Do you remember when was the last time you had hands? For sure not, it's been years since the last time you saw anything other then fluffy paws to groom and sharp claws. You still remember tho, that one cursed spiral eye, the one who started your new journey.
You do remember the little kid with green hair, jumping in glowing tiles and following a tiny shimmering butterfly inside a dark alley. Everything after that was blurry.
"Miss paws, where are you!" The childish and playful voice woke you from your own little head, soon the same green hair from your memories arrived with a smile, quick in her steps to scoop the black cat in her arms. "There is a witch here! A true witch! With true magic! You NEED to see him!"
She talked while the you got comfortable in her embrace.
'Oh dear, is it who I think it is?' you thought for yourself.
Eventually Coco left the tiny atelier, arriving where the witch had hidden.
"Look, he is inside there. He's fixing the costumer's chariot that one of the boys broke.. but isn't it so cool? There is an actual witch here!" The girl was so happy that she squished the poor cat in her arms, hugging her harder while giggling to herself.
"meoow!" You protested for your poor bones being crushed by Coco, she quickly released you on the ground. "I'm sorry, Miss paws, I got carried away, hehe!" She apologized while petting her.
'Is is finally time? Oh my poor girl, you have no idea what is coming for you.. if only I could protect you..' The feline lamented, you were scared for this day, scared to change how things would come, what if you change things for the worst?! What if the brimmed hats get their hands on Coco because you were close? You were scared.
"Oh, Coco, it's you." The door opened just to reveal clean white hair and blue intoxicating eyes behind a calm and composed face. "And who is this?"
"This is Miss paws! My cat! I brought her to see a true witch for the first time, too!" Coco said with proud while holding your front paws, making you stand in only your back ones. You watched carefully the man with careful and gloomy eyes, before meowing at him and lashing your tail back and forth, your own way of greeting Coco's future caretaker.
'He sure is as beautiful as the arts showed.. do witch's have special face products? There isn't a single spot in his face.' You analyzed him with care, not holding yourself and your hobby for beauty while judging him.
Maybe you liked self care in your past life? Who knows..
"It's nice to meet you, Miss paws." He greeted holding one of your paws and pretending to shake it. Coco smiled happily. "I'm qifrey, a true witch that is here to help fix some things." He played.
He straightened himself, changing his attention to the girl instead. "Coco, could I ask you something?"
Besides the task given to Coco, you were granted the privilege to go as you pleased inside the hut with qifrey, and so you did. While Coco was outside sitting in front of the door, you were inside. After all, what problems could a cat do? It's not like you can talk and reveal the truth about magic anyways. So you watched carefully while qifrey sorted his materials to start working on the drawing.
You watched with attention, from the moment he picked up his pen and started working on the circle first.
You just failed to notice the way qifrey stopped momentarily to watch you with careful eyes.
He felt something strange coming from you, you looked too sentient for a normal cat, he knew something was wrong the moment his eyes landed on you a while back, he could feel the weird energy around you, like you didn't fit who you were.
Deep in his mind, he wondered if you were really just a cat, he remembered how Coco talked about the first witch she saw long ago. Maybe there is something he doesn't know? Or just didn't understand yet.
Some time passed, you were able to hear the exact moment Coco saw the truth behind magic, you had heard her careful footsteps with your cat ears, shifting in your position and drawing qifteys attention to yourself, preventing Coco from getting caught, even if you knew she was not going to.
Qifrey worked on the last line before releasing a sigh.
"Finally, it's done, good as new to fly again." He talked carefully, like he was talking to you, which dragged your attention to him.
You meowed to him, watching him back.
He kept his eyes on you, his face more serious for a moment, he took his time to analyze you and your reactions. You, in return, just looked back at him with big green eyes, with a stare as deep as his.
He swore he could see hope in your eyes as you watched him back.
"Are you truly... A cat?" He whispered more to himself, but loud enough that you could hear clearly, you just blinked in return.
He sighed again, breaking the eye contact and starting to pack his things.
'Did he noticed?' you questioned yourself while still watching him take away his pen and ink. Soon after qifrey opened the hut door, being faced by Coco, who stared at the door with a face of someone deep in thoughts. You left before they finished talking, deciding to pass the most time you could with Coco's mom before she... Well.
You arrived quickly at her side, rubbing against her legs to draw her attention to you.
"Oh, hello there, paws." She recognized you, picking you up on her arms and brushing that spot in the back of your ears that makes you melt every time.
'Not that I'm a true cat, but after years, how could one not enjoy this kind of attention?' you reasoned with your human morals that way, enjoying the pets.
Coco and qiftey soon arrived, Coco skipping to her mother's side, holding qifrey's belongings while he tested the chariot.
"Are you alright? I thought you wanted to see the winged chariot." The woman asked, stoping to pet you for a moment. "It's so rare for you not to get all excited when it comes to magic."
Coco looked away with a sad and confused face. Only changing it when qifrey arrived asking if she was alright, she answered shoving his things on him and hiding behind her mother.
You sighed internally, watching the hole scene unfold. 'I wish I could help in some way..' you have thought about trying to save the woman, but despite how much is hurts, you are still scared to do something that would change Coco's destiny for the worst in the future. So the only thing you did was watch her mother with found and sad eyes, purring in her hold and enjoying her presence while you could. You have always felt like she was your own mother, after she and Coco adopted you.
"Goodbye, may our paths cross again." Qifrey said as he left, his silluet fading in the distance slowly, making you leave your own mind to reality again. You felt the woman holding you leave a sigh, relieved. But you didn't paid attention to her. Focusing on the witch that would soon return. Only after he was only a dot in the distance and when Coco's mom turned to leave your eyes left his back.
She dropped you on the ground again, but you followed after her closely, meowing to draw her attention again.
"And what about you? What got you so clingy today, kitty?" She questioned the black cat following her steps, entering her shop again with an idea.
You watched as she got a piece of fabric and started folding it weirdly, passing it around her body like a second shirt. After finishing, she scooped you up again and started tucking you inside the fabric like in a kangaroo pouch, except it holds you right on her chest, where you could hear her heart beating slowly.
'She is holding me like a baby, maybe she used to do this with Coco?' you started the machine inside you again, purring loudly against her chest happily, enjoying every last second you would have with her by your side.
After finishing, she returns to her duty on the store, attending to costumers while you slept the hole evening being hold by her, in a way that made you feel like you belonged there more than anything.
This would be your last memory with her, and you would cherish it forever, until the day she is set free from the crystal comes.
Until the day you finally regain your memories.
Until the day you recognize who you truly are.
English not my first language, I'm also not sure about the translation of some terms so correct me if I get something wrong. Until next time!
Pairings: Alpha!Robby x Omega!Reader, Alpha!Jack x Omega!Reader
When your shitty ex alphahole boyfriend tracks you down across the country, Jack and Robby take it upon themselves to take care of you. And him.
Warnings for this series: Robby and Jack may be a little darker than you're used to, it comes with the omegaverse territory in this one. Obviously, omegaverse dynamics. Normal Pitt canon stuff. Medical inaccuracies. discussions of abuse, assault, etc. No smut. At least there's none in the outline. I lied. There's totally smut. I'm not sure it's good smut but eh. I'm sure there's more but that's most of it.
It's just like how our hearts race when we fall in love with someone or when we hear our favorite song. Tenblank, we only create the sound of love.
🥁 GLASS HEART (2025)
synopsis: A Marriage Law was the last thing you expected to dictate your future, let alone shackle you to Park Jongseong. A pureblood heir, painfully composed, infuriatingly good at everything, and—unfortunately—now your husband.
What starts as reluctant cohabitation, filled with awkward silences and sharp words, slowly unravels into something neither of you can ignore. Stolen glances, fleeting touches, and the illusion of normalcy turn into a dangerous game neither of you meant to play. Is it all for show? Or has the line between pretend and real already disappeared?
But love alone isn’t enough to erase the past—or the law that forced you together. As the Ministry looms over your every move, and whispers of rebellion grow louder, you and Jay must decide: fight the law, or fight for each other.
wc: around 20.5K
warnings: Marriage Law AU, Harry Potter AU, forced marriage, government control, slow burn, forced proximity, awkward domesticity, enemies to lovers, bickering, rivalry, mutual annoyance, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, doubt, insecurities, fear of the future, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, sexual tension, intense intimacy, fear of love, conflicted feelings, vulnerability, mentions of pregnancy, future parenthood, domesticity, soft Jay, pining, repressed feelings, denial, yearning, lingering touches, stolen glances, smut, sexual content, F! receiving.
A/N: PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU GUYS THINK I'D REALLY APPRECIATE THE FEEDBACK!!!!!
You woke to the sharp tap, tap, tap against your window, the early morning light bleeding through the tattered curtains of your London flat. Sleep still clung to your body, but the incessant tapping forced you upright, rubbing the remnants of last night’s exhaustion from your eyes. You recognized the Ministry’s wax seal before your fingers even touched the envelope. Your stomach dropped.
It was here.
The letter you had been dreading for months. The whispers of the Marriage Law had been circulating for nearly a year, rumors passed between hushed conversations at pubs, in hidden corners of Diagon Alley, and among former classmates who refused to believe that the government could enforce such a thing. But deep down, you had known it was only a matter of time. The Ministry had already been heading in this direction for years, pushing for more control under the guise of restoration.
With a deep breath, you slid your nail under the seal, breaking it with a snap. The parchment unfurled in your hands, the ink dark against the crisp paper.
Dear Miss Y/N,
By decree of the Magical Unity Act, you have been assigned a partner as part of the Ministry’s initiative to preserve and strengthen magical bloodlines.
Your assigned match: Park Jongseong. Pureblood.
You are required to present yourself at the Ministry within 48 hours for the formalization of your union. Failure to comply will result in consequences deemed necessary by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We trust you will uphold your duty to preserve our magical world.
Sincerely,
Matilda Greengrass
Head of the Magical Unity Office
Park Jongseong. Of all the people in the world, it had to be him.
You weren’t sure what to think. You had never hated Jongseong—not really. He had always been there in the background, a constant presence in your classes, a name that lingered on the top of exam scores just above yours. He was the type of person who excelled quietly, never rubbing his victories in your face, but still managing to be infuriating simply by existing. You had no idea what he thought of you. If he had any feelings about your academic rivalry, he had never shown it.
And now, he was going to be your husband.
You hadn’t even processed the letter properly before you found yourself in a booth at The Leaky Cauldron, sitting across from Riki. You had sent an urgent owl the moment you had read the letter, needing to talk to someone—anyone—who might understand.
Riki was younger than you by only a couple of years, but you had always seen him as something of a younger brother—mischievous, quick-witted, and annoyingly perceptive when it came to your emotions. He was the kind of friend who teased you relentlessly but would hex anyone who dared to cross you. If there was anyone you could turn to in a moment like this, it was him.
“You got him?” Riki’s eyebrows shot up when you showed him the parchment. “That’s...sure, yeah.”
You groaned, letting your head fall into your hands. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Well, I mean—it could be worse, " Riki shrugged, taking a sip of his Butterbeer, “He’s not, like, awful. He’s just...Jongseong. A bit awkward, not much of a talker, but not the worst person to be tied to for life.”
You groaned again. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”
He grinned. “A little,”
You shook your head, trying to focus. “I don’t even know how I’m going to tell my parents. They’re barely involved in my life as it is, and now I have to explain to them that I’ve been legally bound to someone they don’t even know?”
Riki’s face softened. He knew how complicated your relationship with your parents was—how they had never truly accepted the magical world, even after you got your Hogwarts letter. “You don’t have to tell them right away,” he said gently. “Focus on getting through this first.”
The Ministry of Magic smelled like ink, parchment, and old magic. The weight of history pressed down upon you as you walked through its grand halls, flanked by Aurors ensuring that every witch and wizard assigned under the Magical Unity Act appeared for their mandated marriage registrations. The building was colder than you remembered, or maybe it was the weight of what was about to happen that made you shiver.
Jongseong was already waiting when you arrived, standing stiffly in the corridor outside the registration chamber. His posture was impeccable, shoulders squared, his hands buried in the pockets of his finely tailored robes. The deep green fabric complimented his sharp features, accentuating the strong lines of his jaw and the dark intensity of his eyes. There was always something enigmatic about Jongseong—he was the type of person who carried an air of quiet authority, a man who never wasted unnecessary words. He rarely let his emotions show, but now, even beneath his composed expression, you could see the subtle signs of tension—the way his fingers tapped idly against the parchment he held, the way his lips pressed together a little too firmly.
You swallowed hard, gripping your own letter tightly. His eyes flickered toward you, assessing.
“Y/N.” His voice was steady, but there was something unreadable beneath it. He gave you a small nod, nothing overly familiar, yet not entirely cold.
The Ministry official cleared his throat, pulling you both out of the awkward moment.
”Park Jongseong and Y/N L/N,” he announced, his voice devoid of emotion, as if he had done this a hundred times before. He motioned toward the chamber doors. “Step inside. We will begin the legal binding process.”
Your breath hitched as you stepped forward, feeling the heat of Jongseong’s presence beside you.
The chamber was larger than you had expected, with high ceilings adorned with ancient runes glowing faintly in the dim light. At the center of the room stood a grand mahogany desk, where stacks of parchment were neatly arranged. Hovering above it was a blood-binding quill, pulsing faintly, attuned to the magic that would soon seal your fates.
“Please, be seated.”
You and Jongseong sat across from each other, the tension between you thick, though neither of you acknowledged it. The official took his place behind the desk, flipping open a massive leather-bound ledger.
“Before we proceed, it is my duty to inform you of the terms and expectations set forth by the Ministry under the Magical Unity Act. This marriage is legally binding under magical law, and both parties are required to uphold their roles as husband and wife.”
Your stomach twisted. You knew this was coming, but hearing it laid out so plainly made it harder to ignore.
“First, you will be required to cohabitate within the next twenty-four hours. The Ministry has provided accommodations, though should you choose to relocate, you must inform the Department of Magical Law Enforcement within seven days.”
Jongseong’s fingers drummed lightly against the desk, his gaze unreadable. He was listening carefully, though he gave nothing away.
“Second,” the official continued, flipping to another section of the document, “you will be required to consummate the marriage within one year. This will be monitored magically, and failure to do so may result in penalties.”
Your breath caught. You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, but you couldn’t help the way your fingers curled slightly against your lap.
Jongseong’s face remained calm, though you thought you saw the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw.
“Third,” the official continued, “as part of the act’s goal to maintain the magical bloodline, you are expected to conceive a child within two years. Failure to comply will result in further legal interventions. Exceptions will only be granted under rare circumstances, such as medically confirmed infertility.”
You exhaled slowly, heart pounding. This was the part that had haunted you the most. It wasn’t just about being forced into marriage—it was about being forced to give up control over the future you had always imagined for yourself.
You had wanted children, eventually. You had imagined raising them in a world where they could make choices freely, where they could love and marry without being told when and how. But now, that dream had been reduced to a cold deadline set by the Ministry.
Jongseong finally spoke. “What are our rights in terms of autonomy?” His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it.
The official barely looked up. “You are granted limited autonomy. While you may maintain employment and personal activities, your primary duty remains fulfilling the obligations of the act. Any attempt to break the contract is considered an act of defiance against the Ministry.”
Jongseong gave a slow nod, as if he had expected that answer but wanted it spoken aloud regardless. The official placed two scrolls of parchment in front of you, followed by the hovering blood-binding quill.
“By signing this document, you are agreeing to all conditions and responsibilities dictated by the Magical Unity Act. Once signed, the bond is sealed permanently under wizarding law. Any attempts to nullify it without Ministry approval will result in severe consequences.”
Jongseong’s eyes met yours then, and for the first time, there was something there—a quiet understanding, a shared reluctance. Neither of you wanted this. But there was no choice.
With a deep breath, you reached for the quill. The moment your fingers touched it, a sharp, warm sensation prickled against your skin, and the magic within it stirred in response. You watched as your name etched itself onto the parchment in deep crimson ink.
Across from you, Jongseong did the same.
The moment his signature was completed, the parchment glowed gold, sealing the contract. A faint hum of magic filled the air as the binding took effect.
It was done. You were married.
The official gave a brisk nod, gathering the signed documents. “The bond is sealed. You are now husband and wife under magical law.” He closed the ledger with a dull thud before standing. “Congratulations.”
The word felt hollow.
The moment you stepped into the apartment the Ministry had assigned, the full weight of your situation slammed into you. This wasn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare anymore. It was real. It was your life.
The space was larger than you expected, a sleek, magically expanded flat that felt caught between two worlds—modern and traditional, functional and intimate, impersonal yet unsettlingly designed for romance. It was clear that whoever had designed these living quarters had done so with the idea of a happily married couple in mind.
The open-concept living space had softly enchanted lighting, walls painted in neutral, calming tones that could be adjusted to fit the residents' “mood.” A fireplace sat in the center of the lounge, with a plush sofa curved just enough to suggest cozy nights spent tangled together. The kitchen was fully stocked, fitted with both Muggle and magical appliances, making it impossible to avoid the domestic intimacy the Ministry seemed so determined to impose.
Two bedrooms were set at opposite ends of the flat, though one was clearly meant to be temporary. The master bedroom, which you tried to ignore, was the worst of it. The king-sized bed was too large, too luxurious, the silk sheets far too inviting. The enchanted wardrobes had already been merged, both your belongings stored together, blending lives you hadn’t chosen to entwine.
Even the bathroom was designed for two people meant to share everything. The tub was massive, the type built for indulgent baths, fitted with potion-infused oils meant to relax muscles—meant to encourage closeness. The sinks, the mirrors, the counter space—everything was structured with a life of intimacy in mind.
Jongseong was standing stiffly just inside the doorway, his hands still shoved into the pockets of his dark robes. He looked as out of place as you felt. His eyes flickered over the surroundings, lingering on the details, his expression betraying nothing.
“Well,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “This is… something.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah.”
An awkward pause stretched between you. Neither of you moved.
You cleared your throat. “So… Do you want to set some ground rules?”
Jongseong finally looked at you, his head tilting slightly. “Ground rules?”
You shifted uncomfortably. “For… coexisting.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but it disappeared just as quickly. “Fair enough.” He nodded toward the hallway. “You can take the bedroom on the left.”
You hesitated. “The Ministry expects us to share one eventually.”
His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained calm. “We don’t have to rush into that.”
You let out a breath of relief. “Good.”
Another silence settled. This was going to be excruciating.
You thought the first night would be easier because you had separate rooms. It wasn’t.
The walls were too thin. Every tiny shift, every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the bed linens as one of you turned over—it was impossible to forget that you weren’t alone. That there was someone else here, just a few steps away, existing in the same space, adjusting to the same forced reality.
You lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, feeling every inch of the strangeness that had settled into your life. The silence of the apartment was deafening. Somewhere beyond your door, Jongseong was doing the same. Not sleeping. Not moving. Just existing in this same, uncomfortable limbo.
You weren’t sure how long you lay there before you heard it—
A soft, almost hesitant knock on your door.
You sat up immediately, heart stammering in your chest. “…Yeah?”
You moved toward the coffee pot, pretending not to notice how he was gripping his quill a little too tightly. The sight of him already reading the regulations booklet made your stomach twist. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know what new absurdities the Ministry had included.
“What’s that?” you asked warily.
Jongseong turned the booklet toward you so you could see the bold title stamped on the front.
A Guide to Magical Marital Expectations: Understanding the Unity Act.
You stared at him. “You’re actually reading that?”
He shrugged, flipping to the next page. “Figured it might be useful to know what we’re legally bound to.”
You sighed, sinking into the chair across from him. “And? What’s in it?”
Jongseong skimmed a few lines before speaking. “Mostly just reinforcing what we were already told. Cohabitation, marital duties, legal ramifications if we break the contract.” He hesitated, his fingers pausing on the page. His jaw tensed slightly, and that was when you knew whatever he had just read wasn’t going to be pleasant.
A beat of silence.
Bravely, you cleared your throat. “What else are you working on?”
Jongseong’s eyes flickered up briefly before he tapped the page with his quill. “Just organizing my work schedule. Trying to figure out how to balance—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “All of this.”
Right. Work. You hadn’t even thought about how this new life would affect your schedules. You needed to figure out yours, his, how to exist in this space without stepping on each other’s toes.
“I have a morning shift at Flourish and Blotts starting tomorrow,” you said after a pause. “And I have an evening class twice a week.”
Jongseong nodded slowly. “I start work at the Ministry at eight every morning. Sometimes later, depending on meetings. But I’m usually back by seven.”
You absorbed that. That meant you’d have the mornings mostly to yourself, but the evenings… “So we’ll see each other mostly at night.”
“Yeah.” His expression didn’t change, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. Maybe he was just as wary of that realization as you were.
You stirred your coffee absentmindedly. “And, uh… weekends?”
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t usually work on weekends, but I study. And sometimes I meet up with friends.”
Right. Friends. You almost forgot that, despite everything, he had a life outside of this.
That thought stuck with you longer than it should have. Maybe because you were realizing that your life, your freedom, had been traded in for something else. For something you didn’t get to choose.
“Oh,” he said flatly. “Also.” He looked up at you, his dark eyes unreadable. “The shared bed rule.”
You grimaced. “I was hoping they’d forgotten about that part.”
Jongseong sighed, setting the booklet down with more force than necessary. “Unfortunately, the Ministry doesn’t forget anything.”
The booklet sat between you on the table, the pages filled with carefully worded regulations, all designed to ensure that the couples formed under the Magical Unity Act fulfilled their “duties.” The words seemed too sharp, too final, as if they carried an unspoken command beneath them.
Your fingers curled around the edge of your mug as you read the clause for yourself.
Clause 7.3 - Marital CohabitationIn order to promote a natural and successful union, married partners must reside within a shared living space and engage in consistent physical proximity.
It is required that both parties sleep within the same quarters by the third month of marriage.
Noncompliance will result in Ministry intervention.
You exhaled sharply, closing your eyes for a moment. “They’re really monitoring everything.”
Jongseong tapped his fingers against the table, his expression carefully neutral. “We have three months to figure that part out.”
You rubbed your temples. “Three months is… not a lot of time.”
He looked at you for a long moment before setting the booklet aside. “We’ll deal with it when we have to.”
And for some reason, that stuck with you.
Jongseong—or Jay, as his closest friends called him—was totally unamused by his morning conversation.
He sat at his desk in the Ministry, flipping through paperwork as Jake lounged against the opposite desk, watching him with a knowing look. The blond Auror had a casual ease about him, one leg stretched out, a quill spinning between his fingers as he regarded Jay with mild amusement.
“So,” Jake finally said, dragging out the word. “How’s married life?”
Jay didn’t look up. “It’s fine.”
His friend snorted, adjusting his robes as he leaned in. “Oh, come on. I know you better than that.”
Jay set his quill down with a sigh. “What do you want me to say?”
Jake tilted his head, considering. “I don’t know. That she’s unbearable? That she’s the love of your life? That you’ve realized you actually have a thing for arranged marriages?”
Unamused, Jay shot him a flat look. “None of the above.”
But the blond was relentless, he leaned forward, arms resting on the desk. “So, what? You guys are just awkwardly existing in the same space?”
Jay hesitated, fingers tapping against the parchment in front of him. “…Something like that.”
“Is she at least decent company?”
Jay exhaled, stretching his arms before finally looking up. “She’s normal. It’s awkward. We’re trying to figure out how to coexist without making it worse.”
“Makes sense. I mean, you didn’t exactly get a say in this. Neither of you did.”
Jay appreciated that Jake wasn’t trying to force humor into the situation, not like their other friends probably would. Jake had a way of knowing when to joke and when to actually listen, which was why he was one of the few people Jay actually talked to about things that mattered.
the Australian smirked. “Alright, I’ll leave it alone. But tell me one thing.”
Jay raised an eyebrow. “What?”
The blond's grin was slow and knowing. “Do you find her attractive?”
Jay’s hand froze mid-page turn.
Jake caught it immediately. “Ohhh. That’s interesting.”
rolling his eyes, setting the file aside a little too forcefully, the married man in question responds. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Jay pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable.”
Jake laughed, standing up and stretching. “Well, I’d say welcome to married life, but…” He gave his friend a mockingly sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve already figured out it’s a mess.”
Jay shoved his hand away. “Get out of my office.”
“See you at lunch, hubby.”
Jay groaned as Jake walked away, already regretting every life decision that had led to this conversation.
Jongseong was a morning person. You learned that quickly.
He was always the first to wake up, moving around the apartment with an effortless ease that was frankly annoying to someone like you, who preferred to cling to sleep for as long as possible. You often woke to the sound of the shower running, the smell of coffee brewing, and the faint rustling of parchment as he read through Ministry documents while waiting for breakfast.
