searing kiss. You moan into his mouth and dig your nails into his arms when he removes his fingers from your cunt and finally sinks his cock inside you. He shifts your legs so they wrap around his waist, and then he’s leaning on his forearm and caressing your cheek with his other hand. 

He pulls back from your lips once he’s balls deep and sees tears springing from your eyes.

He coos at you and wipes your tears. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. I’ll make you feel good, okay?”

He wraps you up in his arms and pistons his cock in and out of your hole. You’re wet, going dumb at his breakneck speed, and you're babbling his name and other things he can’t quite hear through the thick fog of lust.

He groans your name when you clench down on him after a particularly brutal thrust. “You feel amazing, honey. Well,” he grunts, “—well worth the wait.”

“Jack… fuck,” you whimper.

Your slick drips onto the sheets and coats his cock and balls, but he quite likes the mess. Your hands move from in between your bodies to the curve of his ass, pushing him closer and deeper inside you.

It nearly undoes him. How desperate you are for him now. And he feels a sick pride that his cock can knock you senseless like this. 

It won’t take much longer now. You're already pent up and sensitive from his teasing and the orgasm earlier, and he’s been wanting this since day one. 

He grinds his pelvis into your clit and thrusts into you a final time, hitting a toe-curling spot inside you that makes you moan his name as you come. You’re a shaking, wet, pathetic mess beneath him, and he can’t help but just stop and stare at you.

Jack is close too. Once you’re limp, pliant, and babbling incoherently, he selfishly uses your cunt and thrusts into you at a bruising pace, rhythm faltering as your cunt clenches on him tight with the aftershocks of your orgasm. But it’s your words that finally do him in. 

“Jack, please, come—come inside me. Now. I want it.”

You tighten your legs around his waist and dig your nails into his ass. He comes inside you with a rumbling groan, pumping his cum inside you for seemingly forever before it stops. Ropes of his cum spill from your battered cunt, and he scoops as much of it as he can back inside you. 

He kisses your lips and murmurs, “You’re mine.”

Jack ultimately decides on spending two more weeks at the cabin with you—making it an entire month—before you return home. 

He says it’s to really drill it into your head that he’s the only one who can get you to come the way he has and to ruin you for anyone else. 

Or, maybe he isn’t quite ready to return to reality. 

He’ll have to go back to work. You're not sure what your relationship will be like in the real world. But… it’s better to return to some semblance of normal if this fragile thing between you two has even a chance of panning out.

Though, you know you don’t have a say in it regardless. He knows you exist. What city you're from. Other things you let slip. It’s enough to know you’ll never be able to claw your way out from under his skin. 

You’re just hoping that things work out. Who cares how you guys ended up together, right?

Over the next two weeks, Jack uses all your holes, filling you up just the way he likes. You memorize the taste of his cum and the consistency based on the dribs and drabs that leak out of you daily, hourly. 

Your tune changes a little too easily over the course of these two weeks. You’re not as hesitant to admit that Jack has rewired your brain—making you see him in a somewhat better light. It does make him a little too arrogant, though, that fucking you on his cock so many times can influence you like this, but you’re beyond embarrassment.  

Let your cup runneth over. 

You’re sitting in the passenger’s seat of Jack’s truck as you travel down the road where he first picked you up. 

You’re headed home. To his home.

You sit up out of your seat when you notice your car’s gone. “Jack, look. This is the spot, right? My—my car’s gone! Someone took it!” You turn to him. “Does that mean someone else could’ve…”

He reaches a hand over and rubs your thigh. “You don’t know when they came by. It could’ve been today for all we know.”

“Didn’t you say this road is usually empty?”

“I did. It’s true. At least the times that I’ve been on it.”

You don’t know if you believe him. Maybe if you had waited for a bit longer someone else would’ve come by. But it doesn’t matter anymore. 

“You’re buying me a new car.” You cross your arms over your chest and pout. “I’d be surprised if I wasn’t fired from my job three weeks ago.”

“You don’t need to worry as long as you’re with me, sweetheart. Let’s go home and get in touch with your family first. I’m great with parents.” He throws you a smirk, and you roll your eyes.