This morning was no different a few weeks later.
By the time you groggily dragged yourself out of bed, Jongseong was already fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, a towel slung low around his waist. His toned chest and broad shoulders glowed slightly in the morning light, water droplets still clinging to his skin as he casually walked toward his dresser, seemingly unaware—or unbothered—by your presence.
You immediately averted your eyes, heart stammering in your chest. But you could still feel him, still sense the heat radiating off his skin, and the way the air seemed thicker in his presence.
“Morning,” he greeted smoothly, voice still slightly hoarse from sleep.
Your throat felt impossibly dry. “Yeah. Morning.”
He smirked slightly, as if noticing your discomfort, and continued dressing—slowly. The deliberate way he pulled his shirt over his head before taking it off again, deciding he wanted a different one, the flex of his muscles, the way he pushed his damp hair back… it was infuriatingly distracting.
You turned toward the kitchen in desperation, fingers gripping the edge of the counter as you tried to steady yourself. You were not going to be affected by this.
But then he walked past you, his bare arm brushing against yours, the heat of his skin searing through the fabric of your sleeve. You felt the breath hitch in your throat, a sudden rush of awareness sparking along your spine.
You had just taken your first sip of coffee, finally feeling somewhat human, when a loud knock echoed through the apartment. You and Jongseong exchanged a glance.
“Expecting someone?” you asked.
He sighed, setting his mug down. “No. But I have a bad feeling about it.”
The moment Jongseong opened the door, a tall, severe-looking woman in a charcoal robe strode in without invitation. She introduced herself as Ms. Alderton, her expression a mixture of polite authority and thinly veiled scrutiny.
“We’re conducting routine compliance inspections under the Magical Unity Act,” she said, flipping through her clipboard. “It’s a simple process, really. Just verifying that the two of you are… adjusting well to married life.”
Your stomach dropped.
Jongseong had not finished dressing.
He was still only wearing a towel around his waist.
You saw the exact moment Ms. Alderton’s eyes flickered downward—not in a scandalized way, but in a very obvious assessment of the situation.
“Oh.” She blinked, arching an eyebrow. “I see I’ve caught you at a… private moment.”
Jongseong’s entire body tensed. You scrambled to grab his shirt off the chair and shove it at him.
“Right, um, we weren’t expecting company,” you said quickly, willing your face not to burn.
Jongseong took the shirt, clearing his throat as he pulled it on, but not before you saw the way his abs tightened under the scrutiny, the way his fingers twitched as he buttoned his shirt with forced composure.
Ms. Alderton hummed, clearly unimpressed. She began the inspection, moving through the apartment with cold efficiency.
She examined your living quarters, asked too many questions about how often you and Jay were together in the same space, and, of course, dropped the expected question:
“And how are you finding the transition into… intimacy?”
You nearly choked on your tea.
Jongseong, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “We’re taking our time with that,” he said evenly. “As I’m sure the Ministry is aware, not all couples move at the same pace.”
Ms. Alderton gave him a knowing look, scribbling something onto her parchment. “Well, as you both know, there are expectations to be met. We’ll check in again soon.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving the weight of her unspoken warnings hanging in the air.
You let out a long breath, still feeling the residual heat of the morning’s tension clinging to your skin.
At work, Jongseong barely had time to sit at his desk before Jake was on him.
“Alright, listen, I’ve been patient, but you’re dodging, man,” the blond Auror said, plopping down in the chair across from Jay’s desk. “We need to meet her.”
Jay sighed, rubbing his temple. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”
Jake gave him a pointed look. “You’ve been married for weeks and we haven’t even met your wife. Sunghoon’s convinced you made her up.”
“We’re fine. We’re adjusting. That’s all you need to know.”
Jake smirked. “See, the more you say it’s fine, the less I believe it.”
“You’re impossible.”
Jake shrugged. “That’s why you love me. So, what do you say? A small get-together. Nothing crazy.”
Jay sighed again, but this time, he hesitated. He knew the Blond wouldn’t let this go.
“I’ll… think about it.”
When Jay got home that evening, you could immediately tell something was on his mind.
“What is it?” you asked, watching as he loosened his tie.
“Jake keeps pushing for us to meet up with him and the guys,” Jay admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I told him we were fine, but he wasn’t buying it.”
You thought about it for a moment before shrugging. “Maybe we should.”
Jay raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
You nodded. “I mean, we’re supposed to be building a life together, right? It might help to actually know the people in it. And… if something ever happens, it’d be good to have them as a support system.”
Jay studied you for a moment, then sighed. “Alright. But there’s an issue,” You arched your brow in response, “ They think we’re like them, you know, more settled into our married life”
“Ah, I see.”
He chuckled dryly, “And I haven’t had the chance to correct them.”
And that was how you found yourself getting ready to put on a show.
You weren’t sure why you felt so on edge. It was just a night out with his friends—people who, by all accounts, had no real expectations of you beyond existing at Jongseong’s side. But still, as you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your outfit for what felt like the tenth time, something in your chest felt tight.
Jongseong passed by behind you, fastening the cuff of his crisp, navy button-up. The color complemented his complexion unfairly well, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his forearms, just casual enough to look effortless.
His reflection met yours in the mirror. “Are you ready yet?” he asked, smoothing a hand through his hair.
You exhaled through your nose. “You act like getting ready is as simple as putting on a shirt.”
He smirked. “It is, actually.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t push it. Instead, you turned slightly, watching as he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing just the faintest sliver of his collarbone. It wasn’t intentional, but it made something stir deep in your stomach.
The silence stretched between you as you turned back toward the mirror. He lingered behind you, close enough that the warmth of his body made the air feel heavier.
His voice came softer this time. “You look fine.”
Fine. Not breathtaking, not beautiful—just fine.
You scoffed lightly, shaking your head. “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”
Jongseong’s gaze flickered over you, his brows drawing together slightly like he wanted to say something else but thought better of it. Instead, he just let out a short exhale and reached for his wand. “Let’s go before Jake tracks me down and drags us there himself.”
As he stepped closer, brushing past you to grab his jacket, your breath caught in your throat. The scent of his cologne—clean, warm, just faintly spiced—wrapped around you before you could react. Your skin prickled as he leaned past you, his fingers grazing the dresser beside you.
You didn’t move until he pulled back, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with practiced ease. Jongseong glanced at you once more, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, before he disappeared into the Floo Network.
You stepped into the Floo Network, watching as Jongseong disappeared in a swirl of green flames before following suit. The familiar tug of magic sent you tumbling through the space between, and in the next moment, you landed just behind him in the bustling pub.
The scent of warm ale, roasted meat, and burning firewood wrapped around you, the low murmur of conversation filling the air. The pub was lively but not overly packed—just busy enough to feel comfortably distracting.
Jongseong placed a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. His touch was light, but it lingered, a silent reminder that this was part of the act.
Jake spotted you first, grinning. “There they are!” He leaned back in his chair, tilting his glass toward you both. “The happy couple.”
You tried not to stiffen at the word. Happy. That was the goal, right?
Jongseong slipped into the role easily, his arm around your waist a little firmer now. “You make it sound like we’ve been in hiding.”
Jake clapped him on the back as everyone scooted over to make space. “Well, you have! We needed proof you didn’t just run away.”
The conversation flowed smoothly, the group’s laughter blending into the warm, buzzing atmosphere. But you couldn’t help noticing the way Jongseong’s hand lingered on your waist, the way his thumb traced lazy circles over the fabric of your dress. It was subtle—just enough to be convincing, just enough to make your pulse jump.
Sunghoon smirked, raising a brow. “So, how’s married life? Are you two still in the honeymoon phase?”
Jake chuckled. “Yeah, Jay keeps insisting they’re doing just great.”
You felt Jongseong’s hand tighten slightly on your hip as he hummed in agreement. “We are.”
And then, before you could react, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple.
It was brief, chaste, and yet… oddly intimate. His lips lingered just long enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.
The table burst into cheers.
As the night went on, the conversation shifted from teasing to storytelling. Jake leaned back in his seat, shaking his head fondly. “You know, I still don’t know how the hell Jay managed to get through Hogwarts without completely embarrassing himself.”
Sunghoon chuckled. “That’s because he had us covering for him.”
Jongseong scoffed. “You mean causing more problems than helping?”
Jake smirked. “Call it whatever you want, mate. But let’s not forget that one time you tried to impress a girl by showing off on the Quidditch pitch and almost broke your arm.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Now this sounds like a story I need to hear.”
Jake grinned. “See, back in school, Jay was all business, all the time. But one day, some girl in Ravenclaw was watching him practice, and he got it in his head that he should show off—flew higher than necessary, tried a fancy dive, and nearly knocked himself unconscious.”
Heeseung chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, young love.”
Sunghoon leaned in. “Speaking of, we should all introduce our wives one day. Maybe have a proper dinner.”
Jongseong stiffened slightly, and you felt it. But before he could say anything, you jumped in.
“That would be nice,” you said, smiling. “Though, I’ll admit, I’d probably be terrible at hosting.”
Jake waved a hand. “Nah, don’t worry about that. Besides, I heard you’re friends with Riki?”
Your brows lifted. “Yeah, I basically treat him like my little brother.”
Jake laughed. “Figures. We were both in the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. He was a Seeker, I was a Chaser—best duo ever.”
Sunghoon snorted. “And yet, somehow, Jay was the one always getting all the attention.”
Jake groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
The banter continued, light and warm, and despite yourself, you found that you were enjoying it. The illusion of normalcy was beginning to feel real.
Jongseong wasn’t just your forced husband tonight—he was someone who had a past, who had friends that truly cared about him. And maybe, you were starting to see why people cared about him, too.
The moment the Floo Network spit you both out into the apartment, the spell of the night started to break. Gone was the warm, buzzing atmosphere of the pub. Now, there was only quiet, filled with nothing but the ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall and the soft rustle of Jongseong adjusting his sleeves.
You expected him to make some dry remark about the night, maybe joke about Jake’s relentless teasing. But instead, he just stood there, staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
You blinked, taken aback. “I—yeah. Why?”
He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “You were… different tonight.”
Your throat felt dry. “We were both acting.”
“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, unreadable. “I know.”
Neither of you moved. Neither of you quite knew what to do now.
The next few days were… different. Not drastic, not obvious, but something had changed. You noticed it in the way Jongseong lingered in rooms a little longer than before, the way his gaze flickered to you more often, the way silence between you no longer felt so hostile—just heavy.
Even the small moments carried weight. The way he passed you a cup of coffee in the mornings without needing to ask how you took it. The way he let his hand linger just a fraction longer than necessary when handing you something. The way your name sounded softer when he spoke it.
It was nothing. It was everything.
And then came the first real break in the routine.
You hadn’t expected to see Jongseong standing outside your workplace that evening. His presence was striking against the backdrop of hurried Ministry employees, his sleeves rolled up, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against a lamppost.
For a moment, you just stared, thrown by the sight of him waiting for you.
It felt unnatural—this wasn’t part of your unspoken agreement. You met in shared spaces at home, interacted when necessary, but waiting for each other? That was… different.
You hesitated before approaching. “What are you doing here?”
Jongseong glanced up, his dark eyes flickering over you before he straightened. “Picking you up.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Since when do we do that?”
Jongseong exhaled, shifting his weight. “Since now.”
You studied him, waiting for an explanation that never came. Instead, he pushed off the lamppost and nodded toward the street. “Come on.”
A flicker of uncertainty settled in your stomach as you fell into step beside him. You weren’t used to this—him reaching out first.
As you walked, the sounds of Diagon Alley surrounded you—shopkeepers closing up for the night, the faint hum of distant chatter, the flickering glow of enchanted street lamps. But the quiet between you was louder.
At some point, he spoke again. “You get along with them.”
You glanced at him. “With who?”
“My friends.”
You hummed. “They’re easy to like.”
Jongseong nodded, his hands tucked into his pockets. His steps were measured, like he was choosing his words carefully.
“They like you too.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around your bag strap. Was that what this was about?
“You fit in well,” he added, his voice lower.
Something warm unfurled in your stomach. “Would it have been a problem if I didn’t?”
Jongseong smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Jake would’ve grilled you until you caved.”
You laughed, and for a moment, things felt effortless.
But as you reached the entrance of your shared home, a thought lingered at the back of your mind.
Why did he come to get you in the first place?
It was well past midnight when you shuffled into the kitchen, craving nothing more than a glass of water. You weren’t expecting to see Jongseong standing there, already by the counter, a mug in his hands.
He turned at the sound of your footsteps, his gaze flickering down your figure.
It wasn’t until you followed his line of sight that you realized exactly what you were wearing.
A nightshirt. Just a nightshirt. One that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs.
You hadn’t thought about it before leaving your room, but now, under his scrutiny, it suddenly felt like the single most scandalous thing you could’ve worn.
Jongseong cleared his throat. “Couldn’t sleep?”
You nodded, stepping closer, reaching for a glass. His presence felt larger in the quiet, like it filled the room in ways you weren’t prepared for. Like he was waiting for something neither of you had the words for.
After a moment, you sighed, staring into your mug as if the swirling liquid inside had all the answers. “I texted my parents about… this,” you finally admitted, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Two weeks ago.”
Jongseong’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t interrupt.
“They never replied,” you continued, voice carefully even. “Not that I was expecting them to.”
Jongseongs fingers tapped lightly against the table, a thoughtful rhythm. “They’re Muggles, right?”
You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I didn’t exactly have the best relationship with them before this. But I thought—” You paused, exhaling sharply. “I thought they’d at least say something.”
He was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice softer than before. “Maybe they just… don’t know how to respond.”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “Or maybe they just don’t care.”
Jongseong shifted in his seat, glancing down at his hands. He looked like he wanted to say something, to reach for the right words, but he hesitated. Instead, he settled for a careful, almost reluctant, “I’m sorry.”
You lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “It’s fine.”
The silence stretched. The air felt thick. Too thick.
He exhaled through his nose, eyes flickering up to yours. And for the first time, you didn’t look away.
His fingers twitched. His jaw tensed. His eyes darkened, just slightly. And then, he took a step back. A deliberate one.
You swallowed. “I should—”
“Yeah.” His voice was lower than before. Rougher. “Me too.”
Neither of you moved for a long moment. And then you did.
The next morning, the reminder came. A letter, crisp and official, waiting for both of you on the breakfast table.
Jongseong opened it first, scanning the words, his jaw tightening. You peered over.
Ministry of Magic Directive 492-B: Cohabitation Progress Assessment
As part of your continued marital integration, you are required to submit a Cohabitation Progress Report detailing shared living arrangements and physical proximity. As per Clause 7.3 of the Unity Act, proof of continued cohabitation will be assessed in the next Ministry visit.
Failure to comply with expectations may result in reassessment and intervention.
You let out a slow breath. “They’re watching us closer now.”
Jongseong scoffed, tossing the letter aside. “Of course they are.”
Your fingers curled around the edge of the table. Something about the wording unsettled you.
“Physical proximity,” you murmured. “They’re pushing for more.”
Jongseong ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at you. “Yeah.”
Silence.
The weight of the words hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating.
“We need to practice.”
You looked up from your book, momentarily caught off guard. “Practice what?”
He closed his own book, exhaling like he had already anticipated your reaction. “Being more… natural with each other. The Ministry is expecting real signs of a relationship, not just two people coexisting in the same space.”
You swallowed, shifting slightly. “You mean touching, kissing, all of that?”
He nodded, meeting your gaze with a calmness that only made your stomach tighten further. He wasn’t wrong, of course. If anything, you should have expected this conversation to happen sooner. But something about the way he said it—so practical, so unaffected—sent a nervous flicker through your chest.
“How do you want to start?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.
Jongseong hesitated for only a moment before he pushed himself off the couch and extended a hand. “Come here.”
You stared at his outstretched fingers, debating, before finally placing your hand in his. His palm was warm, steady, and as he gently pulled you up, you felt your breath catch slightly at how close he was now.
“Hugging first,” he murmured, like he was giving instructions.
You exhaled softly before stepping forward, wrapping your arms around his waist. It felt awkward at first—stiff, calculated—but then, as his arms circled around you in response, something shifted. He was warm, solid, and despite the tension in your shoulders, there was a comfort in the closeness. You felt the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers rested lightly against your back.
“This isn’t terrible,” he muttered, voice lower than usual.
You huffed a small laugh, eyes still pressed against his chest. “High praise.”
He chuckled, a small vibration against your body. The silence stretched between you, no longer heavy with hesitation but something else—something unspoken. You weren’t sure how long you stood like that before he finally murmured, “Next.”
You swallowed, stepping back slightly. His hands lingered a second longer than necessary before dropping away.
“Kissing?” you asked, trying to sound casual.
Jongseong nodded, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “We should get used to it.”
You inhaled, forcing yourself to meet his gaze head-on. “Alright.”
His fingers reached for your chin, tilting it up slightly, and the air in the room seemed to shift. He didn’t move immediately, as if gauging your reaction, waiting for the tension to settle before he finally leaned in.
The first brush of his lips was light, cautious. Testing.
Your breath caught. It was such a simple touch, barely there, and yet it sent a strange warmth curling in your stomach. His lips were soft, warm, lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he pressed in again—this time firmer, deeper.
A slow, deliberate slide of lips.
Your fingers curled involuntarily into his shirt, as if steadying yourself, as his lips moved against yours with a patience that sent your pulse hammering in your ears. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t merely going through the motions. He was learning you.
There was something unbearably intimate about it, something in the way he lingered, in the way his fingers flexed slightly against your waist. Like he wasn’t sure where to place his hands, but he knew he didn’t want to let go.
Your own breath had turned uneven, the warmth between you making your skin prickle. You weren’t supposed to feel this. It was just practice. Just a test.
And yet, your heart betrayed you with every second he refused to pull away.
Just when you thought he was done, his lips barely parted from yours, he hesitated—and then he pressed a featherlight kiss to the corner of your lips, softer than the first, but somehow infinitely more dangerous.
Your eyes snapped open, breath stalling in your throat.
Jongseong didn’t move for a second, his gaze locked on yours as if waiting for a reaction. Then, he took a small step back, clearing his throat. “See? Not so hard.”
You exhaled shakily, forcing a smirk. “Speak for yourself.”
He smiled slightly, but there was something else there now. Something neither of you were quite ready to address.
That night, long after you had gone to bed, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The feel of his lips hadn’t left you. The warmth of his touch still clung to your skin, lingering in a way that made sleep impossible.
The first morning after the kiss, you had been unsure what to expect. Would he pretend it hadn’t happened? Would the air be awkward between you?
You walked into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and saw him standing by the stove, making coffee like he always did. The difference was how he looked at you.
"Morning," he said, and before you could respond, he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with an ease that made your stomach turn over. The touch was fleeting, barely there, yet entirely intentional.
By the second day, it was a hand at your waist when he passed by you in the hallway, fingers lingering as if testing his boundaries. You weren’t sure when it started feeling natural, but you knew that by the third day, when Jongseong pressed a small peck to your temple as he handed you your morning coffee, you didn’t freeze.
You accepted it.
Maybe even welcomed it.
By then, you had decided that if he could do it so easily, so could you. That morning, before leaving for work, you turned back to him just as you reached the door.
"See you later," you murmured, before pressing a quick peck to his cheek.
It was supposed to be casual, unthinking, but as soon as you stepped back, you caught the slight widening of his eyes before he composed himself. You had caught him off guard.
You swallowed, feigning nonchalance, before leaving quickly. You were the one initiating now.
It was the second evening when Jongseong offered to pick you up from work again.
"If people see us together more often, it might help with the whole convincing thing," he had reasoned.
Logical. Sensible. Everything Jongseong was.
Except when he showed up outside your building, leaning against the stone wall with his hands in his coat pockets, looking entirely unbothered while your coworkers noticed.
"Your husband’s here again," one of them teased as they nudged you.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the heat crawling up your neck as you stepped outside. He looked good under the streetlights, the cool air turning his skin slightly pink. His gaze met yours, and something flickered in his eyes before he pushed off the wall and walked toward you.
"Long day?" he asked as he fell into step beside you.
"Exhausting," you murmured. "Thanks for picking me up."
He glanced at you, then, as if on impulse, reached for your hand. Not a performance. Just instinct. His fingers laced through yours with the same steadiness he always carried, and even though you told yourself it was just for show, your pulse didn’t get the memo.
Halfway down the street, you spotted a familiar figure across the road—Jake. He caught sight of you at the same time, waving enthusiastically.
Without thinking, you smiled and waved back. "Jake!"
Jongseong’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, just barely noticeable, but he didn’t say anything.
Jake grinned, giving a knowing look before disappearing into the crowd. You cleared your throat, hoping Jongseong didn’t read into anything. But of course, he had noticed.
The morning of the visit felt different. Heavier.
You woke up to the quiet sounds of Jongseong moving around the flat, the faint scent of coffee drifting through the air. The weight of the upcoming meeting sat in your chest like a stone—there was no ignoring the fact that today, the Ministry would scrutinize everything you and Jongseong had been working toward.
You lingered in bed for a moment longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, feeling the heat of your own overactive thoughts. Had you practiced enough? Would they believe you? Would they catch on that some of these moments had started feeling far too real?
You sighed, forcing yourself up, and padded into the kitchen. Jongseong was leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he sipped from his mug. His hair was still damp from his shower, sticking to his forehead slightly, and—
You blinked. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Again.
Jongseong barely acknowledged you as he took another sip of coffee, then set the mug down with an exhale. “We should go over a few things before they get here.”
You were still staring at his bare chest, lips slightly parted. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this—Merlin, you lived together now—but something about it felt different today.
“Uh,” you said eloquently. “You’re—”
“I know,” he replied, completely unbothered. “I forgot to grab my shirt from the other room.”
Before you could respond, a loud knock at the door shattered the moment.
Panic seized your chest.
“They’re early?” you hissed.
Jongseong swore under his breath, grabbing for the nearest thing—your cardigan, which had been draped over a chair. He threw it at you before sprinting toward the bedroom, leaving you standing there, gripping the fabric uselessly as another knock sounded.
Forcing down your nerves, you rushed to the door, opening it just enough to see the official standing there, a clipboard in hand.
“Mrs. Park?” the man asked in a clipped tone.
“Yes,” you said, trying to sound composed.
“We’re here for the cohabitation assessment,” he continued, adjusting his glasses as he glanced down at his paperwork. “May we come in?”
You stepped aside, letting them in, just as Jongseong reappeared—this time fully dressed, but slightly breathless. The Ministry official’s gaze flickered between you both, already taking notes.
The official took a seat at the dining table, motioning for both of you to do the same. His assistant, a younger witch with keen eyes, remained standing near the bookshelf, observing.
“We’ll start with some basic questions,” the man said, clicking his quill against the parchment. “How has married life been treating you both?”
Jongseong leaned back slightly, arm draping over the back of your chair in a practiced motion. “It’s been an adjustment,” he said smoothly, glancing at you with what looked like amusement. “But we’re settling in well.”
The official hummed, eyes narrowing. “What would you say has been the biggest change since getting married?”
You hesitated, heart pounding. What was a normal answer?
Jongseong, of course, had no problem answering. “Waking up to each other in the house.”
You nearly choked on air.
The official scribbled something down. “And how do you usually spend your evenings together?”
Your mind raced. Jongseong was the first to respond, again, far too at ease with all of this. “Dinner, talking about our days, sometimes reading together on the couch.”
That was true. But the way he was selling it so smoothly made heat creep up your neck.
The assistant tilted her head. “And your sleeping arrangements?”
The air in the room thickened.
Jongseong barely hesitated. “We have separate rooms for now, but we’re adjusting.”
The official’s quill paused. A bad sign.
“That will need to change,” he said briskly. “As you know, starting next week, it will be mandatory for all married couples under this law to share a bedroom. The Ministry will have enchantments in place to verify compliance. Any deviation from this could result in a reevaluation of your union.”
Your stomach twisted. They were going to monitor your sleeping arrangements?
The assistant added, “It’s a common concern among couples who haven’t previously lived together, but physical closeness is a necessary step toward a successful marriage.”
Your hands clenched beneath the table. Necessary? Successful? What did that even mean in a marriage you hadn’t chosen?
The official leaned forward slightly. “Are you prepared for that transition?”
Jongseong’s grip on the back of your chair tightened just slightly before he nodded. “Of course.”
The official’s gaze flickered between you two, scrutinizing every reaction, every hesitation. “Then we will expect that adjustment to be complete by the next check-in.”
The assistant cleared her throat. “One last thing. We need to verify your comfort with one another.”
You barely had time to process before Jongseong’s fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward him.
You should’ve seen it coming.
His lips brushed against yours softly, gently at first. But the moment your breath caught, the moment he felt your fingers instinctively tighten around his, he pressed in just a little more—lingering, deepening, turning what should have been just for show into something you didn’t know how to categorize.
By the time he pulled away, your pulse was hammering.
The official seemed satisfied. “That will do.”
Jongseong didn’t let go of your hand.
The Ministry left shortly after, having seen enough. The moment the door shut behind them, you turned to Jongseong, heart still racing.
“That was—”
“Convincing?” he supplied, arching an eyebrow. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.
You swallowed. “You didn’t have to—”
He cut you off, voice lower. “Would you rather I hadn’t?”
You had no answer to that.
Because the truth was, you weren’t sure anymore.
And, worse still, in just a few days, you wouldn’t be able to avoid the reality of what the Ministry expected from you.
You weren’t just playing house anymore. You were about to start living in it.
You remained standing by the door, arms crossed, still feeling the weight of their scrutiny on your skin. The words lingered between you and Jongseong like an unspoken curse.
You must share a bedroom. You must be physically close. The Ministry will verify.
You turned slowly, eyes meeting Jongseong’s. He was still standing near the table, fingers drumming against the wood. He looked composed—too composed, like he hadn’t just promised the officials something neither of you had fully prepared for.
“You said it so easily,” you muttered.
Jongseong raised a brow. “Would you rather I had hesitated?”
Your arms tightened around yourself. “I don’t know.”
His expression remained impassive, but something in the air shifted—thick, charged with something unspoken.
You swallowed. “We have a week.”
“Six days.”
Your gaze snapped up. “You’re counting?”
He shrugged. “It’s important.”
You exhaled sharply and turned toward the hallway. The flat wasn’t huge, but it had two bedrooms. Your bedroom and his. The safe distance you had clung to was suddenly about to vanish.
You crossed your arms tighter over your chest. “We need to figure out how to do this.”
Jongseong ran a hand through his hair, considering. “We should start by deciding how to—”
“Who’s moving?” you interrupted. “You or me?”
He blinked. You hadn’t even let him finish.
For some reason, the question flustered him more than he expected. He looked toward his room, then toward yours, then back at you. “I… I guess it makes sense for one of us to move into the other’s space.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s obvious.”
His jaw tensed. “Then why do you sound upset?”
You inhaled sharply. “Because this isn’t normal. None of this is normal.”
Silence. The tension was razor-thin, tight enough to snap, but just as the air felt like it might crack open with unspoken frustration, Jongseong suddenly stepped forward.
Your breath hitched as he reached up, fingers brushing lightly against your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. His touch was barely there—soft, lingering, as if grounding you before the moment could spiral too far.
Your stomach flipped. The anger, the frustration—it melted in an instant, leaving something quieter in its place.
“I know,” he murmured. “But we don’t have a choice.”
He hesitated for a beat before his thumb brushed lightly over your cheek, his fingers barely ghosting your jawline.
“Baby,” he murmured softly, testing the word, letting it hang between you. His eyes searched yours. “Is that okay?”
Your lips parted, but no words came. You weren’t sure what shocked you more—the nickname, or the fact that you didn’t mind it.
You swallowed, heart hammering in your chest, but eventually, you nodded.
Jongseong held your gaze for a second longer before his hand dropped, tension breaking just enough for you to exhale again.
You cleared your throat, stepping back slightly. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“It matters,” he murmured again. His gaze flickered with something unreadable before he turned and walked toward his room. He pushed the door open, revealing a clean and modern space—a bed that somehow seemed too big, a desk neatly arranged, shelves lined with things you hadn’t paid attention to before.
“This will work,” he said simply, like it was nothing. Like moving you into his space wasn’t going to alter everything.
You stepped into the room cautiously, running your fingers along the edge of his desk. This was real now.
Jongseong moved beside you, hands slipping into his pockets. “You’ll take the bed, obviously.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Where are you going to sleep?”
“The couch.”
“No.” The word left you before you could think about it. Because that would be too obvious. Too much space. Too much defiance against what they were expecting.
Jongseong tilted his head. “No?”
You swallowed. “If they’re monitoring, we can’t make it look fake.”
His expression was unreadable. Then, after a long silence, he said, “We’ll take sides.”
You nodded slowly. “Sides.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Neither of you moved.
The weight of the agreement pressed in around you. You would share a bed. You would be inches apart at night. The pretense of distance was officially gone.
Jongseong finally sighed. “I’ll move your things in tomorrow.”
You nodded. Then, after a pause, you took a small step toward him. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”
He smirked faintly. “Nothing about this has been.”
You exhaled slowly. “Then we should make it look real.”
Jongseong’s smirk faded slightly. He tilted his head, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips. That look. That tension.
Without thinking, you reached for his wrist, fingers curling around it just briefly before pulling away. Something about touching him first felt necessary.
Jongseong didn’t pull back. Instead, he lifted a hand, his fingers brushing against yours before he murmured, “We’ll figure it out.”
You nodded, stepping back. “We have six days.”
His lips quirked. “Five and a half.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself. Then, before you could change your mind, you turned and left the room, your pulse still unsteady in your chest.
The first night in the same room felt heavier than you had expected. You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the sheets as the reality of the situation fully settled over you.
Jay was in the bathroom, the faint sound of running water filling the silence of the bedroom. Your bedroom now. Your bed, which was suddenly meant for two.
When he stepped out, towel drying his hair, you didn’t look up immediately. Instead, you focused on the shifting space around you—the way your books now lined part of his shelf, your blanket was folded at the foot of the bed beside his, your perfume lingered in the air now.
The room was no longer just his. It was becoming yours, too.
Jay let out a slow exhale as he tossed his towel over a chair. When you finally looked up, your gaze caught on the fact that he was shirtless. He had no intention of sleeping in one, it seemed.
“I don’t sleep with a shirt on,” he said casually, noticing your stare.
You swallowed and cleared your throat. “Can you—just for tonight?”
Jay’s brows lifted slightly before he let out a quiet chuckle. “You really think a shirt’s gonna make a difference, baby?”
Your stomach flipped at the nickname, the casual way it rolled off his tongue. The second time tonight.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “Just for tonight.”
He sighed, but didn’t argue, grabbing a t-shirt from the dresser and slipping it on before climbing into bed. “Happy?”
You ignored the warmth creeping up your neck and nodded.
“You okay?” he asked after a beat, watching you.
You blinked. That was the first time he’d asked you that all night.
“Yeah,” you said, voice quieter than intended. “Just… adjusting.”
He hummed, turning onto his back. “You’ll get used to it.”
Would you?
You inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “We should set some ground rules.”
He nodded, shifting to get comfortable. “Okay. Like what?”
You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip. “No unnecessary touching while sleeping.”
Jay smirked. “You think I’m gonna be all over you in my sleep?”
Your stomach flipped at the teasing edge in his voice. “I think accidents happen,” you countered, narrowing your eyes.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine. No unnecessary touching.”
You nodded, though the warmth in your cheeks refused to fade.
“Anything else?” he asked, glancing toward you as he adjusted the pillows.
You hesitated again. “What if, what if one of us wakes up first?”
Jay raised a brow. “Then the other keeps sleeping? That’s usually how waking up works.”
You glared. “I mean, do we pretend to still be asleep? Do we—do we greet each other? What’s the etiquette here?”
Jay let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused. “I dunno. Do you want me to say good morning all soft and sweet? Maybe kiss your forehead while I’m at it?”
You shot him a look, but the mental image sent something warm curling in your stomach.
He grinned. “I’ll just say ‘morning’ and get out of bed. Sound good?”
You nodded. “Okay. That works.”
Jay leaned back against the headboard, watching you for a moment before tilting his head. "By the way," he murmured, "you don’t have to keep calling me Jongseong. Jay is fine."
You hesitated. "Are you sure?"
He smirked slightly. "Yeah. Sounds better when you say it."
Your stomach did an odd little flip at that, but you masked it with a nod. "Alright. Jay."
“You sure you’re comfortable?”
You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah.”
He hummed again, like he didn’t fully believe you, but didn’t push.
Then, just as you were about to shift under the covers, he reached over and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.
Your breath hitched slightly at the unexpected softness of the gesture. It was casual, like something natural, something instinctive.
“Relax,” he murmured, voice lower now, almost drowsy. “It’s just me.”
Just him.
The realization settled somewhere deep in your chest as you nodded slowly. You lay back, facing the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the quiet rhythm of the room. Eventually, Jay flicked the bedside lamp off, and darkness swallowed the space between you both.
After a long stretch of silence, you swallowed and, almost in a whisper, asked, "Are you already used to it?"
There was a pause before Jay shifted slightly beside you. His voice was softer than before when he finally answered. "Not yet."
Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. You had spilled coffee on your only clean work shirt, and barely made it to your job on time. Meetings ran over, projects piled up, and no matter how much you tried to get ahead, the day kept dragging you down.
Then, to top it all off, the train home was delayed, and your wand flickered weakly when you tried to summon your keys at the door. By the time you finally stepped inside the apartment, exhaustion clung to your bones, irritation simmering beneath your skin.
You kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary, throwing your bag onto the chair with a frustrated huff. Everything sucked. Absolutely everything.
Then you looked toward the bed.
Jay was already there, half-asleep, his head turned toward the door as if he had been waiting for you. His hair was messy, his bare shoulders peeking out from beneath the covers. The dim lighting made his features softer, relaxed in a way that nearly made you forget how awful your day had been.
“Took you long enough,” he mumbled sleepily.
Your frustration flickered, the sharp edges of it dulling almost instantly. You sighed, running a hand over your face. “Yeah. Today was hell.”
Jay hummed, eyes barely open as he shifted, making just enough space for you. “C’mere, baby.”
Your heart clenched at the way he said it, voice thick with sleep, laced with a quiet warmth that had no right making you feel better.
You sighed again, but this time it wasn’t frustration—it was something softer, something that melted under the weight of his tired gaze.
You moved toward the closet to change, but Jay groaned softly, burying his face in the pillow. “No, just talk to me. I wanna hear about your day.”
You shook your head, exhaling as you unbuttoned your shirt. “You’re barely awake.”
“So?” he muttered, voice muffled. “Still wanna hear you.”
His insistence chipped away at whatever was left of your bad mood. As you moved through your night routine, you found yourself telling him everything—the stupid meetings, the unbearable commute, the way your boss kept mispronouncing your name even after working together for months.
Jay hummed occasionally, nodding in half-conscious agreement, eyes drifting shut between your sentences. But every time you stopped, thinking he had finally fallen asleep, his voice would break the silence.
“What happened after that?”
“Did you tell them off?”
“Bet you rolled your eyes at least five times.”
By the time you finally crawled into bed, most of the weight from the day had lifted, replaced by a quiet comfort that settled deep in your bones. As you exhaled, sinking into the sheets, Jay shifted beside you. His eyes were barely open, sleep pressing heavy against him, but he still reached out, fingers brushing against your cheek.
Without thinking, he murmured, "C’mere," and before you could register what was happening, he pulled you in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss against your lips. It was warm, slow, edged with sleep and something softer, something that made your chest tighten.
By the time he pulled away, his lips barely ghosting against yours, he was already halfway asleep again. "Better?" he mumbled, his voice slurred.
You swallowed, your pulse unsteady. "Yeah," you whispered. Jay’s fingers brushed against your arm as he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
You huffed, shaking your head. “Me talking about my day was more for your entertainment than comfort, wasn’t it?”
Jay’s lips curled lazily. “Maybe.”
You rolled your eyes, shifting under the covers. But then Jay mumbled, “No shirt, no pants? I know you don’t like to wear your pants to sleep.”
You exhaled, already feeling the exhaustion tug at your limbs. “Fine.”
His fingers flexed against the sheets, satisfied. “Good. Together, we make one whole pajama set.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jay hummed in agreement, already drifting off. Only when you settled beside him, feeling the shared warmth beneath the blankets, did he finally stop fighting sleep. But before he did, his hand found your cheek, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin.
Without thinking, he leaned in again, this time pressing a softer, lingering kiss against your jaw. You exhaled slowly, your hands hesitating for only a moment before one of them lifted, fingers grazing the bare skin of his chest, feeling the warmth beneath your touch. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted closer, his lips trailing down to brush a barely-there kiss against the curve of your neck, his hand moving up to cradle the side of your face.
"Sleep," he mumbled against your skin, voice fading into exhaustion, before finally letting go.
You woke up to warmth. A slow, steady heat radiating from beside you, the blankets feeling heavier than usual.
Your eyes blinked open to see him still asleep, lying on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other stretched out lazily, fingers grazing your side. His breathing was even, his face completely relaxed in sleep.
You hesitated, watching him for just a moment longer than necessary, before attempting to shift away.
The second you moved, Jay groaned low in his throat. “Stay,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His fingers flexed against your hip before retracting as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you yet.
You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped at his drowsy tone. “I need coffee.”
Jay cracked one eye open. “You always need coffee.”
You huffed. “And you always wake up in a good mood. How?”
He smirked sleepily, rolling onto his back with a slow stretch, his toned stomach peeking out from under the sheets. “It’s a gift, baby.”
The nickname sent a rush of heat to your cheeks, and you pushed the covers off before he could catch your expression. “I’m making coffee.”
Jay hummed, still blinking away sleep. “You’re really just gonna get up and leave me like this?”
You paused, turning to glance at him. “Like what?”
He grinned lazily. “Cold and abandoned.”
You scoffed but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re so dramatic in the morning.”
Jay only smirked as you made your way to the kitchen, the comfortable ease between you lingering even as you started your morning routine.
Moments later, he joined you, still shirtless, hair a mess, moving to grab a mug from the cupboard. As you handed him his coffee, he leaned in absentmindedly, pressing a soft kiss against your shoulder before taking the cup. The motion was so casual, so natural, that it took you a second to process.
You blinked, turning to face him. "Aren’t you kissing me too much?"
Jay stiffened slightly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. But then his lips quirked, and he leaned back against the counter, sipping his coffee.
You watched him for a beat before setting your mug down. "Fine."
Before he could ask what you meant, you leaned in, arms lifting to loosely wrap around his neck as you pressed a soft kiss just beneath his jaw, your lips grazing the warm skin of his neck. You felt the slight shudder run through him, the way his grip on his coffee mug tightened just a fraction. Jay's breath hitched slightly, his fingers tightening around his mug.
When you pulled back, you smirked at the way his ears had turned red. "Happy now?"
"You should kiss me more," he teased.
You shot him a look, passing him a cup of coffee. “You’re lucky I made extra.”
Jay took a sip, sighing in content. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, baby.”
You pretended not to react to the name, but the warmth stayed with you longer than your coffee did.
As you took another sip of your coffee, the quiet hum of the morning was interrupted by the sound of fluttering wings. An owl swooped in through the open kitchen window, landing gracefully on the counter, a neatly tied envelope clutched in its beak.
Jay sighed, setting his mug down as he reached for the letter. "That'll be from my parents."
You watched as he untied the parchment, unfolding it with a slight frown. The owl hooted softly, waiting for a response.
Jay's eyes scanned the page, his expression unreadable at first. Then, with a small exhale, he muttered, "They want to see us."
Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug. Us.
“You’re staring at it like it’s gonna bite,” he mused, taking a sip of his coffee.
You huffed. “I just don’t know what to expect.”
Jay exhaled through his nose, setting his mug down. “My parents… they’re not bad. Just… traditional. They’ll expect things to look a certain way.”
Your fingers curled around your cup. “And what if they don’t?”
He tilted his head slightly, watching you. “Then we make sure they do.”
There was something unreadable in his expression, something both reassuring and unsettling all at once. He was taking this seriously—not just the Ministry part, but the part where you both had to convince his family, too.
You bit your lip. “One thing at a time?”
Jay smirked slightly, tapping his fingers against the counter. “One thing at a time.”
You weren’t sure why the thought made your stomach twist, but something about meeting Jay’s parents, about having to present this marriage as real to them, felt heavier than anything you had prepared for.
Jay looked at you then, tilting his head slightly. "I can write back later. No rush. Honestly, let’s just get through the last Ministry visit for a while first—then we can deal with my parents."
You swallowed, nodding. "Right. No rush."
The owl flapped its wings, as if impatient, but Jay simply placed the letter aside, returning his focus to his coffee. The weight of the letter lingered in the air between you, unspoken but present.
The morning had started normally enough. Work had been relatively uneventful, save for your coworker Mina pulling you aside as you both sorted through some files in the break room. She leaned against the counter, stirring sugar into her tea with a knowing look in her eyes.
"So," she drawled, "how's married life treating you?"
You blinked. "It’s… an adjustment."
Mina scoffed, taking a sip of her tea. "Adjustment? That’s a diplomatic way of putting it. You barely look married. No ring marks on your fingers, no swooning over your husband’s lunch visits."
You huffed. "He doesn’t visit me at work, but he does pick me up after. And we do kiss and stuff."
Mina’s brows shot up, interest piqued. "Kiss and stuff? So, what, like a peck on the lips? A lingering moment? You making out against the nearest wall?"
Your face burned. "Not making out. Just… normal kissing."
Mina gave you a deadpan look before taking another sip of her tea. "Okay, listen. Make out. Suck his dick. Get laid. In that order."
You nearly choked. "Mina!"
She smirked, unbothered. "What? Jongseong is a total hottie, you’re stressed, and all this weird tension you’re feeling will go away the moment you two start properly acting like husband and wife."
You groaned, rubbing your temples. "You are actually the worst."
Mina shrugged, grinning. "I’m just saying, sweetheart, at some point, you’re gonna have to stop pretending this is a polite roommate situation. Might as well enjoy yourself in the process."
She only laughed, patting your shoulder. "I’m just saying, if you’re already forced to live together, might as well enjoy the perks, right? Bet he’s not bad in bed either."
Mina shrugged, clearly unfazed. "I’m the realist. You’re the one making this more complicated than it needs to be."
You rolled your eyes but couldn't fully shake her words from your mind as the day went on.
Jay had suggested going out for lunch—something about fresh air being good for you, but you had a sneaking suspicion he was trying to get you out of your own head. The tension of the upcoming dinner with his parents had been lingering between you both, and he was trying to shift the focus.
The café was cozy, tucked into a quiet corner of the city, the kind of place that blurred the line between magical and Muggle. Small, levitating candles hovered above each table, but there was also a very prominent espresso machine steaming in the background, giving the place a strange but warm blend of both worlds.
Jay was different today. More touchy.
The first time he reached for your hand, it caught you off guard. You had been gesturing while explaining something, only to have his fingers wrap around yours mid-sentence, lacing them together as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You blinked down at your joined hands, but he only smirked, continuing to listen as if nothing had changed.
Jay tilted his head slightly. "By the way, you always talk about Niki, but what about your other friends? Jungwon, right?"
You blinked. "Yeah. Jungwon and I have been friends for a while now."
Jay hummed. "Funny. I actually tutored him for like a week back in school."
Your eyes widened. "You? Tutoring Jungwon?"
He smirked. "Yeah. He was struggling with Charms. Thought he could figure everything out by himself, but he kept botching the spellwork."
You laughed. "That does sound like him. How did it go?"
Jay shrugged. "He quit after a week. Said he learned better by messing up on his own."
You snorted. "That sounds even more like him."
Jay smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Guess we’ve had more overlapping connections than I thought."
It wasn’t until later that evening, back at the apartment, that you realized just how much more comfortable Jay had gotten with you.
You were sitting on the couch, legs curled up beneath you as you skimmed through a book, when Jay walked in, plopping down beside you with absolutely no regard for personal space. Without hesitation, he reached for your arm and tugged gently, signaling for you to shift.
You raised a brow. “What?”
Jay smirked. “Come here.”
You scoffed. “Why?”
He sighed, as if you were exhausting, before simply pulling you toward him. You barely had time to react before you were settled against his chest, your back pressed against him as he stretched his legs out comfortably. His arms caged you in, warm and steady.
“Jay,” you muttered, stiffening slightly. “What are you doing?”
“Relaxing.” His voice was easy, like this was normal. Like you hadn’t just settled directly into his lap.
You swallowed, unsure of what to do with yourself. “I—”
“You’re warm,” he murmured, voice dropping slightly.
Your heartbeat stuttered.
The worst part was that he was warm too.
After a few seconds, you exhaled, finally allowing yourself to relax into him. Jay hummed in approval, his lips grazing against the shell of your ear as he shifted slightly, adjusting his grip around you. The touch was fleeting but intentional.
“You really don’t mind all this?” you asked quietly.
Jay chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. “Mind it? I’m starting to think I like it too much.”
You sucked in a breath, but before you could respond, he nuzzled against your shoulder, his teeth grazing your ear before closing lightly around it in a teasing nibble. Your breath hitched, and your fingers instinctively gripped his arm.
"Jay—"
He didn't pull back. Instead, his arms tightened around you, and his lips moved lower, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the curve of your neck. The warmth of it sent a sharp jolt through your spine, and before you could second-guess yourself, you turned slightly in his lap, tilting your head toward him.
It happened naturally—his mouth met yours in a kiss that was slower, deeper than either of you had intended. The shift in energy was unmistakable, tension curling between you like an unspoken understanding neither of you wanted to break.
Jay's hands splayed against your back, pulling you closer as your fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring yourself. When he bit at your bottom lip, a quiet noise escaped you, and he responded by deepening the kiss, tilting his head as if he couldn't get enough.
By the time you finally pulled away, breath uneven, his forehead rested against yours, his lips just barely brushing over yours again in a lingering tease. Your heart was still racing, your hands still lightly curled against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Jay's breath was still uneven against your skin, his hands resting against your lower back, keeping you close. You could still feel the warmth of his lips, the lingering tension settling between you both like an unspoken acknowledgment.
His arms tightened slightly, and he nuzzled against your cheek, pressing a barely-there kiss against your temple. "You feel safe," he murmured, his voice lower, softer.
Your breath hitched. "What?"
Jay exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself in your presence. "With you. I feel safe with you."
The confession sent a warmth through your chest that you weren’t prepared for. Your fingers twitched slightly against his shirt, caught between the instinct to pull away and the need to stay exactly where you were.
Jay tilted his head, his nose brushing against your cheek. "You like taking care of me, don’t you?" he mused, teasing but sincere.
You swallowed, trying to steady yourself. "You’re impossible."
His smirk returned, albeit softer this time. "Maybe. But I think you like me this way."
You huffed, shaking your head, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you let yourself sink just a little further into his embrace, knowing—deep down—you weren’t quite ready to let go yet.
"Told you you'd get used to it," he murmured, his voice husky.
“Jay,” you warned, though your voice came out softer than intended.
He only smirked, resting his chin on your shoulder like he hadn’t just sent your heart into overdrive. “You’re overthinking again, baby.”
And you hated that he was right.
You had been dreading the Ministry’s visit from the moment the letter arrived, confirming the final scheduled check-in before a long evaluation period. It was supposed to be a relief—this was the last time, for a while at least, that an official would come snooping around, dissecting your marriage like it was an experiment instead of your actual life.
But relief was the last thing you felt.
There was something suffocating about the expectation of passing. You and Jay had gotten good at playing your roles, good at the casual touches, the familiarity, the easy, teasing back-and-forth that had started feeling more real than pretend. But today, something felt… off.
Maybe it was because the words still echoed in your mind.
You should kiss me more.
You feel safe.
Jay had said it so easily, as if it was second nature to him now, to be comfortable around you. But comfort didn’t mean security, and today, everything felt like it was hanging by a thread.
The Ministry official, a stern-looking woman with wire-rimmed glasses, sat across from you both in the living room. A notepad in her hands, quill poised. Watching. Always watching.
“So,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “We’ve received positive reports so far on your integration as a married couple. How has the transition been?”
Jay, as always, was calm, composed, charming. “It’s been good. We’ve built a routine, settled into daily life together.”
Her eyes flickered to you. “And you?”
You swallowed. “It’s… an adjustment, but I think we’re getting there.”
The Ministry woman nodded, making a note. “Good, good. And the cohabitation aspect? Shared space, sleeping arrangements?”
Jay didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”
You nodded, feeling the walls close in around you. You wondered if she could sense the strange weight in the air, the tension neither of you had fully addressed.
She glanced down at the file in her lap. “As you know, by the next evaluation period, the Ministry will be monitoring this aspect through magical verification. We must ensure that your union progresses naturally.”
Naturally. As if any of this had been natural from the start.
Her gaze sharpened. “And, of course, I must remind you that by the second year of marriage, procreation is expected. The Ministry understands that adjustments take time, but ultimately, your union is meant to strengthen the magical bloodlines.”