[dingdongyouarewrong]

old enough to remember when smut was called ‘lemons’ but young enough that i had absolutely no business knowing that smut was called ‘lemons’ at the time 

[maybege]

2025 Fic Round-Up: Part 1

Hello my loves! I feel like I have been particularly inspired this year, the first time in a long time, and since my posting schedule is all over the place, I thought I might do a little roundup of the fics I have posted in the first half of this year – just in case you missed any of them.

Bathtime Adventures

A smutty one-shot that takes place in the American Football Player!Paz AU, which features a marriage of convenience and idiots to lovers. You want pleasure dom!Paz whisper sweet nothings in your ear while you both try to convince yourself that the other does not requite your feelings? This is the fic for you!

Bejeweled

A (very) smutty one-shot in which you toy with the idea to get your nipples pierced – an idea made all the more tempting by the handsome, older tattoo/piercing artist!Boba.

First Impressions Are Everything

The first meeting between you and ex-con neighbour!Paz, whom we know from the Heat Waves stories. Paz is a very Sad Boi in this piece but I promise it has some fluff!

The Heat

Isn’t it so annoying when you try to convince yourself that you are not in love with your alpha!clan leader!Paz husband and then he helps you through your heat? A fluffy, but still somewhat nsfw-ish take on heats.

Lessons Learned

In this piece, also set in the Enemies to Lovers AU, protects omega!fem!Reader from false accusations (also they are in love but would never admit it).

Trial and Error

For all my daddy kink, older man/younger woman, boss/employee, corruption/innocence girlies (gn) out there. Private Investigator!Boba and Assistant!Reader are A Treat, if I do say so myself.  

Two Holes In One

If you want the older man/younger woman kind of scandalous relationship trope but without the daddy kink: May I interest you in dad’s friend/colleague!Boba AU? He makes your family trip to the golf course A Lot More Fun.

Weekend One Shenanigans

What if you end up in the lap of a drummer at a Coachella-esque festival? And that drummer is none other than Paz Vizsla? This story is the answer.

It is also important to me to thank every one who took the time to not only read my stories but to leave comments, be it on AO3 or via a reblog here on tumblr. It really brought back the joy of not only sharing my writing but also the motivation to write at all. I get the biggest smiles when I see someone left a comment on any of my stories. So thank you 🫶 I hope I get to share more with you in the second half of 2025.

[bunjywunjy]

Shout out to that guy from Florida talking to my coworker about wanting to take his sail boat through Lake Superior in November. He was planning on a little trip and my coworker was like hey man I don't know how to tell you this but you will Actually Die

*Lake Superior, in the far distance*: yes yes yes yes yes do it yes yes

[bunjywunjy]

@ciaseeds PLEASE

[jabberwockypie]

[ovaryacted]

baby girl looking for pope (and reader) out in the crowd during some school event where she's on stage. she's searching so hard and almost starts crying until she finally sees pope being held back by reader because he saw the tears in his baby's eyes and needs to make sure she's okay.

then he turns back around to see her smiling and waving and so freaking happy that he's there. and yeah :)

─ Girl Dad! Pope Cody x fem! reader || WC: 735

CW: FLUFF. Pope being an emotional & dedicated dad. Daughter is graduating kindergarten & 5 years old. Daughter is unnamed. Daughter has Pope's hair, freckles, & eyes (carbon copy). Reader & Pope are married.

Aww, this is such a cute idea, please. Thank you for the little message Simone bae, thinking about Pope who's a little older now being such a dedicated dad makes me super emotional. I hope you like this little blurb. <3

The little girl is nervous, dark auburn curls pinned in a half-up half down hairstyle per her request. Her lavender dress flows down her small body, cutting off right at her knees in lace trim, a pair of fluffy socks and mary janes adorn on her feet. She remembers when she went on a shopping trip with her mom last week for this particular outfit, beaming the minute she grabbed it off the rack and threw it in the cart with dignified confidence.

It was the youngest Cody's kindergarten graduation, lined up on stage with several other kids for an award she doesn't fully understand she got. Her head turns over the crowd of people in the audience, trying her absolute hardest to find her parents amongst the sea of unfamiliar moving faces. Her brain works overtime to track down the head that shares the same hair as her, to see the familiar scowl that nobody other than her father wears.