Your stomach clenched. Jay’s jaw tensed.
“Understood,” Jay finally said, his tone even.
You managed a nod, even though your heart was pounding in your ears. The official studied you both for a moment longer before standing, closing her folder.
“I believe that will be all for now,” she said, giving a tight smile. “We will check in again at the next scheduled period. Until then, I suggest you continue settling into your roles as husband and wife.”
And just like that, she was gone. But her words lingered, thick like smoke in the room.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment.
Then, Jay let out a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that was fun.”
Your jaw clenched. “Fun.”
He glanced at you, sensing the shift in your tone. “What?”
You stood abruptly, pacing toward the kitchen, needing space. “Nothing.”
Jay sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Come on, baby, just say it.”
And maybe it was the way he said it—so effortlessly, so casually, as if nothing had just happened—that made something in you snap.
“Say what, Jay?” You whirled around, frustration bubbling over. “That I hate this? That I hate how the Ministry talks about children like we’re required to breed for them? That I hate how we have to act like our lives are some scripted performance?”
Jay exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You think I don’t hate it too?”
“Do you?” The words were out before you could stop them, sharp, biting. “Because sometimes it feels like you’re perfectly fine pretending.”
Jay’s expression darkened. "I’m trying to make the best of this, but you act like I’m the enemy. We’re in this together, or have you forgotten that?"
You let out a bitter laugh. "Together? Jay, sometimes it feels like you don't even care. Like you're just rolling with this because it's easier for you."
Jay’s eyes flashed with something unreadable, his posture stiffening. "What do you mean I don't care? Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wake up every morning thrilled about the fact that my life got rewritten by some Ministry law?"
You exhaled sharply. "I never said that."
"No, but you sure as hell act like I’m the one who forced you into this." His voice was sharper now, frustration laced into every word. "I’ve been trying, okay? Trying to make this livable, trying to make it easier for both of us. But every time I do, you push back like you’d rather pretend I don’t exist."
You crossed your arms, hating the way his words stung. "I don’t pretend you don’t exist, Jay. I just—" You swallowed hard. "I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to balance what’s real and what’s not," Your heart pounded, "I haven’t forgotten that we're in this together. But maybe I wish we weren’t."
Jay’s entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter, but no less sharp. "What do you mean, you wish we weren’t?"
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. "Jay—"
"No, say it," he pressed, his voice laced with something raw. "Has this all just been an inconvenience to you? Have I just been another part of the mess?"
You inhaled shakily. "That’s not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" His eyes bore into yours, frustration and something else—something closer to hurt—bleeding into his gaze.
You hesitated. "I just meant… I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore."
Jay’s expression darkened further, his frustration spilling over. "It’s all real, because this is our life now! This isn’t some fantasy, or some nightmare you can wake up from. This is it. We’re here, together, and no amount of wishing it away is going to change that."
Jay let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe it isn’t normal, but it’s ours. And if we keep tearing it apart every time something doesn’t go the way we want, then what the hell are we even doing?"
Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Neither of you willing to be the first to break it.
The silence that followed was deafening. Jay’s face didn’t change, but something behind his eyes did. A flicker of something that looked like hurt.
And then, just like that, the moment passed.
His jaw clenched, his voice measured. “We have dinner with my parents tonight.”
You inhaled sharply, your stomach twisting. You had completely forgotten in the middle of the chaos.
“Great,” you muttered. “Can’t wait.”
Jay exhaled, stepping back. “Just… get ready. We’ll deal with this later.”
The carriage ride to Jay’s family estate was quiet, tense. You barely spoke, both still reeling from the heated argument earlier. Jay’s gaze was fixed outside the window, jaw tight, and though you knew this dinner was important, you couldn’t shake the unease crawling under your skin.
By the time you arrived, the grandeur of the Park estate was impossible to ignore. The house—no, the manor—was a striking example of old magic, the kind of wealth that had been passed down for generations.
Tall wrought-iron gates opened with a soft creak, revealing sprawling courtyards lined with lantern-lit pathways, their glow flickering in the cool evening air. The mansion itself was regal, its high stone walls blanketed in ivy, windows aglow with warm golden light.
Jay straightened the moment the carriage stopped, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by something practiced. Reserved. This was his world, and you were only stepping into it.
A house-elf opened the massive front doors before either of you could knock, ushering you into a vast foyer lined with polished marble floors and an intricately carved staircase leading to the upper levels. The walls were adorned with enchanted portraits, all featuring past generations of the Park family—stoic figures in rich robes watching you with unsettling scrutiny.
Jay’s mother was waiting in the grand entrance hall, regal as ever. Her dark hair was elegantly styled, her robes immaculate, her presence exuding the effortless grace of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
"Jongseong," she greeted, her voice smooth but edged with expectation. "It’s been too long."
Jay nodded, a polite smile barely reaching his eyes. "You know how it is."
His father stood just behind her, taller than Jay, his presence commanding even in silence. His features were sharp, his stare assessing, but there was a flicker of curiosity when he glanced at you.
His mother’s gaze shifted toward you, scanning with the precision of someone accustomed to weighing worth. "And you must be my daughter-in-law."
The title landed heavily. Daughter-in-law. It sounded more binding coming from her than it ever had from a Ministry official.
You dipped your head slightly. "It’s lovely to meet you."
She studied you for a long moment before giving a small nod. "Come in. Dinner is ready."
The dining room was ornate and intimidating, the kind of place where silence held weight. A long, polished table stretched across the room, set with fine china and gleaming silverware. Floating candles hovered overhead, casting a warm but almost oppressive glow on the deep mahogany walls lined with more ancestral portraits.
Dinner was served in meticulously timed courses, each plate appearing at the perfect moment as house-elves moved soundlessly through the space. The food was exquisite, but you barely tasted it—your mind too occupied with the undercurrent of tension between you and Jay.
His parents, though polite, were assessing you, their questions carefully crafted to evaluate rather than genuinely get to know you.
"Tell me," his mother finally said, dabbing her lips with a pristine napkin, "how have you been adjusting to married life?"
You forced a smile. "It’s been an adjustment, but we’re finding our way."
Jay’s father hummed, swirling his wine glass. "Finding your way?" His sharp eyes flickered between the two of you. "That’s an interesting choice of words."
You felt Jay tense beside you. "We’re managing just fine."
His mother tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharper than before. "Did you two have a fight?"
Your breath caught in your throat. The room felt smaller. Had they already noticed?
Jay let out a measured sigh, fingers tightening slightly around his fork. "It’s nothing. Just—" he exhaled, sparing you a quick glance, "a disagreement."
His mother hummed thoughtfully, setting her napkin down beside her plate. "Marriage isn’t about never fighting. It’s about how you handle the fights."
His father nodded, his deep voice breaking the tense silence. "A marriage built on avoidance will always crumble. Disagreements are inevitable, but how you choose to move forward from them is what matters."
The weight of their words settled heavily between you and Jay, a third presence at the table. It wasn’t accusatory, nor was it particularly comforting—it was simply fact. And it left you feeling exposed.
His mother’s gaze lingered on Jay for a moment longer before softening just a fraction as she turned back to you. "It will take time, but if you are both willing to build something real from this, then you must learn to meet each other halfway."
You swallowed, nodding slowly. Halfway.
After dinner, as the plates vanished and the dining room emptied, Jay’s mother turned to you with a calm, knowing expression. "Come," she said, rising gracefully from her seat. "Let’s wash our hands before dessert."
You hesitated for only a moment before following her, feeling Jay’s gaze linger on you as you exited the room. The air in the corridor was cool, laced with the scent of fresh linen and aged parchment. You expected her to lead you directly to the washroom, but instead, after you rinsed your hands, she gestured toward a side door that opened into a moonlit garden.
"A walk will do us both some good," she murmured, stepping outside.
The estate grounds were vast, illuminated by the soft glow of floating lanterns. The paths were lined with perfectly trimmed hedges and arching trellises of enchanted flowers that bloomed faintly in the evening air. It was quiet, serene, the opposite of the tension you had felt all night.
She walked beside you in silence for a few moments before speaking. "I can see the weight you’re carrying, dear. You don’t need to hide it from me."
You exhaled slowly. "It’s just… a lot. Adjusting, trying to understand what all of this means, what’s expected of me… and Jay."
Her lips curled slightly, not unkindly. "My son is… difficult at times. But I know him well."
You glanced at her, uncertain. "You seem to know a lot about us already."
She chuckled. "I know marriage is not easy, especially one like yours. But I also know that my son is not as indifferent as he pretends to be. He may act as though he’s handling everything well, but I see the way he looks at you. And I see the way you look at him, even when you don’t realize it."
You swallowed. "I don’t know how to make this work."
She stopped walking, turning to you. In the dim light, her gaze was softer than before. "Then start by meeting him where he is. And let him meet you there, too."
You nodded slowly, her words settling deep within you.
Then, as if sensing your next question, she offered a small smile. "If I know my son—and I do—he’s waiting for you upstairs. In his old bedroom. He may be stubborn, but he won’t go to sleep without trying to fix things."
The warmth in her voice was unexpected, and when she placed a gentle hand on your arm, she added, "Call me Mom. Family is built over time, but you’re part of ours now."
Something in your chest tightened, but you found yourself nodding, feeling the smallest bit lighter.
"Go to him," she murmured, stepping back toward the house. "The night is long, but love is patient."
The hallways of the Park estate were quiet, dimly lit by sconces casting soft, flickering light. The house smelled like old parchment, polished mahogany, and something herbal—like a potion left brewing long enough to become part of the walls. The weight of history pressed in on you as you followed the familiar path to Jay’s childhood bedroom.
Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as you stood outside his door, slightly ajar, warm lamplight spilling onto the dark floorboards. Your heart was a riot in your chest, each beat slamming against your ribs.
You pushed the door open.
Jay was there. Waiting.
He sat on the edge of his bed, one elbow propped on his knee, fingers pressed to his temple like he had the beginnings of a headache. His sleeves were still rolled up, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms, and his shirt hung loosely over his frame, collar slightly undone like he’d been tugging at it in frustration. His hair was tousled—from his hands, or maybe from the weight of the night.
He looked up as you entered. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders tensed.
The room was suffocatingly personal. The bed, bigger than you expected, was covered in dark gray sheets that had long lost their crispness. The walls, lined with old Quidditch posters and bookshelves crammed with textbooks and novels, spoke of a younger, more ambitious Jay—one you had never known.
Your throat tightened. This was his space. His past. And now you were stepping into it.
You shut the door behind you, your breath unsteady.
“Your mom told me you’d be here,” you said softly.
Jay scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. "Of course, she did."
The silence that stretched between you was thick with unspoken things. You shifted on your feet, nerves crawling up your spine. It shouldn’t be this hard to talk to him.
You exhaled. "She also told me to call her Mom."
That got his attention. His brow furrowed slightly, his gaze flickering over you like he was trying to decide if you were serious. "Yeah?"
You nodded. "She gave me some advice, too. About meeting halfway."
Jay inhaled deeply, rubbing at his temple before looking at you fully. "Sounds like her."
More silence. It wasn’t cold anymore, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Just hesitant. Fragile.
Finally, he sighed. "I don’t like fighting with you."
The words hit you harder than they should have. A lump formed in your throat. "Me neither."
Jay’s eyes softened just slightly, his posture relaxing the smallest bit. "I meant what I said earlier. This… us. It’s real, whether we wanted it to be or not."
You swallowed against the sudden sting behind your eyes. Real. That word lodged itself deep in your chest, making it hard to breathe.
You took a slow step forward. Then another. And another, until you were standing between his knees.
Jay’s hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.
"I don’t know how to do this," you whispered, voice tight.
Jay’s throat bobbed as he exhaled, and this time, he didn’t hesitate. His hands slid up your hips, fingers digging into your waist just enough to make you feel it.
“Then let’s figure it out together,” he murmured.
A small, broken sound escaped you before you could stop it. His grip tightened.
Tears slipped past your lashes, and Jay’s entire expression shifted. His fingers brushed up, cradling your face, wiping them away.
"Baby, hey—" his voice dropped lower, raw. "Why are you crying?"
You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t know. I just—" You sucked in a breath. "You call me baby like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like we’re normal. And I don’t know what to do with that."
Jay studied you for a long moment, then tilted his head forward, pressing his forehead to yours.
His warmth seeped into your skin, anchoring you. He smelled like home.
"You don’t have to do anything with it," he murmured. "Just let me hold you."
You let out another shaky breath before you did something you hadn’t done before.
You settled into his lap.
Jay’s entire body stiffened, but he didn’t stop you. His arms came up instinctively, wrapping around your waist, holding you tighter, like he was afraid you’d disappear.
Your fingers toyed with the edges of his collar, trailing along the warm skin just beneath it. His pulse thrummed under your fingertips, fast but steady.
Then, without thinking, you leaned in and kissed him.
It was soft at first, hesitant—a brush of lips meant to test the waters. But when Jay sighed against your mouth and pulled you flush against him, the hesitation melted away.
He kissed you deeper.
You could feel everything in the way he held you—his hands sliding up your spine, his fingers tracing your ribs, the weight of every moment leading up to this one.
By the time you pulled away, you were breathless. Your forehead rested against his, lips still tingling.
Then, in a hushed, teasing voice, you whispered, "I love it when you smother me with yourself. It makes me feel beautiful."
Jay froze.
Then—a deep, rich laugh rumbled in his chest. He tipped his head back, grinning. "What?"
Your cheeks burned. "It sounded better in my head."
Jay’s arms tightened around you, his lips brushing over your temple as he chuckled. "God, you’re ridiculous."
You hummed, tracing absent patterns over his chest. "But you love it."
Jay exhaled, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as if he belonged there. "Yeah, baby," he murmured against your skin. "I do."
For the first time that night, everything felt right.
The morning sun poured through the windows the next morning, casting golden streaks across the bedroom floor. You stirred slightly, feeling warmth wrapped around you—solid, firm, undeniably Jay.
His arm was draped over your waist, his breath hot against the back of your neck, slow and steady. His entire body was flush against yours, the weight of his leg thrown over yours, as if he had unconsciously tangled himself around you in the night.
You froze, hyper-aware of every point of contact. His hand splayed low on your stomach, fingers curled just barely under the hem of your shirt. His breath fanned over the shell of your ear, sending shivers racing down your spine.
Then, he tightened his grip.
You sucked in a breath as his fingers flexed against your skin, pulling you back against him. A low hum rumbled in his chest, deep and sleepy.
"Mmm. Stay," he muttered, voice thick with sleep, gravelly in a way that made your stomach flip.
You should move. You should pull away. But you don’t.
Instead, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, just for a second. The feel of him—his bare skin against yours, the solid press of his body—had your mind spiraling into dangerous places. He was so warm, so strong, so impossibly close.
Your breath stuttered as you felt his fingers slide just a little lower, his palm pressing just a little firmer.
And then, realization hit.
You jerked away, heart hammering, but Jay barely reacted. He let out a tired groan, stretching his arm over his head before blinking at you through half-lidded eyes.
"What’s wrong?" His voice was hoarse, his gaze still heavy with sleep.
You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to stay even. "Nothing. Just… we should get up."
Jay smirked, lazy and knowing.
"If you say so, baby."
The walk home was silent, but thick. Every brush of your arms, every accidental glance, every moment of quiet between you carried an unbearable weight.
You weren’t sure when it had started—this undercurrent of something more, something dangerous. But you could feel it burning beneath the surface.
When you stepped inside the apartment, the air changed.
Jay lingered near the kitchen, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. He watched you, gaze heavy, unreadable. You could feel it—the tension crackling between you like a live wire.
Finally, he broke the silence. "You’re different."
You glanced at him. "So are you."
His lips quirked. "That a bad thing?"
You didn’t answer. Because no, it wasn’t. And that was the problem.
It started small. A test. A game.
You began pushing his buttons—on purpose.
Brushing past him with too much force. Leaning in just a little too close when speaking. Letting your fingers trail over his wrist absentmindedly, just to see if he’d react.
And Jay? He played back.
His palm ghosting over the small of your back when he passed behind you. His lips brushing your ear as he murmured something teasing. His fingers trailing down your spine for just a second too long.
Then came the moment when he finally called you out.
One night, as you passed him in the hallway, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.
He turned to face you, his eyes dark, smirk sharp.
"What’s this, baby? Trying to get my attention?"
Your breath caught in your throat. You had been. But you weren’t about to admit it.
You scoffed. "In your dreams."
Jay chuckled, but there was something dangerous in his expression now.
"Oh, I think you’ve been in my dreams, too."
Your heart slammed against your ribs. He was winning. And you couldn’t have that.
So, you did something reckless.
As you moved past him, you let your fingers drag over his stomach, just barely skimming the skin exposed by his loose shirt.
Jay stiffened.
For the first time, he looked affected. His jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his sides.
Then, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You keep playing with fire, baby."
You turned, eyes locking onto his. "And what if I am?"
His lips parted. His fingers curled into fists.
He was so, so close to losing it.
It happened in the smallest, most ridiculous way.
You were reaching for something on the top shelf in the kitchen when Jay stepped behind you, his body pressing up against yours, his hand effortlessly grabbing it before you could.
"Let me," he murmured, his voice low and deep in your ear.
You froze. Every inch of him was against you. His chest, his hips, his hands.
Then, you pressed back against him.
Jay let out a quiet, shaky breath. His fingers dug into your waist.
"You don’t know what you’re doing to me," he whispered. His lips brushed your ear, his breath warm.
You turned slightly, your lips just barely grazing his.
"Then show me."
And that was it. That was the moment. Jay grabbed you, spun you, backed you against the counter.
His mouth crashed against yours—needy, desperate, hungry. A gasp escaped you, swallowed instantly by his lips. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you onto the counter with ease.
You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, so, so close.
Jay broke the kiss, panting, pressing his forehead against yours. His hands shook as they held onto you. "Tell me to stop."
You shook your head. "Don’t you dare.".
The air between you and Jay was electric, charged with unspoken desire that had been simmering for far too long. It was too much now, a weight pressing down on you both, demanding to be released. When his lips finally claimed yours, it was with urgency, with hunger, as if he had been holding back for months.
The kitchen—such a normal, mundane setting—was suddenly transformed into something far more intimate, more dangerous. The cool granite countertop pressed into your back as Jay’s lips crushed against yours, sending shockwaves through your body.
At first, your lips parted in surprise, but the moment you surrendered, it was over. His kiss was hungry, his mouth moving fervently against yours, tasting, exploring, claiming. His tongue swept inside, demanding, possessive, like he was marking you as his own.
A soft moan escaped you, a sound of surrender, of need.
It seemed to unleash something in him.
His hands, which had been resting gently on your thighs, tightened with fierce intensity. His long fingers dug into the soft flesh, leaving imprints as he pushed you further into the counter, molding you against him. Your back arched instinctively, pressing your body closer, craving more of the heat between you.
The kiss deepened, turning hotter, messier. A whimper slipped from your lips, and Jay responded with a deep, primal growl, his mouth leaving yours to trail fire along your jaw, your neck.
“God, baby,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, wrecked. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” His breath was hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine, curling in your stomach. “You drive me fucking crazy.”
Your thoughts were incoherent, lost in the sheer intensity of him.
Your hands, which had been resting against his broad shoulders, now tangled in his dark hair, tugging, pulling him closer. You needed more, needed to be consumed by him, needed to drown in the way he was touching, kissing, ruining you.
"Do something about it," you whispered, your voice thick with want, raw with need.
It was a challenge, a dare—one that Jay was more than willing to accept.
With a feral grin, he pulled back, his eyes dark with pure desire. “Oh, I will.” His voice was low, dripping with promise.
In a swift motion, his hands gripped your waist, strong fingers spanning your sides as he lifted you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his hips on instinct, as if you had done this dance with him a thousand times before.
And then, you felt it.
His hardness pressing against you, just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to send a delicious thrill racing down your spine.
Jay devoured your mouth as he carried you out of the kitchen, his footsteps unsteady, his grip unrelenting. You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, matching his fervor with your own.
The urgency between you both was palpable, nearly unbearable.
By the time Jay kicked open the bedroom door, his lips never leaving yours, his hands never loosening their grip on you, your entire body felt like it was burning from the inside out.
He stumbled inside, kicked the door shut with his foot, and suddenly, everything blurred.
You barely had time to register the bed before you were falling onto it, your body sinking into the mattress as he followed, covering you, pressing you down, making sure you felt every inch of him.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he growled, his voice thick, rough with need. “Every fucking day, I’ve fantasized about having you, about claiming you like this.”
Your fingers traced the strong lines of his jaw, relishing the roughness of his unshaven skin.
"Then take me," you whispered, a boldness you didn’t even know you possessed. “Make me yours.”
Jay’s response was immediate.
His fingers wrapped around your wrists, pinning them above your head, his grip firm but careful. His free hand roamed, tracing your curves, exploring, memorizing.
His thumb brushed over the peak of your nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp from you, your body arching instinctively.
“I want to see you,” he murmured, his voice like gravel, heavy with restraint. “All of you.”
Your heart pounded as you sat up, pulling your shirt over your head, revealing the delicate black lace beneath.
Jay’s eyes darkened. His breath hitched.
Releasing your wrists, his hands moved to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing the hardened peaks, rolling, stroking, watching you squirm beneath him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his lips finding yours again, a searing, devastating kiss.
His mouth trailed down, down, down, leaving a path of kisses, nipping, sucking, making you tremble beneath him.
His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants, and you arched into him, desperate.
"Please, Jay," you begged, your voice a breathless plea. "I need you."
He let out a dark chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Oh, you’ll have me, baby. But first… I want to taste you."
And then, he did.
His lips, his tongue, his fingers—all of him, taking his time, taking you apart.
You were a trembling, gasping mess beneath him, gripping the sheets, crying out his name.
And when you finally shattered, when he pulled every last moan from your lips, he moved back over you, watching you, waiting, drinking in the sight of you undone beneath him.
You reached for him, pulling him down, wrapping yourself around him, whispering his name.
And when he finally slid into you, deep and slow, filling you in one smooth stroke, you knew. This wasn’t just need. This wasn’t just hunger.
This was everything.
Jay buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning as your body clenched around him, gripping him perfectly. He moved slow, deep, deliberate. Like he wanted to make sure you felt everything. Like he wanted to ruin you.
And he did. He whispered your name against your skin.
And when you both tumbled over the edge together, it wasn’t just ecstasy. It was something more.
Something terrifying, something dangerous, something neither of you were ready to name. Afterward, Jay didn’t move.
He just held you, his lips pressing absentminded kisses against your temple, your jaw.
The sheets were a tangled mess beneath you, the room still thick with the remnants of last night—the heat, the whispered names, the overwhelming need.
But morning had arrived, and with it, clarity.
You lay still, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, stomach twisting. You could feel him beside you, the warmth of his body still clinging to yours, the weight of his arm draped lazily over your waist.
You should move. You should get up.
Instead, you stayed still, afraid to break the moment. Afraid of what came next.
Then, Jay stirred.
A slow inhale. A shift of weight. Then, his hold on you tightened.
“Baby, you know I'm in love with you right?” he murmured, his voice thick, raspy from sleep.
Your stomach flipped, heat rising to your cheeks at the way the word slipped so effortlessly from his lips.
Then, he pressed a lazy kiss to the back of your shoulder.
Something inside you clenched at the tenderness of it. The way his lips lingered, soft and warm, like he was memorizing you, grounding himself in the feel of you.
It was so different from last night. Last night had been fire, hunger, pure desire. But this? This was something else entirely.
Something terrifying.
You swallowed hard, your body going stiff beneath his touch. He noticed.
Jay let out a quiet exhale, his fingers tracing soothing circles over your hip. Then, finally, he spoke.
“I meant what I said.”
Your breath caught in your throat. His words. The confession you hadn’t acknowledged.
“I know,” you whispered.
He shifted, his grip tightening just slightly, as if afraid you’d slip away. His lips found your bare shoulder again, pressing another slow, lingering kiss.
“My Doll,” he murmured, his voice softer this time, but still weighted with emotion. “You don’t have to say anything. Not yet.”
You turned your head slightly, eyes meeting his for the first time that morning. He looked different.
Softer. More open. But just as intense. Your lips parted, but no words came. Because what could you say? You weren’t ready. You weren’t sure what this was.
But Jay just smiled, small and knowing, like he understood anyway.
“You don’t have to figure it out right now,” he murmured, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just… let me be here with you.”
Your chest tightened. That was the problem. He was already here. Closer than he had ever been. You didn’t know if you had it in you to push him away.
It took days. Maybe longer. But it was always there, lingering between you.
Jay never said it again, but you could feel it in everything he did.
The way he pulled you close when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way he touched you—not just with heat, but with reverence. The way he whispered "Baby" like it was the most natural thing in the world.
But the moment it finally hit you, it was almost embarrassing how obvious it had been all along.
It wasn’t in the quiet nights, or the way he held you in his sleep.
It was something as simple as Jay waiting for you outside of work.
It had been a rough day. One of those days where everything felt heavy. And when you stepped outside, seeing him leaning against the lamppost, hands in his pockets, waiting for you like it was the most natural thing in the world—
It hit you like a train.
He smiled the second he saw you, pushing off the post and walking over like he couldn’t get to you fast enough. “Hey, babe. You okay?”
And instead of answering, you just stood there, staring at him—this man who had somehow become everything.
Jay frowned slightly, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
You let out a breath, and before you could stop yourself, the words just slipped out “I love you.”
Jay stilled. His fingers twitched against your cheek, his expression unreadable.
Then, his lips parted. “Y/N…”
You panicked. “I—I mean it too I-”
But before you could take it back, Jay was already moving, already kissing you like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear you say those words.
And when he finally pulled back, breathless, a little dazed, he just grinned.
“You can say it again, you know.”
You rolled your eyes, but when he leaned in and whispered, “Say it again, baby,” you did.
Because you meant it.
Months later, the apartment felt different. Warmer. More like a home than a place you had been forced into.
The nursery had been Jay’s latest obsession. He had spent the entire day painting the walls, rearranging furniture, making sure everything was perfect. And now, he was sprawled across your bed, half-asleep, waiting for you.
You stood in the doorway, hand resting on your six-months-pregnant belly, watching him with amusement. His shirtless form was stretched across the mattress, hair still messy from the day’s work, an arm thrown over his eyes.
“Babe,” you called softly.
He groaned. “Mmm.”
You stepped forward, nudging his foot with yours. “You’re hogging the bed.”
Jay cracked one eye open, a slow, sleepy grin spreading across his lips. “And you’re glowing, mama.”
You rolled your eyes, crawling into bed beside him, letting out a relieved sigh as you sank into his warmth. Jay turned onto his side, one large hand coming to rest on your belly, thumb rubbing slow circles over the fabric of your shirt.
“Tired?” you asked.
“Exhausted,” he muttered, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “But you’re worth it.”
You smiled, letting your fingers trace the ridges of his forearm. “You’ve been working too hard.”
Jay hummed, shifting closer, his lips grazing your jaw, your cheek. “You’re carrying my kid. I’d build a whole damn castle if you wanted one.”
You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
He nuzzled against your cheek, voice growing drowsy. “Only for you, my Doll”
You turned your head slightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips.
Jay smiled into it, whispering, “Can’t wait to meet them.”
Your heart squeezed, warmth flooding through you.
“Me too,” you whispered, letting yourself sink into him. “Me too.”
Then, in his half-asleep state, he muttered, “But if they have your stubborn streak, we’re doomed.”
You snorted. “Then you better start preparing now.”
He pulled you in tighter, his lips brushing your forehead. “I already have everything I need.”
You yawned, stretching your fingers along his bare chest before whispering, “Come here, baby.”
Jay let out a pleased hum, shifting fully into your arms, resting his head against your shoulder. His strong arms wrapped around you, careful yet firm, his warmth seeping into your skin as he melted into you.
“Mm, I like it when you call me that,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.
You smirked, running a hand through his messy hair. “Good. Because I’m not stopping.”
As sleep began to claim you both, Jay murmured, “You know, I hated every second of that damn law.”
You sighed, your fingers tightening against his chest. “Me too.”
“But…” he continued, his voice soft and full of something deep, something real, “I’ve loved every second with you.”
You smiled, pressing a final kiss to his skin. “Me too, Jay. Me too."
You and Satoru had been in an arranged marriage for a year now, and one night, after months of yearning, everything finally comes crashing together
Tags: explicit sex, emotional sex, soft sex, angst, p eating, body worship, multiple orgasms, crying during sex, love confession
wc: 6k
Satoru had really screwed up this time. Badly. He could tell in the way you moved in silence. The way you watched quietly as the girl he brought home stormed out while you were coming back to the house from some outing.
Your eyes hadn't met his since. It's been three hours. Three hours of your quiet moving through the house like a ghost he couldn't touch. Usually he kept his… acquaintances far away from you. He never brought them home, no matter how hard they begged. But he'd been careless. And drunk. And before he knew it he had the girl at his house, your house, and once he'd realized what he'd done he kicked her out. She'd slapped him, her ring cutting his cheek, and left just as you were coming in.
He watched you, feeling like a child in trouble—which was a sensation so foreign to him it sat wrong in his chest, too tight, too unfamiliar. Satoru Gojo didn't answer to anyone. He never had. He was the strongest, untouchable, untethered. But here he was, hovering in his own kitchen like a kicked puppy, waiting for you to acknowledge him.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. And yet he couldn't make himself stop.
He knew your marriage was of convenience. The two of your clans forcing a marriage upon you two for the sake of tradition. And the two of you had agreed. On your wedding night, the day you met, you'd see other people and be discreet about it.
It's been a year. A year and he's grown accustomed to this shaky routine you two have. He'd come home, you'd make food. You were quiet most of the time. Polite. Keeping to yourself. But always took his feelings and opinions into consideration. When you were remodeling the house you checked with him with every change, made sure he liked it, made sure you put things he'd be happy with. You made dinner. Things he liked. And sweets you knew he'd love. You were observant. Especially to him.
The two of you had formed a friendship. Quiet nights where he'd come home and find you reading. He'd eat the leftovers you'd made him and plop down on the couch and disrupt your quiet time by asking a million questions about what was going on in the book. You never got annoyed. It was your superpower, he used to tell himself. You were the only person who didn't get annoyed by him.
You'd set your book down and tell him all about it and he'd just watch you. In your cute pajamas and your hair braided and your glasses he only ever saw on you at night. And faintly he'd think you were so beautiful it wasn't fair. He'd also think he was the only one who got to see you like this. And for some reason he held onto that small possession for dear life, for reasons he didn't want to analyze too carefully—didn't want to pick at, the way you didn't pick at a healing wound.
But getting back to now. Now you were ignoring him. And he felt small. And he didn't know how to fix it. You set the table and he stands uselessly. He studies your face as you sit down, drinking in every line of it, the careful neutrality you'd arranged over your features like armor. He sits across from you, foot tapping on the floor.
He looks at his bowl.
"You made curry,” he states stupidly.
"Astute observation," you remark and still refuse to look at him.
He almost smiles. He would've smiled if it weren't for the tension pressing down on the room like a held breath. There she is. Another thing he admired about you was your ability to be so effortlessly cutting. When it was deserved of course.
"Yeah…" he says, playing with his spoon. What is wrong with him? He knows why you're mad. He brought a girl here. Here. Home. To his and your space. He ruined the fragile stability of the home— the quiet, careful thing the two of you had built together without ever naming it. "I sent her away. I kicked her out—when I realized what I did I—"
"I didn't ask," you cut him off, taking a long bite of your food.
He didn't know how to fix things. Satoru Gojo wasn't made for this. Not marriage. He never was. It's part of the reason he stayed away from you. He knew in the end he'd always hurt you. He just hadn't expected it to feel like this—like something caving in inside of him.
Then you glance up at him for the first time, eyes tracking his face. You set your spoon down and wordlessly get up, his gaze following your every move like it's sacred, like he's cataloguing you. You come back out with a cotton swab and cleaner. He frowns in confusion when you sit directly in front of him and grasp his chin in your grip.
"She shouldn't have hit you," you whisper. Your touch is so gentle it makes the back of his throat ache. You dab at his cheek with the wet cotton ball, cleaning him like he's something worth tending to.
Fuck. You're a saint. You always have been.
"You don't feel that urge sometimes? I'm very hittable," he says and smiles—but it's not his usual smirk, all sharp edges and performance. It's quieter than that. More honest. Vulnerable in a way he'd never let anyone else see.
"Of course not," you say, eyebrows drawing in. "I wouldn't ever hit you. That's abuse."
He wants to laugh. He wants to tease you but this— whatever this is— is far too fragile to poke at. His eyes flick down to your lips. He wants to kiss you. He's noticed over the last four months, maybe longer, that he always wants to kiss you. That your lips look soft and smooth and he remembers exactly what they felt like on their wedding night—the only night he's allowed himself to really have you. He has to physically stop himself from glancing down at your thighs that were excruciatingly close to his face. Down, boy.
"I wasn't nice to her," he says, because he needs to keep talking or he'll do something reckless.
"That doesn't justify violence. She hurt you."
"I'm fine. It's just a scratch." He tries for a smile but your expression doesn't budge. You put a bandaid on his face with the same steady hands you do everything with and his heart does something embarrassing in his chest. Why do you have to be so goddamn sweet?
"Satoru," you start, holding your chin high in that way you do before you state something you absolutely believe in. "I don't want any more women in the house. Do you… do you honestly not realize how disrespectful that is to me—?"
"I know," he cuts you off, closing his eyes. For once he's serious. This is the type of situation where he needs to be serious. The smirk, the bravado, the arrogant deflection—none of that works on you. It never has. "I know. It won't happen again. I'm sorry." A beat. Then again quieter, "I'm sorry, princess."
Satoru Gojo apologizes. And you are the only person who will ever get him to. Despite everything. You are his wife and he respects that. He respects you. Or he thought he did. He's not sure what he thought anymore.
You get up and go back to your own spot. The rest of dinner is spent in silence. He doesn't understand. He apologized. Why are you still mad? Why can't you go back to teasing him like you always do? Why does the distance between you across a small table feel like miles?
After dinner he follows you around like a lost puppy — which is humiliating, really, the great Satoru Gojo trailing after someone like he needs their approval to exist. But he can feel the disappointment radiating from you and he hates it. Wants to tear it up. Wants a time machine so he can go back and not fuck everything up.
Once you get to the bedroom—technically it was both of yours but it was yours more than his. Satoru sleeps in the guest room. The arrangement had made sense, once. Now it just felt like a reminder of all the space he'd put between them on purpose.
"I said it won't happen again," he repeats. He needs you to say something. Anything.
"Do you want a gold star?" You snap, whirling around suddenly. This is the angriest he's ever seen you, and something shameful and fascinated in him thinks, god she’s beautiful like this. "You shouldn't have done it in the first place!"
"I know—"
You shove at his chest suddenly. Coming from the woman who just said violence wasn't the answer. He must really bring out the worst in you. "Did you sleep with her in our bed?"
"No!" He insists. "No—fuck no— I didn't touch her. Not in this house at least. Not in your space. I wouldn't— come on, princess. You know I wouldn't do that."
"Do I?"
And that hits him somewhere unprotected. Right in the middle of his chest where he doesn't usually let people reach.
"As soon as I realized what was happening I kicked her out. I swear. I swear it."
Silence. But he can see some of the tension loosen from your shoulders, just slightly. Enough.
He shifts on his feet, jaw working. "Can I sleep in here tonight?"
It's bold to ask but he asks anyway. For some reason he feels clingy, desperate in a way he'd never admit out loud. Sleeping without you, tonight of all nights, sounds like a particular kind of misery he doesn't want to sit with.
"I suppose," you say, and disappear into the bathroom.
Satoru stares at the door for a long moment before shedding his clothes. He climbs into your side of the bed first by accident, then corrects himself, then wonders why he corrected himself. He pulls the sheets back and sinks into them and breathes. They smell like you. Sweet. He hears the water running and he knows you're washing your face. He's watched you do it enough times that he could close his eyes and see every step. He loves that you take care of yourself. That you're so sure of yourself in every aspect of life, so unhurried. It's damning. And he's envious of your stillness, which is ironic considering who he is—what he is.
If he's being completely honest, which he isn't often, only in rare moments like this when the walls come down because he's too tired to hold them up, he stays away from you on purpose. Because he knows— truly knows—that he could love you. Not the convenient kind. Not the quiet understanding kind. The kind that would swallow him whole and leave nothing behind. And it's nauseating. Terrifying. So he pushes you away, keeps the guest room, keeps his distance, keeps his acquaintances. But the feeling still lingers. It lingers in the soft glances and the soft touches and the way you look after him —the man who takes care of everyone else and has never once known how to be taken care of in return. It lingers.
He shouldn't be in here. He should be in the guest room. Far from you. Far from all of it.
But when you emerge from the bathroom he doesn't leave.
You'd changed. Pink silk pajamas, shorts and a tank top, your hair braided in one long braid down your shoulder, glasses perched on your nose.
Shit.
This is his favorite version of you. He's never told you that. He probably never will.
You slide into bed, careful to keep to your side, and he gets a slow drift of your scent—pure sugar and vanilla, like a goddamn bakery, like something made to ruin him. He's always had a weakness for sweet things.
It wasn't the first time the two of you had shared a bed. It had happened a couple times over the last year, always for some mundane reason or another. And every time, he regrets it in the morning. Because every time, he wakes up wanting more, and he doesn't know what to do with that.
"You always put that stuff on?" He finds himself murmuring, before he can think better of it.
"Hmm?" You raise an eyebrow and turn on your side to face him so the two of you are eye to eye. The small lamp on your nightstand throws warm light across your face. He has to remind himself to breathe at a reasonable pace.
"That lotion or whatever. It smells good."
"Oh," you say, and then you smile. Soft. Just barely. His chest constricts so fast it nearly winds him. Your first smile all day and he doesn't even feel like he's earned it, which makes it somehow worse. "It's body oil. Not lotion."
"Oh," he murmurs back.
Body oil. Of course it is. Of course.
Your scent reaches him again, curling through the small space between them, and something in him—the part that is always, always holding back—simply gives. He can't stop himself from leaning forward, closing the distance, and burying his face in the curve of your neck. The exhale that leaves him is involuntary. He inhales you in like he's been starving for it.
You don't shove him off.
You should. You both know you should.
His lips find the column of your throat, not kissing, not yet, just skimming. The barest suggestion of pressure. Waiting. Asking a question he doesn't have the courage to say out loud.
"W-what—" your voice comes out broken, barely a whisper. "What are you doing?"
The sound of you stuttering does something irreversible to him. His lips trace upward, slow as anything, mapping the soft skin just below your jaw. Still not a real kiss. Still holding himself at the edge of it.
"Kissing my wife." The words come out low, rougher than he intends. And then finally, after a year, after all the careful distance and deliberate coldness and every night he made himself walk to the guest room —he presses a real kiss below your jaw. Slow. Aching. Like he's savoring something he's been denying himself for so long he's forgotten what it felt like to want something this badly.
"Fuck—" he breathes against your skin, the curse more of a prayer.
Your hands find his shoulders. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just gripping, like you need something to hold onto. Like you're as undone as he is and trying not to show it. It only urges him on.
"Satoru." His name on your lips in that wrecked little exhale is the single most devastating sound he's ever heard in his life. "We shouldn't."
He presses another kiss just behind your ear, where the vanilla is warmest. He lingers there. His eyes fall shut.
"Why?" He breathes it against your skin, then shifts until he's half over you, bracing his weight carefully on his forearms so he can look down at your face. He needs to see you. "Tell me why, because I can't think of a single reason right now. I can't think of anything but you."
You're looking up at him and your expression is—god, you're going to destroy him. You're looking at him like you've been holding something back too. Like maybe he isn't the only one who's been keeping distance on purpose.
"Because," you say, and it's not an answer, and you both know it's not an answer.
So he doesn't stop.
He traces his mouth up your cheek, the curve of it, your temple, the center of your forehead. Unhurried. Worshipful. He has spent a year keeping himself from this and he refuses to rush now that he's finally here. Every kiss is a confession he doesn't know how to make with words. Every brush of his lips says I notice you and I think about you and you're the only person who has ever made me feel small and safe at the same time.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your skin, the words spilling out of him like a secret he can't keep anymore. "Do you know that? Do you have any idea what you do to me, just... existing?"
His mouth reaches the corner of yours and he stops. Waits. His heartbeat is embarrassingly loud in his own ears.
And then you move first.
You're the one who crosses the last impossible inch. You're the one who presses your lips into his, soft and certain, like you've decided something.
Holy shit. My wife is kissing me.
Your lips are slow, consuming, devastatingly unhurried. Like you've thought about how you'd do this and you are not going to let him rush you. He's been kissed before. Many times. By many people. None of it felt like this—like being unmade. Like being seen. He makes a sound low in his throat that he'll be embarrassed about later, melting into you and your sweet touch before he can stop himself. His hand finds your jaw, your cheek, tilting your face up toward him like he'll get more of you that way.
He matches your rhythm, your pace, letting the fire catch slow—slow and sizzling and inevitable, like something that was always going to happen, like something that should have happened months ago, like maybe the whole year has just been them circling this moment and finally, finally falling in.
Then you slide your tongue in with his and he groans, deep and guttural. His hips move slightly against you before he can stop himself, letting you feel just how much he aches for you. "You feel that?" he rasps, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak. "That's all you. That's what you do to me. No one else—just you."
"Satoru," you gasp against his lips and that's all he wants to hear for the rest of his life is his name from your mouth. "Please."
He kisses down now, down your throat, allowing himself to claim you. His his his. All of you. His wife. He sucks on every inch of skin, hungry, desperate. "Please what, baby? Tell me what you want." His voice is wrecked, pleading. "I'll give you anything. Anything. Just tell me."
"Please touch me," you plead, arching into his hands that are on your waist.
"Fuck." The word is punched out of him. "Fuck, you have no idea what that does to me." One of his hands slide up your belly, under your loose tank top and cups your breast. He marvels at how well you fill out his hand, how perfect every inch of you is for him. "You're so perfect. So goddamn perfect."
"Can I..?" He asks you, already breathless.
You respond by flinging your tank top off for him.
"Oh fuck," he says when he gets a good look at you, his voice barely above a whisper, reverent. "Look at you. Just—look at you." Of course he's seen you naked before. On your wedding night. But this is different. Way different. That night had been about business and honor and consummating for the cameras so the old fucking elders could watch.
But this is different. This is just you two.
His mouth joins his hand, he can't help but taste, drawing in your pretty peaked nipple into his warm mouth. He needs to taste every inch of you. Needs to worship you. Needs it more than he needs to get off. He nibbles and sucks and when you gasp his name again he groans against your skin, the vibration making you shiver. "God, you taste sweet. Like candy. Like my new favorite thing."
"Please," You moan and arch into him.
He pulls back just enough to smirk at you, but it's soft, fond—the arrogance tempered into something almost tender. "Please what? Use your words, pretty girl. I want to hear you." He's not done playing with your pretty tits. So you can beg all you like. But he's taking his sweet time. He switches to the other breast to show it just as much attention. Fuck. My wife has perfect tits, he thinks to himself. Taste so sweet. So pretty. So perfect. This is heaven. His face is buried in your breasts while you plead with him for more. If he died right now he'd die the happiest he's ever been.
Your nails dig into his shoulder in warning. He smiles against your nipple, latching off of it to look at you wickedly. "You have no idea," he murmurs against your skin, "how long I've—" He stops. Switches his mouth to your other breast instead of finishing the sentence. That's too much. That's too honest. But his hands tighten on you, and maybe that says it anyway.
"Please, Satoru!" you moan, arching sharply. Unable to tell him properly what you want. Just that you’re aching for more.
"No," he says simply, against your nipple, but his voice is warm, teasing. "Not yet. I'm not done. I could do this all night." He can feel your frustration and he loves it. He smiles against your skin. "I'm not done."
Your nails drag into his shoulder in warning and he laughs—actually laughs, quiet and warm— and lifts his head just enough to look at you. Your brows are furrowed, jaw dropped, completely wrecked, and he has done that to you, he has, and it's the best thing he's ever seen in his life.
"Don't give me that look," he says, holding eye contact as he slowly swirls his tongue over the peak. "I told you. I'm. Not. Done. You're so sensitive, baby. It's driving me crazy."
A tiny whimper escapes you and suddenly he feels your body snap, shaking uncontrollably. He watches your face contort in its peak of pleasure, his own eyes going wide with awe. He keeps sucking, amazed, watching you.
When your body stops and your huffing is when he unlatches. "Holy shit, baby," he says absolutely in awe, kissing your sternum over and over like he can't get enough. "You just came from me sucking on your pretty tits? Just from that?" He laughs, disbelieving, delighted. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen. Ever."
He's never made a woman cum like that. Ever. Fuck.
A flush travels up your neck, embarrassment on your face. Your hands slap over your cheeks to hide.
He smiles against your skin. "No, don't hide," he kisses up your chest before reaching your chin. He tugs on your wrist gently. "Come on, look at me."
"Shut up."
His smile gets bigger, he kisses your hand that's covering your face. "Don't be embarrassed. Baby, that was so fucking hot." He kisses more, murmurs against your skin, muffled, "fucking sexy. You're fucking sexy. I can't believe you're—"
Mine. But he doesn’t say that. He can’t.
Your grip loosens and he finally gets you to look at him. He doesn't hesitate when your lips are free. He kisses them, pulling you into a slow kiss, grinding into you, letting you know just how much he likes it when you cum for him.
"More," you gasp against his mouth.
"Yeah?" He grins, nipping at your lower lip. "You want more? Because I've got plenty."
Oh he can do more.
His hand travels down, yanking your shorts down and throwing them somewhere. He licks his lips when he sees your pink lace panties. "So fucking cute," he breathes. "Everything you wear is fucking cute. I want to buy you more of this. I want to take you shopping and get you pretty pink bras and panties and lingerie and then I want to take them off you. Slowly."
He spreads your thighs with both his hands then brings his thumb up to press down on your clit through your panties.
"Mmm!" You whine and arch again. You're so sensitive. Probably the most sensitive girl he's ever been with. He can probably make you cum just from pressing on your pretty little bundle a couple of times.
He marvels at how wet you are, soaking the panties through just from getting your nipples played with. "All of this," he murmurs, almost to himself, "just for me. You're soaked, baby. All for me."
His mouth waters at the sight. He takes what he wants. He leans down and sucks on your clit through the fabric, he feels your hands frantically claw at him and your surprised moan but he can't process any of it. His eyes roll back and he devours you, sucking you, his tongue rolling around the sensitive bud while he makes out with your cunt. It's as slow and aching as when he was kissing your throat only now it was your most sensitive area. He moans against you, the sound vibrating through you. "God, you taste so good. I could stay here forever."
His hands slide under your ass, clutching the globes and pressing you into his mouth. This is bliss.
"You taste so good," he groans against you. "Why didn't we do this sooner. Why did I wait so long—should've been eating your pretty cunt months ago—I'm such an idiot—"
"Ssatoru!" Your hand flies to his white strands, gripping at the root. "Oh—yes yes yes."
He moves his head to a rhythm, encouraged by your moans. He needs you to cum just like this. Through the fabric. Just from him kissing your cunt sloppy. He slides his tongue hot and wet along your clit over and over, then nibbles around the bud. "That's it," he chants against you. "Come on, baby. Cum for me again. I want to feel it."
"Ah! Mm cuming—I'm cumming!" You shout and shake around him as your orgasm crashes over you. He keeps going, drawing out every last bit of pleasure he can take. Your hands tighten to the point of it being painful but then loosen once you've come down from your high.
"That's it. That's my girl." He presses a soft kiss to your clothed core, gentle now. "So good. You're so good."
He's reluctant to pull away. Him and your cunt are just getting acquainted. Becoming good friends if you will. But he does. He pulls up and kisses your quaking belly before resting his forehead against yours. You're staring in a daze and he could get addicted to that expression. No he always is. He wants another one. And another one. He wants at least four.
"Two," he whispers more to himself.
"Two?" You frown.
He grins, but it's soft, almost shy— which looks strange on someone usually so insufferably confident. "I want at least four. At least. I'm not done with you yet. Not even close."
Your eyes widen cutely. "Satoru…" you breathe and reach up, cupping the side of his face. He nearly shivers, leaning into your palm, nuzzling like a cat. Your hands feel so good on him he mutters your name. "I want you."
You want him. He turns his face into your hand and kisses softly, breathing you in. He nods. A part of him can't believe this is happening. He never thought—he never thought they would get here. And he's hit suddenly by how dangerous this is. After this there's no going back. There isn't. He won't be able to. "I want you too," he whispers, voice cracking. "I've wanted you for so long. I was just too scared to—" He shakes his head, unable to finish. "I'm here now. I'm here."
He slides down your panties and you lift your hips to help him. Your desperate eyes looking into him is too much. He needs to be inside you.
In one swift motion, he kicks off his own pants and boxers together—no grace or elegance here, just urgency—and then hovers over you again, bare chest to bare chest now as he lines himself up with trembling restraint. He was achingly hard, his cock swollen and desperate for you.