She tries so hard, even squints as she tirelessly looks and looks and looks. To no avail, she hasn't seen the faces of her parents, of the people who came to this event with her, the people that would bring the moon and stars closer to Earth just so she could see them better. Before she realizes it, the corner of her eyes begin to sting as tears threaten to pour down her cheeks. She wrings her hands together, the anxiety bubbling in her body making her knees tremble as she swallows a cry, fully convinced her caregivers had disappeared into thin air and forgotten all about her.

She was close to wailing until she heard a familiar voice, the voice of her mother, warm and welcoming as it always was from the second she was born. The 5 year old's wet eyes gravitate towards the noise, finally spotting the face of her father who wore furrowed eyebrows and was halfway from rising from his seat.

"Andrew, you can't." You had one hand on his broad chest in a feeble attempt to calm him down. He only huffed a shaky breath, a growl settling in the back of his throat.

"She's crying up there. She can't see us." Pope mutters sharply, looking at you with worry in his eyes.

"She'll find us. She's a smart girl, she knows Andy. Trust her, okay?"

Andrew eases back down in his seat, focusing on trying to get his daughter's attention. He'd want nothing more than to bring his little miracle into his strong arms where she belongs, to wipe her tears away from her freckled face and tell her everything was going to be alright, that her father was here and had no plans of leaving her behind. But he knew the last thing he needed to do was lash out on such a special occasion.

He bounces his leg a few times, his knuckles turning white from gripping the armrest of his seat too tight, close to splitting the wood when his gaze is mirrored with his twin up on the stage, hazel meeting hazel.

In an instant, the little girl calms down, her frown flipping into a bright smile. Her round cheeks perk up at the sight of her parents at her first graduation, bringing her hand to swipe the remaining tears that ran down her face. She waves at her father then, and he waves back, the corner of his lips flexing upwards and nodding towards her, the love in his eyes consuming the remaining space in that room.

You reach down to squeeze Andrew's hand in reassurance, giving the calloused flesh an affectionate squeeze. His thumb runs over your wedding band, aimlessly playing with the gold as you both watch your baby girl walk the stage once her name was called, bursting in light shouts of claps of acknowledgement that got her attention and widened her toothy smile.

Andrew's eyes refuse to leave his daughter's face until she's sitting down with the rest of her classmates, exhaling in relief, antsy to hear his baby's voice again and hold her once more after all of this was done. But for now, he’ll sit and patiently wait until she’s running up to him, holding her certificate in her hands to show him. And he’ll shower her with all the praise she needs to remind her he’s here to stay, and his heart belongs to her.

©️ ovaryacted 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[willgrahamscock]

why would you ever outsource fun to chatgpt? are you stupid? you can make mediocre shit by yourself too.

[willgrahamscock]

you're missing out on all the crazy euphoric moments where you execute an idea flawlessly, sending it to your friends and feeling the genuine happiness at their reactions to something you made authentically. you're robbing yourself of something beautiful.

and I get it, writers block, artists block, depression can really be terrible, but once you break out of it (and you will) it will feel like climbing Mount Everest.

[willgrahamscock]

peace and love on planet earth! you are saving the environment AND you’re cool!

[aurorawritestoescape]

FOREVER

Frankie Morales x f!reader || 2,5 k

Summary: Frankie takes you out to a fancy restaurant and you think he’s going to propose.

Tw: none, fluff, 1 (one) butt squeeze, kissing, insecure reader, sweet Frankie, love, reader wears makeup and heels, has hair.

A/n: this was written for @jolapeno’s April Showers Challenge (I’m super late). Unfortunately, Jo’s not on tumblr anymore and moved exclusively to AO3 (@jolapeno). I’d like to thank Jo for trying to make this fandom a warm and fun place❤️ It’s extremely sad that tumblr is losing wonderful people left and right these days. All the reasons for leaving are valid— hobbies change, blorbos change, etc, etc, but this place hasn’t been the same recently, it hasn’t felt the same. Please, let’s stop focusing on hate. Life is hard as is, don’t make it harder for others, don’t turn tumblr into another internet cesspool. Stop looking at writers and artists as content machines. Stop using AI to write fics or to finish a fic you love. It’s disrespectful and vile. Anyway, writing this fic gave me comfort. Hope it can bring you some warmth, too💞

Kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing😘 Dividers by @saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST

You are scrutinizing yourself in the mirror, nervously chewing on your lower lip. A strong mixture of excitement and anxiety churns your stomach and you take a deep breath, fighting nausea. You’re going out to dinner soon but how can you eat right now?