His hands cradle either side of your face for a heartbeat, gazing into your eyes, so much left to say, before he finally murmurs against those lips: "Look at me. I want to see you. And… tell me if I need to stop. Promise me."
He waits for you to nod before pushing forward, just an inch, losing himself in your tight warm cunt. Fuck fuck fuck. "Oh—god—you're so tight—"
Your hands fly up, eager to grasp onto something for leverage and find his shoulder.
He pushes deeper. He watches your face—watches as you take every inch of him, your eyebrows scrunching at the stretch and fucking—it's the hottest thing he's ever seen. "That's it," he breathes. "Take all of me. You feel so good. So perfect." He finally bottoms out inside you and you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. He's not faring any better. The feeling of your tight cunt sucking him in is almost too much, he drops his face into your neck trying to control himself. "Give me a second," he pants.
He finally bottoms out inside you and you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. He's not faring any better. The feeling of your tight cunt sucking him in is almost too much—"Shit, you feel—fuck, you feel incredible"—he drops his face into your neck trying to control himself.
He has a moment of clarity. This is you. His wife. Not some random girl he picked up at a bar. This is important. This means something.
He gives you both a second before pulling back, almost all the way out before thrusting back in.
"Fuck," he grunts at the same time you say, "Satoru!" You arch your back into him, desperate for more. And he wants you to feel more. He wants to drive you crazy. So he does it again and again, slow deep thrusts. He's never had sex like this before. Not this aching hungry sort of rhythm.
"God, you're so tight," he groans against your skin. "So perfect. Feel you squeezing me—fuck, baby—"
He smiles against your skin as your nails dig into him. "That's it," he murmurs in your ear, completely fascinated by the way you're taking him. "So fucking beautiful. Just feel it. All of it. You feel so good wrapped around me—so fucking good—"
You surprise him by turning your head and catching his lips. He groans into your mouth, deep and desperate. He raises one of his hands to interlock with one of yours, pressing it into the pillows by your head, thrusting his hips at the same agonizing pace. This. This is pure intensity, pure bliss, pure frustration. The intimacy hits him like a punch to the chest.
This isn't casual sex. This isn't some fling or obligation. We are holding hands. We are married. And I am so completely in lo—
He breaks the kiss only to press his forehead against yours, breathing hard as he sets an even rhythm of slow but deep thrusts that let you both feel every inch of connection. Every roll of his hips says more than words could right now.
"You have no idea," he says against your lips, voice cracked open in a way he'd never let anyone hear. "What you do to me. You have absolutely no idea." He thrusts deeper, and a broken sound escapes him. "Been wanting this—wanting you—for so long. So fucking long."
Every roll of his hips is a sentence. I'm sorry I kept you at arm's length. I'm sorry I was a coward. I'm sorry I brought her here. I'm yours. I think I've always been yours.
He pushes as deep as he can, trying to mark you as much as he can. "Want you to feel me tomorrow," he rasps. "Want you to walk around and know—know you're mine." So you remember this. So this haunts you the way it will haunt him. The way you have haunted him for months, in the soft lamp-lit image of you and your glasses and your braided hair and your books. You consume him.
"Need you to remember," he rasps, barely coherent, "remember this. Remember my name on your lips. Remember how good we fit together."
Remember me.
Your legs come up to wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper into your cunt. "Oh—oh fuck," he breathes, the sensation nearly undoing him. One hand moves from your hip to your thigh, holding your legs around him. "Just like that—yeah, just like that, baby—wrap yourself around me—"
You gaze into his eyes, nudging your nose with his softly.
It feels like too much. Tears fill his eyes and he hides his face away in your neck, hips picking up speed. "You're everything," he whispers against your skin, voice breaking. "Everything. I can't—I can't believe I almost—"
He feels your fingers run through his hair, nails gliding over his scalp and he knows what the touch is. It’s a silent, I’ve got you.
You always take care of him. But right now he needs to take care of you.
He hitches your legs higher, changing the angle slightly so his cock hits deeper inside you.
"Satoru!" You moan, hand tightening on his and in his hair. "I'm—ah—I'm close—Toru—so close."
"Yeah? You gonna cum for me?" His voice is wrecked. "Wanna feel it—wanna feel you come apart on my cock—" He feels your pussy clench around him—tightening—and it sends a shockwave of pleasure through his entire body. But even more than that? The way your hips start moving in perfect sync with his, meeting every thrust like the two of you have been doing this forever instead of just tonight…
A broken noise leaves his throat. Fuck. He's close too.
"Cum for me again." His voice comes out rough when he murmurs in your ear. "Cum with me. Want us to—fuck—want to feel you—"
"Ah-!" You moan and your body obeys, shaking and trembling around him as you reach your peak. "Satoru Satoru—S—'Toru!"
You chanting his name in your little slurred voice is like fucking heroin. "That's it—that's my good girl—" His thrusts grow frantic and then stutter. He groans low in his throat, saying your name like a prayer as he cums, electricity lighting down his spine. "Oh god—fuck—I'm—yes—"
He pumps you full of his cum, spurt after spurt. And it's like every atom in his body is electrified. Telling him how right this is. This is where he's always supposed to cum. Inside you. Over and over.
He collapses against you, still buried deep, trembling. He nuzzles into your neck, completely spent. After minutes of just catching each others breaths lets himself look at you. Your eyes crack open and he gets a glimpse of those beautiful irises.
“Hey,” you murmur, reaching up to slide your fingers through his white curls. Then you do that thing again, you nudge him with your nose.
Fuck.
“Hey,” he says back. Then with absolute surety. “I love you.”
Because he does. He has. This entire time. He's loved you. He was just terrified of what that meant. And that's what this was. It was love. The two of you didn't just have sex. You made love.
Your eyes widen, shocked, mouth opening then closing. “But Satoru—“
“But what?” He cuts you off. He finally rolls off of you and it feels wrong. His body protests. His heart clenches being ripped away from where it belongs. He glares at the ceiling suddenly. What if there is someone else? The two of you had agreed on an open marriage. And he'd never had the courage before to ask if there was another man. “Is there another guy? Is that why you don't love me? I don't care if there's another man you love. I'm your husband. Me. And I'll make you love me back. I swear it.” The arrogance bleeds back in — the absolute certainty that he can win you, that he will win you, because Satoru Gojo doesn't lose. Not at anything. Not even this.
“Would you shut up?” You snap and suddenly you roll on top of him, fully straddling him and everything in his mind turns to mush. He stares up at you in awe. Your messy braid, your bare breasts covered in marks from him. “There's no other guy. There's never been another guy Satoru. And—of course I love you. I've always …”
“You do?” He asks hopeful, sitting up on his elbows to get closer to you. The arrogance flickers, replaced by something raw and young and desperate.
You get distracted, eyes flicking to his lips but then you come to your senses and push him back down, hand to his chest. “That's not the point! Why now? Why do you love me now? It doesn't make any sense. No —No you're just feeling guilty about what you did and you don't know how to process that emotion.”
“Don't tell me what I feel.”
You open your mouth again but he stops you.
“I love you," he repeats, and his voice breaks on it, cracks right down the middle and he doesn't try to hide it. "I know I do. I know it the way I know everything that matters—in my bones, in my gut, in the part of me that doesn't lie." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are glassy and fierce at once, like a man confessing something he's been carrying so long it's left marks. "I knew the night I met you. Our wedding night—when I was cold to you, when I was cruel and distant and I told myself it meant nothing—" His jaw tightens. "I knew then. Standing there in front of you I knew and it felt like the ground disappearing under my feet."
He exhales, shaky, his hands cradling your face like you might vanish.
“Do you understand what that's like? For me? There is nothing in this world that scares me. Nothing. I have faced things that would break most people and I didn't flinch." His thumb swipes across your cheek. "And then there was you. You in your quiet way, learning me without asking permission, taking care of me without making me feel small— you scared me more than anything I've ever walked toward." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "Why do you think I kept running? I wasn't running from you. I was running because you know me. The real parts. The ugly parts. You see straight through all of it and that is the most terrifying thing anyone has ever done to me."
His forehead drops to yours. He closes his eyes.
"I kept waiting for you to give up on me," he admits, quieter now, the confession scraped raw from somewhere deep. "I kept waiting for you to get tired of the distance. The coldness. The other women." His throat works. "I think part of me wanted you to. Because if you gave up on me I'd have an excuse to keep the wall up. Keep telling myself it wasn't real. That it didn't mean anything." A broken sound escapes him, something between a laugh and a sob. "But you just — you kept making me dinner. You kept asking if I liked the curtains. You kept leaving the light on."
He opens his eyes.
"Do you know what it did to me every time I came home at two in the morning and the light was on? Because you wanted me to be able to find my way in the dark?" His voice fractures on the last word. "You were taking care of me. Nobody has ever— I have never let anyone — "
He stops. Steadies himself. Tries again.
"I don't know how to do this," he says honestly. "I need you to know that going in. I'm going to mess up. I'm probably going to get scared and I'm probably going to say something stupid and push you away again." His hands tighten gently around your face. "But I'm telling you right now, in this moment where I am more sure than I have ever been of anything—I will always come back. I will always come back to you. Because there is no version of my life that makes sense without you in it anymore and I stopped being able to pretend there was."
The room is so quiet.
You're looking at him and he feels completely stripped —no armor, no smirking, no deflection. Just Satoru. Just the man underneath all of it, who learned your nighttime routine by heart and memorized which sweets you liked and held onto the fact that he was the only one who got to see you in your glasses like it was something holy.
"Say something," he whispers. "Please. You can yell at me if you want. You can tell me it's too late. But please say something because I have never in my life said any of that to anyone and the silence is going to kill me."
And then suddenly tears fall from your pretty eyes and onto his thumbs and his heart shatters.
“Shh,” he whispers, “don’t cry baby.”
You lean forward and catch his lips in a soft emotional kiss. “Took you long enough,” you murmur against him.
A laugh slips from his throat.
And for the first time in as long as he can remember— maybe for the first time ever—Satoru Gojo feels like he’s exactly where he is supposed to be.
title: drakskar
pairings: general!jungkook, yandere!jk x duchess/cadet f!reader
genre: fourth wing au, dark romance, arranged marriage au, smut, porn with plot, fanstasy au
word count: 16,5 K
beta read: lovely @chaoticpuff17
summary: To escape an arranged political marriage to the infamous marked-one general, Jeon Jungkook, you enroll in the Riders Quadrant instead—choosing dragons and near-certain death over becoming his wife. But fate proves crueler than politics when you bond a dragon mated to his.
disclaimer: this is a Fourth Wing AU and therefore borrows lore, concepts, and certain dynamics from Rebecca Yarros’ original worldbuilding. This oneshot was inspired by chapter 22 and explores the idea of what if xaden never taught violet how to shield from the mating bond? all recognizable elements belong to their rightful owners.
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Cadets enrolled in the Riders Quadrant are hereby forbidden from entering into holy matrimony while under active training and service. Any marriage contract, ceremony, or binding recognised outside military authority shall be considered null and void for the duration of enrollment. Violation of this clause is treated as a breach of Quadrant discipline and subject to command review. A rider’s allegiance belongs first to their dragon, then their wing. Marriage is not prohibited. It is deferred until survival is no longer uncertain.
–ARTICLE SEVEN, SECTION TWO
THE DRAGON RIDER’S CODEX
“Are you out of your fucking mind?!”
“In my defence, your proposal was always deeply inconvenient.” You fold your arms. A dangerous pause, you’re waiting for him to snap at you, which…he does.
“We were supposed to be married by now!”
“No, right. My apologies.” You gesture vaguely. Something dark flickers behind his eyes. He pushes off the table and begins walking toward you. His boots echo once. Twice. You hate that your body registers each step as he keeps walking.
“You crossed the parapet,” he says, like he still hasn’t fully accepted the reality of it. “Without training.”
“Yes. I made it.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
He stops in front of you now, close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact.
“You disappeared before dawn,” he says, voice lower now. “Left your family in chaos, your escort unconscious and half the capital convinced you’d been abducted.”
You wince. In fairness, the unconscious escort had been a regrettable necessity. Unhinged move that you’ll be apologising for later…in life.
“They’ll recover.”
“That is not the issue,” you swear you can hear his teeth grind against each other.
“No, I gathered–”
A humourless breath escapes him. For a second, he just looks at you. Not with anger, exactly. Something more exhausting. Like you have personally shortened his lifespan by several years.
“This,” he says quietly, gesturing once toward you, toward Basgiath, toward all of your terrible life choices, “was a deeply irritating move.”
“You thought enrolling here would solve your problem?” Jungkook continues in his…lecture? Preaching?
“It actually did,” you retort.
“No–” his voice is maddeningly certain. “It changed the location of your problem.”
“The Codex is clear.” You fold your arms tighter. That earns you the faintest shift in his expression. Almost amusement. Almost.
“Yes,” Jungkook says dryly. “I’ve finished this death college. I lived by the codex…sort of.”
“Then you understand the complication.”
“You seem to be under the impression that a bureaucratic clause is what was keeping this arrangement intact.”
That… is not the answer you wanted. Your stomach tightens.
“You cannot possibly mean—”
“If you wish to be here,” he cuts in, “then be here.” His tone is level. Controlled. Too controlled.
“I will not drag you from the Riders’ Quadrant because you wanted to prove a goddamn point.”
That surprises you. Enough that your guard slips, just slightly. Jungkook notices. Of course, he notices and continues.
“You crossed the parapet. You earned your place.” There’s something almost respectful in the words. Almost.
Then:
“But let’s be very clear.” His gaze sharpens, pinning you in place more effectively than any physical restraint could.
“This changes absolutely nothing.” The words land like stones. Your jaw tightens and you tighten your fists.
“You don’t get to decide that alone anymore–”
“No,” he agrees, infuriatingly calm. “But you do not get to vanish into a death college and pretend I will simply… what? Move on?”
Well. When he says it like that, it sounds almost ridiculous. Which is inconvenient.
“I entered the Riders’ Quadrant,” you say, forcing steadiness into your voice, “because I–”
“Because you don’t want me? Is that it?” The interruption lands like a blade thrown with terrifying precision. He steps closer, but you don’t move back. Your lips part, but for one humiliating second, absolutely nothing comes out.
Because of all the responses you’d prepared for this conversation—anger, threats, political manipulation, outrage—that was not one of them. Not even remotely. Jungkook watches you carefully. Not like a general assessing a cadet. Like a man waiting for an answer he actually intends to remember.
“Because Basgiath is the only place in this kingdom where my name belongs to me.”
For the first time, something in his expression softens. Not much. Just enough to be dangerous.
“You think I don’t understand that?” That throws you. Because no, actually—you hadn’t considered that possibility. Not really when he was eager to give you his name.
Jungkook studies your face for a long moment before speaking again.
“If being a rider is what you want,” he says, quieter now, “then I’ll allow this.”
“How generous of you.” You bristle instantly. His mouth twitches. But his next words erase any satisfaction you might have gotten from that.
“However,” he says, “if this becomes too much for you—if you are overwhelmed, too injured, or one reckless decision away from becoming dragon food—I will remove you myself.”
“You can’t do that.” Your eyes widen at his proclamation.
“Watch me.”
“The Codex—”
“Fuck the Codex.”
The sheer bluntness of it knocks the air from your lungs. Jungkook leans in slightly, voice dropping low enough to feel less like conversation and more like a threat wrapped in velvet.
“If you thrive here, then fine. Stay. Bond a dragon. Graduate. Become the most insufferable rider Basgiath has ever produced but you will be my wife.”
“The Codex says no cadet can marry while enrolled,” you say, clinging perhaps a little too hard to the one technicality currently standing between you and total loss of autonomy.
As if a paragraph in military law is somehow stronger than the man currently looking at you, like bureaucracy is a mild inconvenience. Jungkook’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker.
“Yes–” he says.
“And eventually, you will no longer be a cadet.”
Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! Only love please! ♥
Drakskar is now available on patreon for fairies club subscribers.
synopsisyou were Robby's star pupil, his favourite person, but when he catches you and Jack in the middle of performing a high risk procedure you definitely shouldn't be doing he can't handle the jealousy. so really, is it your fault if your pushed into Jack Abbots bed, but can't stop thinking about Robby?
warningsjealous&possesive Robby x reader, Jack Abbot x reader, kinda Rabbot, Jack kinda wants Robby in this, language. smut MDNI. fingering, oral (f receiving) breast play, dirty talk, praise, Robby calls while Jack eats you out. handjob
authornotei'm so close to writing Rabbott fics, I need them both!
pitt masterlist. last robby fic! last jack fic!
“What the hell are you doing?”
If you weren't as skilled a resident as you were, as stony as you'd been made, the raise of voice and slam of a door would have stolen you from your attentive work. But it didn't. You didn't flinch. As your hands were all but inside a patient it was a good thing, too.
Jack tutted from over you, the heat of his breath hot on the back of your neck. “Robby...”
“I said- what are you doing?” he barked again, standing in the middle of the trauma room.
Nurses turned to look at him and then back to you and Jack, un-sure of which immovable force was greater.
You only focused on the woman in front of you. Bruises up her arms, blood on her cut-away clothes, tubes coming out of her and into her, monitors beeping with life signs fleeting.
“It's a hypotensive pelvic bleed,” you said through your face screwed in concentration.
“A REBOA? Are you serious, right now?”
“I'm here, supervising, brother,” said Jack, still caved over you like he could protect you from Robby's wrath.
“You're not her attending,” Robby argued.
“No but I'm an attending.”
You could hear Robby's sharp inhale of breath, picture the clock of his head in annoyance and the tight pinch of his eyes. You knew every small give away of his that he didn't know he had. The tightness of his muscles when angers, the way he clutches at his chest for his star of David when silently scared.
The tension in the room chocked you.
Jack was still at your side, a comfort, a gentle wave against the sharp rocks. “Keep going.”
Robby said your name, an edge to it you'd never heard before.
Looking past Jack you found Robbie. He stood blocking the door, gowned up already, arms over his chest. His brows were pulled in, eyes dark as they levelled on you. He was danger dressed as a man.
But in front of you there was Jack, nodding encouragingly.
“Keep going.”
Your hands moved to carry on in spite of Robby's sigh.
“Okay... good...” said Jack as you pushed in the needle. “Femoral artery, couple inches. All right, let's guide wire and introduce the sheath.”
You pushed and did what Jack said, careful under his guidance.
Robby watched all the while, walking slowly around. He knew how well you preened under praise and careful instruction, like a cat purring at an owners touch. Robby knew because it was always him, ever since you began as a med student to intern to resident he'd been there to build you up, crafting you into a perfect doctor.
His perfect doctor.
Apparently he didn't like to share.
“How much saline have you pushed?” asked Robby.
“Five CC'S,” said Jack, without entertaining his attitude.
“Your carotid is weak,” said Robby. “Is it even there?”
“Yes,” you said.
Jack caught your gaze behind your goggles, pleading silently. You hadn't worked with him as much as you had Robby, or Langdon or almost anyone in the day shift but he seemed to catch on to your needs at once. “You know what to do.”
With his words you proceeded.
“Push another three CC'S of saline in the balloon,” you ordered.
“Injecting.”
There was a moment of silence as the saline was passed through tubes into the woman.
“How we looking?” asked Robby.
“Radial is up, pressure's up too- BP hundred-and-ten,” said Donnie.
For the first time since Jack dragged you into the trauma to teach you a REBOA, you looked at the patients face. At the blankness of it, the blood splattered at her cheek. There was colour returning to her.
“Check the wound,” said Jack.
You did so, the wound at her pelvis are that had been gushing on arrival had stopped bleeding.
“Looks okay,” you said.
Jack's gloved hand squeezed your gowned shoulder, blood of the woman passing between the two of you. However, it was the physical contact that broke you from your trance, pulling you up taller. “Good job, you saved her life, another couple minutes she wouldn't have made it.”
“She's still not out the woods yet,” said Robby.
You looked back at him with enough time to catch an un-characteristic roll of his eyes.
“Surgery can take her now,” said Jesse from the phone.
“Oh, finally they're ready for us?” teased Jack as he moved around the gurney. “Now that they've missed all the fun.” He passed you a wink that sent butterflies in your stomach rolling around.
The team pulled off gowns and gloves, pulling the gurney out the room.
“Wait-” said Robby, arm out stopping you as you went to follow.
The doors shut behind the gurney before Jack could understand you were behind, trapped in a room with a bear of a man who was failing at concealing his anger.
You waited for him to begin. Whether it were to be a lecture or an approval that you saved a woman's life, you wanted it over and done. The adrenaline was coursing through your body in crashing waves of red. You'd crash if you didn't calm. “There was no time for anything else-”
“- save it-”
“- there was no time for me to come and get you-”
“- stop!”
You stepped back, hands balled at your sides.
It wasn't un-common for any member of staff at PTMC to have Robby Robinavitch yell and demand the stars and moons from a person. It was scary to have him yelling at you, his deemed shadow and golden girl.
Since day one everyone knew you held a special place in Robby's heart.
“I saved a patient's life,” you defended. Was that not the most important thing to be doing? Could you not be attending to at least two other patients while he stood- imposing- in front of you.
“Doing an extremely risky procedure that is only reserved for the senior residents which you are not,” he scoffed out.
“Doctor Abbot was at my side the whole time, he talked me through every step.”
Robby shook his head, chuckling and looking around the room as if to be anywhere but with you. “Abbot-”
“- he believed me capable,” you said. “Don't you think I'm capable?”
His teeth bit into his bottom lip as he turned away from you, stretching his hand to the back of his head and flattening the hair there. When he turned back to you he took a step closer, watching the toes of his shoes meet yours.
“Do you know why I'm angry?”
No, you really didn't.
You took in a deep breath, meeting his eyes that lowered to yours. “Because I performed a high risk procedure.”
“A high risk procedure without me,” he corrected. “You're on day, not night. I'm your attending, not Jack. You get me when you're doing something like that, you understand?”
There was little room for argument. Your body trembled, the mixture of blood on your gloves and the beating of your heart heard in your ears. The lights of trauma two were suddenly too bright; walls too sterile. You nodded.
Robby tsked. “Do you understand?”
Every word was punctured with anger.
You rose to all your height. “Yes, I understand.”
He didn't dismiss you, only jutted his head back as he dragged a hand over his beard.
Without a word, you dismissed yourself.
“I just don't get why he was so.... angry,” you admit quietly.
The lights of the bar were dimmed in a golden light, casting sun set gazes around the bar Jack had told you was a good place to get a drink. He'd led you to a small table by a window with the blinds pulled down, his hand- the one that had saved so many lives- splayed out on the small of your back.
Somewhere along the night Jack's chair had scraped around closer to you. So close with every inhale you could catch the musk on him and his arm was comfortably slung around the back of your chair.
There were two empty whiskey glasses of Jack's and you were still cradling your first, down to the dregs.
“It's Robby,” said Jack with a shrug of his shoulders, but it didn't stop the crease in his brows.
“But he's never been like that with me.”
Was it the fact you'd seemingly lost your favouritism bothering you? More than you cared to admit. More so the fact you didn't understand why he'd yelled.
Why the flare of anger had burned brighter with you saving a life than anyone else?
Why your body had trembled at the rise of his voice.
Jack's body tilted toward yours, head bowed low as he looked up at you through his lashes. “Oh, come on....”
You slurped the last from your straw and looked at him. “What?”
“You don't have to play dumb with me.”
Your own body gravitated towards him. “Play dumb? I'm not playing dumb, what are you talking about?”
Jack chuckled, shaking his head to himself. He sipped the last of his drink. “Robby's...” he trailed off.
“Robby's...”
Jack levelled his gaze to yours. “He likes you.”
The words sat frozen in your brain. You knew Robby must have had some soft spot for you, you knew he liked you. But the way Jack said it, a teasing lift to his voice and the serious gaze of his eyes suggested it was more than the competence of your skills as a doctor that had Robby's affection.
“He doesn't,” you chuckled.
“He does,” said Jack, nodding along with your words.
“How would you know?”
Jack's cheeks dusted a faint pink, the rain on the window behind you dropping like mini thunderstorms. “Believe me, I know.”
You waited for more clarification.
“You have no idea the kind of effect you have on old men like us.”
Like us. Jack didn't just speak for Robby but himself. The pink in his cheeks, the hand on your back earlier. The heat from him was all different now. A wanting.
“Old men?” you smirked.
Jack's eyes darted between your eyes and lips. “Yeah, old men.”
“You're not that old, are you?”
Jack tilts his head side to side.
You peer closer at him as if trying to find the lines of age in his face. “Younger than Robby though, right?”
Jack nods. “Younger than Robby, if that makes any difference.”
“Any difference to what?” you asked, stirring the straw against the ice in one hand, the other holding your chin.
“To you.”
Under the table Jack's fingers traced over your knee, gently, as if he was trying to go un-noticed. You felt it anyhow. Felt as his fingers gripped your knee when you pushed your leg against his.
He watched you, analysing.
“Well,” you began, pushing your leg to kick over the other under the table and moving his hand further up your leg, till his all too eager fingers were splayed over your thigh. “What kind of effect is that?”
Jack was always a serious man at work. Competent and well kept. You didn't expect him to be so well versed in 'playing games'. “I dunno if I can tell you.”
“No?”
Jack shook his head, eyes lingering over his lips and his head tilted to the side, watching you. “I could show you?”
There was lip gloss stain over the straw in your glass, you saw it catch Jack's eyes as he pushed away your empty glasses to provide more space on the table.
“See any time you look at us, it's like-like a tingling sensation,” he said. “Like when you know someone's got their eyes on you.”
His hand that had been riding higher at your thigh darted away, leaving a sudden tremble of everything cold through your body. Instead, he rested his elbow at the table and beckoned your hand to his. He didn't hold it, instead, spread your fingers out and put palm to palm in a tender touch.
“And then when you touch us, it gets worse,” he uttered, eyes stuck on where your palms met. Jack's hand moved around yours, playing with your fingers.
“Worse?” you ask.
“A good worse. Good shivers,” said Jack, pulling at a finger.
“I touch you enough for you to gather all that?”
Jack's dark gaze found yours again. He bit down on his bottom lip. “Not nearly enough as I'd like.”
The door of the bar opened and a gush of wind cooled the heat on your skin. But Jack's eyes were like a furnace that you were sitting too close to, burning yourself and delighting in it. When the door shut again with an un-oiled squeak, Jack reached over.
He plucked the necklace charm from against your chest, the brush of his knuckles against your chest. “Pretty necklace.”
“Thank you,” you said, voice shaky un-characteristically.
“You get it yourself?”
“No, it was a present.”
It was almost as if he didn't have to ask who had gifted it to you. Whose hands had brushed back your hair in the middle of a shift and clasped it around the back of your neck.
Or maybe he just didn't want to know.
Jack's apartment was everything that made him.
As you passed the kitchen and he peeled off his jacket, keeping his lips close enough to breathe you in, you could smell the coffee from the morning plastered to the walls.
When he pressed you up to the sofa to shove his hands down your pants and slide a finger into your wet pussy your fingers scratched at some blanket he had thrown over the back of it.
You caught a glimpse of pictures around the place, a frame of meddles too but his place came to you in flashes and glimpses through pleasure.
“I'm gonna show you,” he uttered against your mouth as another finger slipped into you, worked inside of you. They curled up, your body moving into him at the feeling. “Just how I want to touch you.”
The car ride over had been torture enough. He could hardly get himself inside the car, stealing himself away from you. But your lips had been at his neck at every stop sign and red light. Your hand had ghosted over his crotch and the hardening length of him. As occupied as you'd been in each other in the front seats of his car you'd been beeped at twice.
“Jack,” your voice whispered, lips dragging against his as he slowly worked his fingers in and out of you, pulling at the seams of your panties.
“I'm gonna show you just how Robby wants to touch you.”
You wish the name didn't have the effect it did. That the fury you felt at him for how he yelled didn't turn to a throb in your core when Jack said his name.
“You're touching me, Jack,” you said, breathless.
“Yeah... yeah,” he said. “You like that I'm touching you?”
You nodded as his fingers retracted, finding your clit and wetting the bud of nerves, circling it.
“Say it,” said Jack. “Say it.”
“Yes, I like it.”
Jack grinned into the curve of your neck as his fingers plunged back in, working you open and spreading your wetness of the black of your panties. “God, you're making such a mess for me baby, aren't you?”
He worked you open a little longer, mumbling encouragement with every moan and throw back of your head. 'So pretty, arg, you're so pretty baby.'
By the time your stomach was coiling tight like a snake ready to pounce Jack removed his hand from your pants and kissed you again. It was a hard kiss, his clean hand grasping your cheek and keeping you still as he forcefully worked his lips against yours, like it had only just clocked in his head it was you he had on his lips, it was you he was turning to putty in his hand. Like he wanted to forge you into his lips
“Not done yet,” said Jack, hands sliding down to your hips as he guides his nose up and down your neck, breathing you in. “I wanna make you moan on my tongue, like Robby wishes he could, yeah?”
Your body betrayed you, shivering again in anticipation.
Jack's hands stirred you by the hips, urging you to his room. He pushed the door open over your head, licking into your mouth.
“Please... don't mention Robby right now,” you said as Jack fell slowly to his knees in front of you.
His brows rose. He kept his eyes on you as he pulled down your pants, helping you step out of them. “No? You don't want me to mention Robby?” he asked.
You shook your head, looking away from him. You knew you'd soaked yourself through by the small touches and passionate kisses from Jack. But you didn't need to see the realisation hit when he realised Robby's name had as much effect on you as Jack's own touches.
“Eyes on me, keep your eyes on me,” said Jack.
With a tight squeeze, you looked at him, seeing the attending of the night shift get closer to your heat.
“See, I think, you like when I say his name, huh?” his nose nudged your clothed clit. “Robby.”
Jack licked a stripe up your pussy, gathering your want through the cloth.
You were left, mouth agape, to catch your breath. Your hands didn't know where to go till Jack peeled off his shirt and guided your hands to his shoulders, your nails digging into the freckled skin there.
Jack wet his tongue with his spit before he rubbed it along your panties again, kissing you there. “I think you're so wet for me, but you're wet for Robby too, huh?”
“Jus-just you, Jack,” you gasped.
He swept a finger into your panties and let the elastic snap back against your skin.
Your body jolted in its wake.
“Not just me, don't lie,” he said, darkly.
In the morning would you realise what you'd done? Jack wasn't your attending but an attending none the less and Robby's friend- brother- at that. Although you and Robby were nothing more than colleagues, it didn't feel right to have Jack licking up your want with his name on his tongue.
“Liars don't get to come, you know,” he said. “So, you get this wet when you think about me?”
“Y-Yes.”
You could feel Jack's smile against your thigh as he pressed a kiss there.
Jack hooked two fingers around the bands of your panties and slowly dragged them down. “Do you get this wet when you think about our Doctor Robby?”
“Yes. Yes I do,” you gasped, your body curling up in the relief of letting go.
Yes, you liked Robby's extra attention. You couldn't even be left angry at his chastising you when it sent a wave of need through you, settling in your core. When you'd been at the bar with Jack, touching him in ways you'd thought about touching your own attending, almost wishing he would storm through the door and see the two of you.
“Good girl.”
Quickly Jack tilted his head back and found purchase in your pussy.
His tongue laid flat against your core.
It didn't stay in one place long. It explored all around you, tasting you for the first time and mapping out delicate spots. He slipped between your folds like he was always supposed to be there, moaning into you.
Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Mmh, Jack!”
He licked you up, spreading the mess of your want around and cleaning it up. “Taking my tongue so well,” he said against you. He dragged his lips down your thigh, wet tongue dragging up and down.
Your legs trembled as Jack spread the lips of your pussy and buried himself in there again. He pressed his thumb onto your clit, your body lurching at the pressure.
“Oh fuck, J-Jack!”
“Pull my hair, pull my hair,” he said into you.
Your did so. Your hand fell into the short strands of his salt and pepper hair, twirling into the strands and tugging just enough to rip a groan from him.
Jack buried himself into your further, his nose nudging into you deeper and deeper till he was almost trying to be inside of you.
Every time your eyes fluttered shut Jack pulled back, easing up on his work of your pussy and easing the orgasm that was slowly building up.
“No, no- eyes on me, keep your eyes on me, baby,” he said.
You looked down to him. “Jack, I want- I want to come.”
“I know, I know you do baby,” he said, flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit again. “You will, I promise, I promise.”
He eased himself up from his knees and helped off your shirt and peeled off your bra before he latched himself onto your breast.
Your back arched into him. His hands felt larger than ever as they curled around your waist and held you in. He groped at your breast, watching it jiggle as he moved before swirling his tongue around your nipple.
“Jack-”
“God, I wish Robby were here,” said Jack as he switched his attention to your other.
“Wh-what?” you didn't know if you'd heard him right.
Jack looked at your breasts instead of you, dedicating time to licking up each of them. “Wish Robby could see how good a girl you're being,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he wasn't talking to you. “How responsive you are. Would you like that? Would you like Robby to watch?”
You imagined it, closing your eyes.
Jack let you.
You pictured Robby sat on the bed, watching. Would he watch with his glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose? Would he keep his hands to himself or want to touch and play? You imagined how big he was, if he'd get hard watching.
If he'd touch. If he'd stand behind you while Jack kissed along your breasts. Would Robby dedicate enough time to the back of you?
“You want Robby?” asked Jack.
Anyone else eating you out or with hands on your chest wouldn't want another mans name on your lips.
Jack seemed to thrive on it.
“Yes,” you gasped.
Jack reached back up to you. “Yeah.... yeah...” his nose ghosted yours as he inched closer to kiss you.
In the slim lighting of his bed room you could see the shine of his lips from your arousal, the burn of red at his cheeks. There was a clink as he un-did his belt, throwing it behind him as he slowly pulled down his trousers.
First you saw the prosthetic of his leg before you trailed up, past the scars, to the heavy set of his cock. It flushed red at the tip, a leak of pre-cum running down. It stood tall onto the thin, greying hair down his sternum.
“Jack-” you reached for him, wrapping your hand around him.
“Ah- ahh fuck, baby,” he moaned as you slowly pumped him. “You feel so good. God, Robby doesn't know what he's missing.”
You tangled your tongue with his as you pumped, growing confident in every pump, in every leak of his cock, in ever groan of him into your mouth.
Would Robby guide you to holding Jack's man hood in your hand? Would his own hand wrap around your wrist and guide you up and down, muttering how good you were doing.
It was like you could hear him in your head.
'What a good girl doing what you're told, so responsive,' you imagined the heavy set of his tongue dragging over your pulse as you wrapped your arm around Jack's shoulders, smothering him in closer.
“I wish-” you said against his lips, making a mess out of you mouth as you squeezed his cock. “I wish Robby were here.”
“Yeah. Yeah, me too baby,” said Jack, slowly wrapping his fingers around your wrist and peeling back your hand. He pulled two of your fingers into his mouth, licking the taste of himself off and into the warmth of his mouth. “Next time.”
Jack eased you back on his bed, crawling over you.
You shuffled up, sitting up on his headboard. “Do you- do you want me to?”
Jack's brows pulled together as he brushed back your hair, tucking it behind your ear. “To what, baby?”
“To ride you? Would it be easier on your leg?”
Jack smiled, love sick. “That's very kind of you sweetheart. Next time, I'll let you ride me like I'm a damn horse,” he whispered as he slowly lowered you down. “Right now I want you to finish on my tongue. Then I'm gonna really fuck you like I've wanted to for so long.”
You watched with a bite to your lip as Jack rolled a condom over his cock before hovering over you.
He stirred the base of his cock against your pussy, rubbing the arousal of you over your slit.
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, yes.”
Would Robby hold you against him, keep your legs spread for Jack? Or would Jack insist on Robby going first.
“Beg for it, baby.”
Before your words could leave your mouth the familiar buzz of your phone echoed between you.
Maybe anyone else would have ignored it, sent it to voicemail or let it ring. Except Jack- he moved down his bed, reaching for your pants and fishing out your phone. He smirked down at the contact before holding the phone out to you.
“Answer it.”
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, looking at him. “Wh-what?”
“Answer him,” he said, grabbing your hand and putting the phone it in.
Robby.
You looked to Jack, having no time to ask if he was serious before he was descending on the bed again. His eyes were pointed, gaze locked on you.
You answered, holding the phone to your ear. “H-hey, Robby.”
“Hey. Is everything okay?”
Did he know you'd left the bar with Jack? Did he hear his name called from both your lips?
“Yeah, everything's okay.”
Jack smirked at you.
“I've been calling you all night, you didn't answer,” you could hear the slight accusation in his voice, the small anger you hadn't bowed and answered the phone when he called. He wasn't good at hiding it though maybe he thought he was.
“Sorry I-”
Jack slid two fingers inside of you at once and pumped them without warning.
You caught your breath in your throat. “- I was busy.”
“Busy?”
“Yeah,” you gasped.
Robby stirred down the line. “You okay?”
Jack was looming close enough to you, nodding for you to pull the phone back enough for him to hear.
“Yeah, it's just, cold in my apartment,” you lied.
Jack's brows rose, he mouthed the word, cold?
“Still haven't sorted that heating, huh?” Robby chuckled down the line. “You need someone to come sort that out for you.”
Jack withdrew his hand, dragging those two fingers from inside of you around you, before lowering himself back down. He spread you open, lying his tongue back in.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Want me to come take a look at it?” asked Robby.
“Not- not right now,” you pushed your phone back as Robby scoffed lightly. You sort Jack's attention, begging for the end of the torture he was inciting. His eyes were a haze of lust as he only watched you, shaking his head slowly to feel all around you.
His hand pushed your knee up to your chest, welcoming him in deeper.
“Are you still mad at me for earlier?”
“Y-yes!”
“You are?”
You'd forgot Robby down the line, forgot his question, could only feel the depth of Jack's tongue in you. You bit down on the bottom of your lip. “Yes! Yes! Yes, I am!”
“Okay- well, i'm sorry,” he said down the line. “You just have no idea what seeing you with Jack does to me.”
Jack moaned into you, sending vibrations through your body. His nose nudged against your clit, circling his tongue in you. Your mouth opened, a moan ripping through you that Jack managed to stifle quickly by slamming his hand over your mouth.
“- It's just, I think of you as one of mine,” Robby continued down the line, un-aware's to Jack tapping your phone on speaker and placing it next to you.
Jack dropped his mouth next to your ear, nipping at the lobe. “As mine,” he uttered.
“- seeing you with Jack, I can't stand it, you know I can't-”
Jack went back down to his work, two fingers working inside of you as he sucked in your clit. Your walls are like silk that his fingers thread through with ease, your mind blank with pleasure.
Your moans continued to be muffled by his mouth, he dared not move it.
“- you know I... you know I favour you over anybody else in that ER-”
Your hand reached out for your phone, sure you would come soon and needed to end the phone call.
Jack reached out for you. “Be nice, be nice.”
You picked up the phone and put it to your ear, Jack sucking diligently at your bundle of nerves. “Robby, I-”
“What is it? You sound like you're burning up? You need me?”
Yes, you needed him.
Jack curled his fingers up and you came with a loud gasp, ending the call abruptly as your world shattered in stars of want. Your back arched into Jack's mouth as he laid there open mouthed, taking what you could give him like a man dying of thirst.
Only when your breathing calmed and you could open your eyes to make sense of the world- and Jack's room- did Jack slowly move out his fingers, gently crawling up you body with kisses like butterflies.
You laughed when Jack reached your neck. “Oh god.”
“What?” he said, laughing along with you.
“I hung up on Robby.”
Jack fished for your phone, holding it between the two of you as he rubbed the head of his cock against the slick of your folds. “Then I guess we better call him back.”
SUMMARY: When Jack drops you home after a shift, he cannot bear to be in your stuffy apartment for more than a minute. The thought of leaving you there to disintegrate pains him, and he is quick to invite you back to his house for the sweet, crisp air of his AC, and some relaxation in the pool…
NOTES: Heatwave, exhaustion from heat and work, workplace stress, physical affection, domestic fluff, Jack is fully AC’d house and pool rich, slightly shy/anxious reader, early relationship but established, barbecue for the Pitt crew!
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
A/N: In honour of the UK heatwave and the obscene money I just spent on AC (please give to my Ko-Fi), here is this! Stay safe in the heat, lovely people!
You are already regretting the walk from the car park by the time you reach your building. The evening air outside is miserable enough, thick with heat that refuses to leave even after sunset, yet it somehow feels refreshing compared to what waits behind your front door.
The moment you unlock the apartment and push it open, a wall of trapped warmth hits you square in the face. It has been building for days now, every hour of sunlight sinking into the brickwork and refusing to leave, until your entire apartment feels less like a home and more like a particularly vindictive greenhouse.
Jack stops dead in the doorway behind you. For a second, you think he has forgotten something. Then you glance over your shoulder, and the look on his face makes your stomach tighten with reluctant amusement.
“You’re joking.”
You wince. “No.”
“Kidding.”
“No.”
“This is actually what it’s like in here?”
You step inside anyway, dropping your keys into the bowl by the door. The heat settles over your shoulders immediately. You have become so used to it that part of you barely notices anymore.
Jack notices. “Jesus Christ.” The door shuts behind him. You hear him exhale, and then you hear him exhale again. “You live like this?”
The embarrassment arrives before you can stop it. Not because the flat is untidy. It isn’t. Not because there’s anything particularly wrong with it. You just suddenly become aware that somebody else is seeing the reality of it. The awkward little coping mechanisms. The things that seem normal until somebody from outside witnesses them.
“It’s not usually this bad,” you mumble.
Jack raises an eyebrow. The expression alone tells you he doesn’t believe that for a second.
After twelve hours at work, neither of you have much energy left. The shift has settled heavily into your bones. Usually, by this point in the evening, you would be alone. You would drag yourself upstairs, change clothes, attempt to cool down, and spend the next several hours trying not to think about how exhausted you are.
Having Jack here changes the shape of the evening entirely. It should feel awkward. The relationship is still new enough that some part of you occasionally waits for awkwardness to appear.
Instead, you mostly feel relieved.
Jack sets your bag down beside the sofa. The movement is so casual that your chest aches a little. You had not asked him to carry it. He had simply picked it up when you left the hospital and refused to hand it back.
“You need a fan.”
“I have a fan.”
Jack follows your gaze. The fan occupies its usual place in the corner of the living room. It rattles faintly. One side vibrates more enthusiastically than the other. The noise it produces sounds less like cooling equipment and more like a pensioner clearing their throat.
Jack stares at it, then at you, then back at the fan. “Honey, I don’t think that counts. It isn’t even rotating.”
“It works.”
“It sounds like it’s filing a complaint.”
You laugh despite yourself. The sound catches you off guard. Everything has felt difficult recently. The heat. The lack of sleep. The endless cycle of work and recovery and work again. Laughing feels surprisingly nice.
Jack notices. His expression softens immediately. That softness still affects you more than it should.
People see confidence when they look at him. They see somebody capable and charming and endlessly self-assured.
You see the man who quietly remembers your coffee order. The man who checks whether you’ve eaten. The man currently looking around your overheated apartment as though he’s distraught that you live in such conditions.
You move towards the kitchen. The routine is instinctive by now. Freezer. Tap. Tea towel.
“What are you doing?”
The question follows you. You don’t answer, not immediately. Jack appears in the doorway just in time to watch you unfold a frozen tea towel.
You run it beneath cold water, then you drape it around the back of your neck. The relief arrives so quickly that your eyes close. A quiet sigh escapes before you can stop it. When you open your eyes again, Jack is staring. His expression suggests he has just witnessed something deeply upsetting.
“What?”
“You keep frozen towels in your freezer.”
“Yes.”
“Multiple towels?” You hesitate. Jack points accusingly. “Multiple towels.”
The embarrassment creeping up your neck becomes significantly worse. “Maybe.”
“Oh my God.”
“It’s practical.”
“You’ve adapted.”
The laugh that escapes him makes you roll your eyes. “You don’t understand.”
“I don’t think I want to.”
Unfortunately for both of you, the ritual is not finished. You cross the kitchen and retrieve a large bowl. Jack watches suspiciously. You fill it with ice. His eyes narrow. Then he follows you back into the living room, where you place the bowl directly in front of the fan. The rattling machine immediately begins blowing cooler air across the room.
Jack stares. You try very hard not to look pleased with yourself. “You’ve made your own air conditioning?”
“Exactly. Good trick, isn’t it?”
“No. Absolutely not. This is some sort of fucked up survival documentary.”
“It works.”
His hand slides across his face. The sight is so ridiculous that your shoulders shake with laughter. You expect him to keep teasing. Instead, his expression gradually changes. The amusement fades first. Concern settles in its place.
The shift is subtle enough that somebody else might miss it. You don’t.
Jack glances around the flat again. The open windows, the fan, the bowl of ice, the frozen towel around your shoulders. The tiredness hanging from every movement you make.
“You haven’t been sleeping properly.”
The observation lands gently. You look away. Your relationship is still new enough that being looked after feels strange sometimes. Not unpleasant, just unfamiliar.
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
The words are quiet. No frustration or judgement, just simple certainty. You focus very hard on adjusting the towel. Jack waits. The silence stretches. You know he isn’t going to push, and that somehow makes it harder. Eventually you shrug.
“Gets a bit warm at night.”
“A bit?” His disbelief is immediate. The corner of your mouth twitches. Jack shakes his head. Then he points towards the front door. “Get your stuff.”
Your stomach drops. “What?”
“You’re staying at mine.”
The answer arrives so quickly it feels rehearsed. You stare at him. Jack stares right back. The determination in his expression makes nervous warmth bloom somewhere beneath your ribs.
“Jack.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard my argument.”
“I don’t need to.”
“I live here.”
“I know, honey. It’s tragic.” You laugh despite yourself. Jack’s mouth twitches. Encouraged, he steps closer. The distance between you disappears with embarrassing ease.
“I’ve got air conditioning.” You roll your eyes. “Every room.”
“Please stop.”
“A swimming pool.”
You hate how persuasive that sounds. The hesitation must show on your face because satisfaction immediately appears in his expression. Not smugness, but something softer. Something warmer. Like he already knows you’re considering it and that he has won.
Your chest does an annoying little flutter. Jack reaches for your hand. The gesture is simple. Easy. His fingers slide between yours naturally. You still notice every second of it.
The exhaustion weighing you down all evening suddenly feels heavier. The thought of another night in this flat feels worse. The thought of spending the evening with him feels impossibly appealing.
You look down at your joined hands, then towards the rattling fan and the melting bowl of ice. A reluctant smile appears before you can stop it.
“One night.”
Jack’s grin arrives immediately. You are suddenly very aware that one night is exactly what you said the last time you stayed over.
The drive to Jack’s house is quiet in the comfortable way that seems to happen more often these days. Early on, you had worried about silence. Worried that you would run out of things to say. Worried that your tendency to retreat into yourself after long shifts would eventually become frustrating for somebody as naturally social as Jack.
Instead, he has somehow made room for it.
You spend half the journey staring out of the window and the other half trying not to fall asleep. Jack keeps one hand on the steering wheel and occasionally glances across to make sure you’re still awake.
The second time he catches you fighting a yawn, he laughs. “You’ve got about ten minutes left until you can sleep as much as you want, sweetheart.”
“I’m awake.”
His smile lingers for the rest of the journey.
By the time you pull into his driveway, your body feels heavy with tiredness. The heat hasn’t helped. Neither has the shift. Every muscle aches with the familiar exhaustion that comes after a day spent constantly moving, constantly thinking, constantly responding to somebody else’s emergency.
You follow him to the front door. The moment he opens it, cool air spills into the evening. The relief is immediate. Your shoulders drop before you can stop them. The tension sitting between your shoulder blades eases. Even your breathing feels easier somehow.
Jack notices, and a quiet look of satisfaction crosses his face as you step inside. You hate that he’s right. You hate it even more because part of you feels ridiculously grateful.
The house smells faintly of laundry detergent and whatever Jack cooked yesterday. Nothing fancy. Nothing particularly distinctive. Just lived-in. The sort of smell that belongs to somewhere safe.
You slip your shoes off by the door and immediately feel awkward about how comfortable you are here, though not because Jack has ever done anything to make you uncomfortable. Quite the opposite.
The problem is that every time he includes you in his life so naturally, some shy and uncertain part of you still doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Jack disappears upstairs with your bag. You wander into the living room. The temperature alone feels miraculous. You lower yourself onto the sofa. The cushions sink slightly beneath your weight. For the first time all day, your body stops bracing against something.
A few moments later, Jack returns. Something grey lands in your lap. You look down at a sweatshirt, Jack’s sweatshirt. The one you’ve stolen often enough that you’re surprised he still bothers pretending it belongs to him.
“I’m not cold.”
“You will be.”
Your argument dies immediately. Jack’s smile widens. The traitor, always knowing what you need before you know. You pull the sweatshirt over your head, watching as the sleeves cover half your hands and taking in how the fabric smells faintly of him.
Something embarrassingly soft settles in your chest.