Frankie booked a table at a high-end restaurant for the two of you. You love going out with him but it’s mostly to bars or cute little cafes. Nothing fancy. Never fancy.

‘He’s going to do it,’ you think. ‘He’s going to propose. Why else would he choose such a place?’

In the mirror you see your mouth curve into a smile, still nervous but also happy. You’ve been together for some time now and the timing feels right. He feels right. Perfect, actually.

You’ve never been obsessed with the idea of a marriage, never nagged Frankie about putting a ring on your finger, but when he surprised you with that date idea a couple of days ago and you realized that he might propose, a new feeling bloomed in your heart— a strong desire to be Frankie’s wife, to become Mrs Morales. To be officially his.

You’ve been through a lot together and always had each other’s backs. ’For better, for worse, in sickness and in health,’ you’ve been through it all. Feeling mutual support, love and affection, in every glance, every hug, every kiss and every word.

With a strong feeling expanding your heart, you press your palms to your chest and fight away the tears that threaten to ruin your makeup. You want everything to be perfect tonight. For your Frankie.

It’s gloomy outside, silver clouds hanging low over the city. You wish for the rain to start on your way to the restaurant — the sound of water drops drumming against Frankie’s truck always calms you down.

Right now your clothes feel too tight and you’re having a bad hair day though you spent the last hour fixing it. It’s too late to change or to redo your hair anyway so you sigh and drop your hands at the sides in surrender.

”Damn!” you hear Frankie exclaim behind you and turn around.

”Damn indeed,” you echo him when your eyes land on your boyfriend in a suit. A SUIT! You saw him in formal clothing only once, at your friend’s wedding, and even then he only wore a dress shirt and pants, refusing to sweat in ‘a suffocating jacket’ (his words).

Now he’s fully suited up, his favorite cap’s gone, and his hair is gelled, one naughty curl bouncing on his forehead and making you melt.

“You look..,” you both start saying and burst into laughter.

“You’re beautiful, baby,” Frankie beats you to the compliment and walks up to you. He takes your hand and asks you to twirl for him. You sway on your heels and fall into his arms with a giggle but he catches you just in time and holds you close.

“You look very handsome yourself, sir,” you purr clinging to him, revelling in the sensation of his strong body pressed to yours.

“Thanks, but not as delicious as you, my love”

His voice is low and husky at your ear, his chest vibrating with a seductive rumble under your palms. Frankie slides his hands down your back and gives your butt a squeeze while sneaking a kiss to your neck.

“Hands off, Morales. We’ll be late,” you scold him, furrowing your brows, though a soft curve of your lips reveals how much you enjoy his attention.

“Was ’a sir‘ just a minute ago,” he grumbles, following you to the door. “S’gonna rain,” he mumbles, grabbing an umbrella on his way out, and locks the door.

The sky darkens as you’re driving in Frankie’s truck to the restaurant. You roll the window down and take a deep breath of fresh air. As if reading your emotions, Frankie places your hand on his thigh and covers it with his warm palm.

“Are you ok?” His concerned puppy eyes make your heart swell and you nod, comforted by his care. You’re going to say ‘yes’ to the best man in the whole world.

When you arrive and step into the restaurant, the nerves overtake you again with a new force. The interior is beautiful but the atmosphere is intimidating, and you immediately feel out of place among the wealthy-looking guests. The hostess, a beautiful woman that could easily be a model, leads you to your table by the window, and while you’re waiting for the menus, you stare at the little drops of rain appearing on the glass outside. Frankie sees the anxiety in your expression and takes your hand to give it a squeeze.

You lock eyes with him and whisper,

“Let’s just go to a bar, Frankie. I feel like I don’t belong here.”

“Yes, you do. You’re a princess, my love. Please, let me treat you.”

He plants a soft kiss on your hand and his warm honey eyes soothe your nerves and you smile back genuinely.

The waiter comes up to your table, exuding an air of boredom and disgust — another sign that the place is super fancy. You order something you can barely pronounce and try to suppress your giggles, watching Frankie grill the waiter about the dishes and their ingredients with a look of a real foodie.

When he finally makes a choice, the waiter brings something on a plate to your table, and thinking that it’s some kind of an appetizer, you inspect it with a fork. Frankie and you both burst into laughter when it turns out to be a wet towel. A few guests glare at you but as always when you’re with Frankie everyone around blurs into the background and you see only him - your man, your love, the person who can make you laugh even on the hardest days and in the most serious situations.

Before you start eating your criminally overpriced food, Frankie raises his glass of beer that costs like a whole keg, and makes a toast,

“To you, my love.” Your breath hitches. Is he going to do it now?

But Frankie just kisses your hand and takes a sip.

It finally starts raining and you smile, remembering your and Frankie’s first kiss— both hiding from the rain under an umbrella, your bodies close, your eyes locked. “Can I kiss you?” he asked with a shaky voice. He was so shy back then, scared to make the wrong move. You didn’t answer. Instead you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.

The dinner is going great, the food is delicious, the conversation is flowing smoothly, but at the back of your mind you keep thinking about the proposal.

When’s he going to pop the question?

Your heart skips a beat when Frankie suggests getting a dessert. An image from every rom com appears in your mind - a girl finds an engagement ring in a piece of cake, a surprise on her face is soon replaced by tears of happiness when her partner says these four words - ’Will you marry me?’

You choose a cheesecake, not wanting the ring to be all smudged in chocolate or caramel, and squirm in your seat, waiting for the big moment in anticipation. You can’t hold back a happy grin that blooms on your face and Frankie’s wide smile reflects yours when he asks,

“Are you enjoying the evening, my love?”

You hold his hand and lean closer to him, whispering,

“I enjoy every evening with you, Frankie. You shouldn’t have spent so much. The food is amazing, of course, but...”

“No ‘buts’. Wish I could treat you like this every day.. wanna give you everything…want you to be happy.”

Frankie’s voice quivers as he looks down at your intertwined hands, and his sincerity makes your heart flutter.

“I am happy, honey,” you press his hand to your chest and hold it there, “You make me happy.”

Frankie’s eyes are glossy as he looks up at you and you know yours are welling up with tears, too, turning his handsome face into a blurry shape that leans closer and kisses you.

Your cheesecake arrives and Frankie seems excited. With a shaky hand you pick up a dessert spoon and dig in. You carefully put a piece in your mouth and let it melt on your tongue. Swallowing a ring and going to the ER would definitely ruin Frankie’s surprise.

“So? How is it?”

Your face falls when you feel nothing else in your mouth except the soft texture of the dessert.

Frankie’s eyes mimic your disappointment and you hurry to reassure him.

“No, no, it’s great. Just… tastes weird.”

“Oh,” Frankie furrows his brows. “Can I try?”

He opens his mouth like a baby bird and slightly leans forward, waiting for you to feed him a spoon.

”You want some? Really?” you ask, not hiding the confusion in your voice.

“Why not? Is it so good that you don’t wanna share?“ he chuckles but your expression remains confused.

“I do, but…”

Isn’t he afraid to find the ring himself?

You’re blinking at him for a few seconds but when he opens his mouth again and raises his eyebrows with an expectation, you shrug and bring a spoonful of cake to his lips.

He eats the piece and hums approvingly at the taste.

“‘s good,” he mumbles, still chewing, “tastes normal to me. But if you don’t like it, we can switch.” He nods at his chocolate cake in front of him.

“No, it’s ok.”

You eat some more— nothing, you stab your spoon into the piece again and again, here and there, half listening to Frankie, but don’t find anything hard inside the dessert.

“You ok, baby?” Frankie asks, when you miss his joke, and you fake a smile, saying a quiet ’yeah’.

When your plates and glasses are empty, your ring finger is naked, you’re feeling blue.

While Frankie’s paying for the dinner, you’re starting out of the window. It’s dark outside but the raindrops falling from the sky look like little white flies in the golden light of the street lamps. The rain, so comforting and heartwarming before, now brings you no joy. It feels like the weather is mocking you — Why aren’t you crying? The man you love doesn’t want you as his wife. He’s perfect and you are… you. Why have you even expected it?

You hate these thoughts that are ripping at your ego, but it’s so hard to push them away when all you feel is disappointment. You don’t have a right to be upset, Frankie never promised you anything. Your made up fantasy of a beautiful proposal was just that. A fantasy.

You leave the restaurant and take a deep breath of wet air, telling yourself to let the tears spill only in the comfort of your home, hopefully away from Frankie. He doesn’t need to see them.

He's right behind you, fumbling with the umbrella.

“Wait, baby..”

“No, it’s ok. I’ll walk. The car isn’t far,” you reassure him with a wave of your hand and step into the rain. The cold drops on your exposed skin slowly ease your restless mind, shifting your attention from the ruined fantasy to the reality. After walking a few feet, you stop and look up at the dark sky.

‘So what if Frankie hasn’t proposed?’ you tell yourself. ’He didn’t break up with you. You’ve had a wonderful time and now you’re going home, a place you share with the person you love the most, the person who loves you, you know it.’

A soft smile appears on your lips and you’re about to turn to Frankie but he beats you to it. His chest presses to your back, his strong arm wraps around your waist.

“I love you,” he whispers and plants a kiss on your neck. You hold his arm closer and rest your head on his broad shoulder, your gaze still set on the sky above.

Suddenly, the darkness over you disappears and an umbrella replaces it.

What…?

You gasp seeing pink leaves rain on your face and your body, falling from the umbrella. You catch one in your hand and realize it’s a rose petal. You look around and see dozens of them, covering the asphalt at your feet, a few on your head and your shoulders.

You turn to Frankie with widened eyes, your mouth agape. He’s still holding the magic umbrella over your head, a warm smile on his face, a few petals resting on his suit jacket.

“What’s all this, Frankie? It’s beautiful!l” You exclaim and look down at the rose carpet at your feet.

“I love you, baby,” he repeats, “so much.. Hold it for me, please.” He passes you the umbrella and kneels down on the wet pavement in front of you.

Your jaw drops and you grip the handle with shaky hands as he pulls a red velvet box out of his pocket and opens it.

A diamond ring sits pretty on a little cushion but you only glance at it. Your eyes are focused on Frankie, his trembling lower lip, his glossy eyes looking up at you, his expression full of affection and hope.

“Will you marry me, my love?”

A little sob falls from your lips, immediately followed by a high-pitched ‘yes’, as you’re eagerly nodding.

Frankie’s happy smile can light up the whole world as he takes your free hand and puts the ring on your finger. When he gets up, his pant leg is wet, a few rose petals are sticking to it, but none of you cares. He takes the umbrella from you and you throw your hands around his neck, crying.

“Oh, baby, don’t cry… or I’ll start, too.”

You part from his now wet collar and see tears in his beautiful honey eyes. Overwhelmed with joy and love you place your hands on his scruffy cheeks and say,

“I love you, too, and I promise to always be there for you, to love you forever.“

You seal your vows with a passionate kiss, rain drumming against the umbrella, and when you part to take a breath, Frankie hugs you tightly.

“I wanted to propose at the restaurant but when we got there …it didn’t feel like us.”

“So…The magic umbrella was plan B?”

“Yeah,” Frankie chuckles and you beam at him.

“It’s the best proposal, Frankie!”

“I hoped you’d like it. Do you remember our first kiss? Under the rain, sharing an umbrella...”

You nod and tears flow heavier down your cheeks when you hear his words. “Of course, I remember.”

Your lips meet again and you hold each other close, forever united by your love, the rain as your witness.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @thedilfdiaries @pascaltesaye @fruityreads @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name @tateypots

Tagging some people who were interested in the WIP post (no pressure to read bbs) @sawymredfox @wethairjoel @604to647

[harriedandharassed]

Such a sweet twist at the end!!

[aurorawritestoescape]

Aww I’m glad you liked the ending!🥰❤️ Thank you for reading!🌺🌺🌺