Jack watches the entire process. The look on his face becomes dangerous.
“Don’t say it.”
“What?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t thinking anything.”
“You were.”
His laugh follows you as you curl further into the sofa. A strange sort of peace settles over the room afterwards. The television remains off. Neither of you seems particularly interested in filling the silence.
You talk a little about work mostly, sharing stories from the shift. The sort of conversations that make no sense to anybody outside healthcare but somehow become funny when shared with somebody who understands exactly what you mean.
At some point your shoulder ends up against his. Then your head drops to his shoulder. Then, without either of you consciously deciding it, you’re curled against his side.
The progression feels so natural that you barely notice it happening. Jack’s arm settles around you. Your eyes close. The steady rise and fall of his breathing becomes impossible to ignore.
Exhaustion creeps up on you slowly. The air conditioning hums somewhere in the background. The sofa is comfortable. Jack’s hand begins moving absent-mindedly in gentle strokes against your upper arm. The combination is fatal.
“You falling asleep?” The question sounds distant.
“No.” Your voice emerges slightly slurred.
Jack laughs quietly. The vibration carries through his chest. You feel it where your cheek rests against him.
“You are, honey.”
“I’m listening to you.”
“You just stopped responding for two minutes.”
You consider defending yourself. Unfortunately that sounds like a lot of work. Sleep wins.
The next thing you know, sunlight has shifted. For several moments, you remain caught between dreaming and waking. Warm, comfortable, and safe. Awareness returns gradually. The weight around your waist. The steady heartbeat beneath your ear. The hand resting lightly against your side.
Jack.
Your eyes open. Embarrassment arrives instantly. At some point during the nap, the two of you have become tangled together. One of your hands is curled into the front of his t-shirt. His arm remains firmly around you.
Your face grows warm. The reaction is ridiculous. You’ve been dating for months. That doesn’t stop it.
You attempt to move. The arm around your waist tightens slightly.
“No.” The word is rough with sleep. You freeze. Jack hasn’t even opened his eyes. His voice emerges again a few seconds later. “Stay there.”
A nervous smile pulls at your mouth. “You fell asleep.”
“Mhm.”
The response makes you laugh. Finally, he opens his eyes, and the fondness in them hits you with the same force it always does. No matter how often it happens, you never seem prepared for it. His gaze lingers for a moment. Not intense or scrutinising, just affectionate. The sort of look that makes you feel strangely fragile, like all of your feelings are sitting somewhere obvious.
“You sleep alright?”
You nod, though the truth is that you cannot remember the last time a nap felt that restful. Jack smiles a slow, pleased sort of smile. It’s the kind of smile that appears whenever he thinks he’s taken care of you successfully. You know that look by now.
A little while later, he disappears upstairs to change. When he returns, he’s carrying a towel over one shoulder. “Pool?”
You stare. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate. You should probably be surprised. You’re not.
The pool glitters beneath the late afternoon sun. Heat still hangs in the air outside, though nowhere near as oppressive as it felt earlier.
Jack sits on one of the loungers while you lower yourself into the water, clad in a swimsuit Jack had conveniently bought ‘just in case’ you came over when it was hot outside.
Only after a moment do you realise he’s removing his prosthesis. The movement is familiar, and you have seen him do it before. The first time had made you nervous, mostly because you hadn’t known what was appropriate. Whether to offer help or to look away. Whether acknowledging it would somehow make things awkward.
Jack had solved the problem himself by treating it exactly as what it was. Normal. Now you simply shift closer and hold out your hand when he passes it over.
“Thanks.” You rest it carefully beside his towel. A minute later he slides into the water.
The grin that appears on his face tells you everything. “Better?”
You groan. “Don’t.”
“Better?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
You splash water towards him. His laughter echoes across the garden. The sound settles somewhere warm inside your chest. For a while, neither of you talk about much. You float. You swim. You enjoy the simple relief of cool water against sun-warmed skin.
Eventually you find yourselves leaning against the side of the pool together. Jack’s shoulder brushes yours. His hand drifts towards yours beneath the surface. Your fingers lace together automatically. The gesture feels small, yet familiar. Intimate in a way grand declarations never seem to be.
The afternoon sunlight dances across the water around you. For the first time all week, you aren’t thinking about work. For the first time all week, you aren’t thinking about the heat.
You’re only thinking about how nice it feels to be here with him.
By the time you climb out of the pool, your hair is damp, your skin feels pleasantly cool for the first time in days, and the heavy exhaustion that had been dragging at you since the end of your shift has softened into something manageable.
Jack retrieves his prosthesis while you gather towels. He sits on the edge of the lounger, drying off while you hand him the things he needs without either of you really discussing it. Early in the relationship, you would have worried about getting it wrong. Now it simply feels like another small way of looking after each other. The sort of thing that happens naturally when somebody becomes important.
You are both changed and back downstairs when the first message arrives.
Dana: On the way.
A second appears before you’ve even finished reading it.
Robby: Dana drives like a criminal.
Dana: Shut up.
A third follows.
Trinity: bringing snacks!
Jack glances at the screen over your shoulder. “We should probably start getting ready.”
“We?”
“You’re helping.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’m a guest.”
“Nope.”
The answer comes so quickly that it catches you off guard. Something flickers across his expression. Warm and certain, like the idea of you thinking anything different had genuinely never occurred to him.
“You stopped being a guest a while ago.”
Your stomach promptly forgets how to function. Jack seems entirely unaware of the effect he’s had, or perhaps he’s aware and choosing not to acknowledge it. Both possibilities feel dangerous.
You end up helping anyway. Partly because saying no feels impossible, but also because moving around the kitchen with him turns out to be strangely enjoyable.
Jack works with easy confidence. You spend most of your time passing things over, opening cupboards, fetching ingredients and trying very hard not to stare whenever he reaches around you.
The kitchen isn’t particularly large, and neither is your ability to behave normally around somebody you’re dating. Several times you nearly walk directly into him, and the third time it happens, his hands settle instinctively on your waist to steady you. Heat rushes immediately into your face.
Jack smiles, though it isn’t teasing. Just deathly fond. That somehow makes it worse.
By the time the doorbell rings, the garden is ready. Food waits on platters. Drinks sit in ice-filled tubs. The barbecue is heating up outside.
Dana arrives first, carrying enough food to suggest she believes supermarkets may cease to exist overnight. Robby follows behind her with a bag of buns tucked beneath one arm.
Mel and Langdon appear shortly afterwards. Dennis and Trinity arrive together. Samira enters carrying drinks and immediately begins discussing something work-related before she’s even taken her shoes off.
Within twenty minutes, the house feels completely different. Louder. Busier. Full.
Normally, this would be the point where nerves begin creeping in. You have never particularly enjoyed being the centre of attention. Large groups often leave you feeling like you’re trying to keep pace with a conversation that started before you arrived.
Tonight feels easier, maybe because these people already know you, and because you’ve met them enough times now. Or, maybe, it’s because Jack never strays very far.
His hand brushes your back as he passes behind you. His shoulder nudges yours while you’re standing beside the drinks table. Little moments. Tiny things. Each one grounding, making it easier to relax.
The evening settles into a comfortable rhythm. The entire thing feels like chaos, but it is comfortable chaos. The kind that comes from people genuinely liking one another.
You find yourself smiling more than usual, and speaking more than usual too. Not much. Just enough that Jack notices.
You are halfway through a conversation with Samira when you happen to glance across the garden and catch him watching you. The expression on his face makes your chest tighten unexpectedly. Pride, not the loud kind, but something quieter, as though seeing you happy matters to him.
The realisation leaves you oddly emotional. You look away first. The alternative feels dangerous.
Later, once food has been eaten and the evening begins slipping towards night, people spread out across the garden in smaller groups. String lights glow overhead. Music drifts softly from a speaker somewhere near the house. The air remains warm, though no longer unbearable.
You end up curled into one corner of the outdoor sofa. Jack sits beside you. Close enough that your knees touch and so that every so often his arm brushes yours. The conversation nearby fades into background noise. For a few moments, neither of you says anything.
You simply sit together. The silence feels nice. Then Jack glances towards the house.
“You know…”
The words immediately make you suspicious. “What?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh no. Don’t hurt yourself.”
His laughter escapes instantly. “I have good ideas.”
“Debatable.”
The smile he gives you is entirely too pleased, and your stomach performs an irritating little flip. Jack gestures vaguely towards the house.
“The spare room’s still empty.”
You narrow your eyes. Jack’s expression remains completely innocent. You don’t believe it for a second.
“Right.”
“Could probably do something with it.”
“Mhm.”
“Seems a waste otherwise.”
You bite back a smile. The corner of his mouth twitches. The two of you sit in silence for another moment. Then his hand quietly finds yours, warm fingers sliding between yours. The simple familiarity of it makes your chest ache.
You are not ready to move in together. Not yet. The relationship is still growing. Still becoming something. The thought doesn’t scare you the way it might have once.
That surprises you.
Months ago, the idea would have sent you running. Now it simply feels distant, a possibility sitting somewhere on the horizon.
Jack squeezes your hand lightly. No pressure. No expectation. Just warmth. The sort he gives freely.
Around the garden, laughter erupts from one of Robby’s stories. Dana immediately accuses him of exaggerating. Trinity agrees. Mel disagrees. Dennis looks exhausted. Samira is laughing too hard to contribute. Langdon appears to be reconsidering every life choice that led him here.
The sight makes you smile. Jack notices, and his gaze shifts towards you. For a second, the noise around you seems to fade.
Not completely. Just enough.
You think about the apartment waiting for you across town. The rattling fan, the bowls of ice, the frozen towels.
You think about this instead.
About cool air and afternoon naps. About somebody carrying your bag without being asked. About hands finding yours automatically. About never having to question whether you’re wanted.
Jack lifts your joined hands and presses a brief kiss against your knuckles. The gesture is so casual that nobody else notices. Your heart nearly stops anyway.
“You alright?” he asks quietly.
You nod. The answer feels too big to explain properly. Loved, perhaps, though the word still feels fragile enough that you hesitate to touch it.
Jack smiles. The expression settles something inside you.
Around you, the evening continues exactly as before. Friends talking. Music drifting through the garden. The smell of barbecue lingering in the warm summer air.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, there is nothing demanding your attention.
There is only this. There is only a borrowed sweatshirt waiting upstairs, a house that already feels strangely familiar, and a man sitting beside you with your hand tucked securely in his.
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: After you show up to the off campus house to have fun and party. Some guys start flirting with you, dean takes you upstairs and makes you remember who you belong to.
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Mentions of drinking, having sex (p n v) , dean is very dom and rude, controlling, cum control, bondage (wrist are held by dean), swearing, oral (fem receivied), fingering (fem received), teasing, pet names, reader calls dean "daddy”.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Fuck boy/ Daddy Dean di laurentis x fem reader
You guys weren’t even dating, just a fling. You just fucked whenever you guys both wanted to.
It was 11:30 pm in the off campus house, and of course there was a party going on since they won the game against Eastwood. Tucker and Dean had to set up the kegs, Logan was in charge of music until Garrett took over and played his 80s music. Tucker also helped make food for everyone.
You stepped into the house, you weren’t even wearing anything revealing, just a black dress and leather boots. You looked hot, and unfortunately, everyone else noticed too. Within two minutes of walking through the door, some guy from the hockey team was already trying to hand you a red solo cup and was leaning in way too close to talk over the music.
You leaned against the kitchen counter, totally zoning out of the conversation, while your eyes scanned the crowded room. It didn't take long to find Dean. He was standing across the room by the dining table, but he wasn't talking to anyone anymore. He was staring straight at you.
He didn't even try to play it cool or act like you were just a casual thing anymore. The exact second that guy leaned in closer to you, Dean’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle tick. He didn't say a word to anyone else, he just set his cup down on the nearest table and marched straight through the crowded living room, ignoring everyone trying to talk to him.
Before the hockey guy could even finish his sentence, Dean was right there. He stepped directly between the two of you, completely cutting him off, and dropped a heavy, possessive hand onto your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He glared down at the guy with this look that said back the hell off, his grip tightening on your hip just to make sure you knew exactly who you belonged to.
He takes you up the stairs, away from the music, away from the people. the drinks. "Who was that guy?" Dean's voice is low against your ear, rough like gravel. His hand tightens on your waist, fingers pressing just a little too hard through the thin fabric of your dress. The bass from the party downstairs thrums through the floorboards, but up here in the hallway it’s just the two of you,his breath warm, his body crowding you against the wall like he owns it. Like he owns you.
You tilt your head, pretending to think. "Which one? The one with the blue shirt or the one who kept refilling my drink?" You bite your lip to keep from grinning, because Dean’s jaw clenches, that muscle jumping like it does when he’s trying and failing to stay calm.
Dean exhales sharply through his nose, that slow, controlled breath he does when he’s deciding whether to fuck you or strangle you. His thumb brushes the underside of your jaw, tilting your face up to his. “You’re gonna regret playing dumb, baby,” he murmurs, and the way he says it, sends a shiver down your spine.
His other hand slides higher on your waist, fingers skimming the edge of your ribcage, and you arch into him instinctively. “Dean,” you start, but he cuts you off with a rough kiss, all teeth and possessive hunger. You can taste the beer on his tongue, feel the heat of him pressed against you, and for a second, you forget how to breathe. He pulls back just enough to growl, “My room. Now,” and the command in his voice makes your knees weak.
You don’t argue. The second his grip loosens, you’re turning toward the stairs, but Dean catches your wrist, yanking you back against him. “Uh-uh,” he says, nipping at your earlobe. “You walk in front of me.” His palm lands on the small of your back, guiding you up the steps with just enough pressure to make your pulse skip. You can feel his eyes on you, tracking every sway of your hips, and by the time you reach his door, your skin is buzzing with anticipation.
He crowds you against the frame, one hand braced above your head while the other works the door knob. “You like making me jealous?” he asks, voice dripping with faux casualness. The door opens before you can answer, and Dean doesn’t even bother flipping the light switch, he just follows you close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him. The room smells like him, beer and clean cotton and something unmistakably male, your breath hitches when his fingers find the zipper at the back of your dress.
“Answer me,” he demands, dragging the zipper down slow enough to make your skin prickle. The fabric slides off your shoulders, pooling at your waist before he pushes it the rest of the way down. His palm skims the curve of your hip, possessive and sure, like he’s reminding himself where you belong. You turn to face him, but he stops you with a hand on your throat, not tight, just present, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. “Tell me you fucking love it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours without quite kissing you.
You could tease him. You could drag this out until he snaps. But the hunger in his eyes is too much, raw and unchecked, so you exhale a shaky, “Yes.” His grip tightens infinitesimally, and you press into it, chasing the sting. “I love it when you get like this.” Dean’s groan is all satisfaction, low and rough, and then his mouth is on yours, swallowing your gasp as he walks you backward toward the bed.
The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and he doesn’t give you time to brace yourself just shoves you down and climbs over you, caging you in with his body. His teeth scrape along your collarbone, nipping at the sensitive skin there, and you arch into him with a breathless laugh. “That’s it,” he mutters against your throat, dragging his lips higher.
His hands are everywhere tugging your hair, palming your ribs, sliding down to grip your thighs and you’re already wrung out, already gasping, when he finally yanks his shirt off and tosses it aside. The moonlight catches the flex of his abs, and his biceps . You reach for him instinctively. Dean catches your wrist, pinning it above your head with a smirk. “Uh-uh,” he tuts, leaning down to nip at your bottom lip. “You don’t get to touch yet.”
The moment your wrist hits the mattress, pinned under his grip, you whimper, half frustration, half anticipation. Dean’s smirk deepens, his free hand tracing the dip of your waist like he’s memorizing it. “That’s the sound I like hearing,” he murmurs, dragging his thumb over your hipbone. The rough calluses on his fingers catch against your skin, sending sparks skittering up your spine. You squirm, but he just clucks his tongue, leaning down to blow a slow, teasing breath over the hollow of your throat. “Keep moving like that, and I’ll make you wait even longer.”
You go still, but your chest heaves, your pulse hammering where his lips hover just above your skin. Dean exhales a dark chuckle, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. “Good girl.” The praise shouldn’t make you shiver, but it does, pooling low in your stomach. His teeth graze your earlobe, and you bite back a moan, fingers twisting in the sheets.
He notices. Of course he does. “Fuck,” he breathes against your skin, rough and reverent, as his thumbs brush over the peaks of your breasts through the flimsy lace of your bra. You arch into him, chasing the pressure, and Dean rewards you with a groan, his mouth dropping to your collarbone. “So greedy,” he murmurs, but his hands don’t stop circling and teasing. His calloused fingertips dragging just enough to make you whimper.
When he finally unhooks your bra, you’re already breathless. The cool air hits your skin, but Dean’s hands are hotter, his palms cupping the weight of you like he’s memorizing the shape. His thumbs swipe over your nipples again, slow and deliberate, and you choke on a gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “Daddy,” you sigh, just to watch his eyes darken, just to feel his grip tighten possessively.
He doesn’t disappoint. With a growl, he bends his head, taking one peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling just enough to make your back bow off the bed. His free hand pinches the other nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you’re writhing, your thighs clamping around his hips. “That’s it,” he mutters against your skin, his breath scalding. “Let me hear you.”
You’re too far gone to care. Every flick of his tongue, every graze of his teeth sends sparks skittering down your spine, pooling low in your stomach. When he switches sides, his mouth just as hungry, his fingers just as relentless, you sob his name, your hips jerking uselessly against the air.
Dean lifts his head just enough to smirk at you, his lips glistening, his hair mussed from your fingers. “You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he rasps, dragging his thumb over your swollen nipple one last time, just to watch you tremble. “But we’re not done yet.” His hand slides down your stomach, slow and deliberate, and your breath hitches when his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your panties.
Dean’s fingers trail lower, agonizingly slow, his calloused fingertips skating over the dip of your navel before he drags his palm back up to your ribs, just to watch you squirm. “So impatient,” he murmurs against the curve of your breast, his breath hot as he presses an open-mouthed kiss just below your nipple. His teeth graze the sensitive skin there, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath hitch, your fingers tightening in his hair.
He hums, low and satisfied, like the sound of your desperation is something he wants to savor. His tongue flicks over your nipple once, twice, teasing. Then he blows a slow, cool breath over the wetness, watching it tighten under his attention. “Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, before sucking it back into his mouth, his lips sealing tight as his tongue swirls in lazy circles.
Your back arches off the bed, a whimper tearing from your throat, but Dean just pins your hip down with his free hand, his grip firm. “Stay still,” he orders, his voice rough around the word. His thumb brushes over your other nipple, rolling it between his fingers until it’s pebbled and aching, and you can’t help the way your thighs press together, seeking friction.
Dean notices, of course he does, his dark chuckle vibrates against your skin as he lifts his head just enough to smirk at you. “You’re so fucking greedy,” he accuses, but there’s no heat in it, just a possessive and some sort of pride. His thumb drags over your nipple again, slow and deliberate, and you bite your lip to keep from begging.
Dean’s mouth is relentless, his tongue flicking over your nipple in slow, torturous circles while his fingers tease the other by pinching just hard enough to make your breath catch, then soothing with the rough pad of his thumb. You writhe beneath him, your hips arching off the bed, but he pins you down with a firm hand on your stomach, his grip unyielding. “Stay put,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot. “You’ll get what you want when I say so.”
His teeth graze the underside of your breast, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core, and you gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets. Dean hums in approval, his tongue dragging a wet path lower, tracing the curve of your ribs before he nips at the soft skin of your belly. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers hooking into the lace of your panties, and you lift your hips instinctively, eager for more. But he pauses, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the inside of your thighs, his breath warm against your skin. “So fucking eager,” he mutters, dark amusement lacing his voice.
Then his mouth is on you, his tongue flat and hot as he drags it up your center in one long, filthy stroke. Your back bows off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from your throat, but Dean doesn’t relent, he grips your thighs, spreading you wider, his tongue delving deeper, lapping at you like he’s starved. His groan vibrates against you, rough and satisfied, and you fist your hands in his hair, holding him there as he fucks you with his tongue, slow and deliberate.
When he finally pulls back, his lips glistening, his breath ragged, you whimper at the loss. Dean chuckles, low and smug, his fingers replacing his mouth, sliding through your wetness with agonizing slowness. “You’re fucking dripping,” he growls, his eyes locked on yours as he circles your clit, just once, just enough to make you jerk beneath him. “You love this, don’t you? Love making me lose my fucking mind.”
You don’t get a chance to answer. He surges up, capturing your mouth in a brutal kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His hands grip your waist, before going back to your thighs. His tongue presses flat against you, dragging up in one slow, deliberate stroke that leaves you trembling beneath him. You gasp, fingers twisting into the sheets as he hums against your skin, the vibration sending sparks skittering up your spine. Dean doesn’t let up, his mouth is relentless, lips sealing around your clit as he sucks just hard enough to make your hips jerk off the bed. His grip tightens on your thighs, fingers digging in to hold you still as he fucks you with his tongue, slow and deep, like he’s savoring every taste.
“Dean—” you choke out, but he growls against you, the sound vibrating through your core as his thumb circles your entrance, teasing but not giving you what you want. Not yet. He drags his tongue back up, swirling around your clit with torturous precision before nipping lightly at the sensitive skin there. You whimper, thighs shaking, but he pins you down with a firm hand on your stomach, his grip unyielding. “Stay put,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot. “I’m not done with you.”
And then he’s back at it, his tongue lapping at you like he’s starved, his nose nudging against your clit with every flick of his tongue. Your back arches off the bed, a ragged moan tearing from your throat as his fingers finally slide into you, curling just right to make your vision blur. Dean groans against you, the sound rough and satisfied, and you can feel his lips curve into a smirk as you clench around his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he mutters, dragging his tongue over you one last time before pulling back, his breath ragged.
You whine, hips arching off the bed, but Dean smirks, leaning down to blow a slow, taunting breath over your skin. “You’ll come when I fucking say so,” he murmurs, his voice rough with want. His fingers slide into you again, curling just right, and your back bows off the mattress with a strangled moan. Dean watches you unravel beneath him, his eyes dark with satisfaction, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.
Then he’s pulling away, stripping off his jeans with rough, impatient tugs. The moonlight catches the flex of his abs, the hard line of his cock as he fists himself once, his gaze locked on yours. “Look at you,” he growls, stepping closer, his hand wrapping around your throat,not tight, just present, as he nudges your thighs wider with his knee. “Fucking perfect.”
Before you can protest the loss, he’s flipping you onto your back, his hands rough as he yanks your hips to the edge of the bed. Dean doesn’t give you time to recover. He fists himself in one hand, stroking slowly as he lines up, his eyes locked on yours. “Look at me,” he demands, voice thick with want. And then he’s pushing in, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s buried to the maximum, his hips pressed flush against yours.
Dean doesn’t let you come down from the high of his fingers still buried inside you.
"You feel that?" he grits out, his voice wrecked already. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, pressing down just enough to make you open for him, and when you whimper, he exhales a dark laugh. "Good. Remember who you belong to."
Then he’s moving, hard, relentless strokes that leave no room for gentleness, each snap of his hips driving you deeper into the mattress. His hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, threading into your hair, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder to fuck into you at a sharper angle. You choke on his name, your nails raking down his back, but Dean only growls, catching your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand.
"Eyes on me," he demands, his breath hot against your mouth. His other hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with unerring precision, circling just enough to make your vision blur. You arch into him, desperate for more, but Dean tuts, slowing his thrusts to a maddening grind. "Nuh-uh. You take what I give you."
Dean's fingers tighten around your wrists, pressing them deeper into the mattress as his hips roll against yours with torturous slowness. You can feel every ridge of him, every twitch of his cock inside you, the stretch bordering on unbearable, except you’d never tell him to stop, not when his breath hitches against your neck like he’s the one being ruined. "Fuck," he grits out, the word rough against your skin. "You’re so fucking tight—" His thumb circles your clit faster, compensating for the way he’s deliberately dragging his strokes out now, and you whimper, hips jerking uselessly against his grip.
He nips at your earlobe, breath hot. "Told you to stay still." His teeth graze your pulse point next, sharp enough to make you gasp, and you can feel his smirk against your throat when your thighs tremble around his waist. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing, knows the way your body reacts to him like it’s been wired for his touch alone. His free hand slides down to grip your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises as he finally, finally, picks up the pace, driving into you with sharp, punishing thrusts that knock the breath from your lungs.
You arch off the bed with a cry, your nails scraping down his back, but Dean just growls, catching your hands and pinning them above your head again. "Look at me," he demands, his voice ragged. When your gaze flickers shut, he nips your chin, forcing your eyes open. "I said look at me." His thumb presses harder against your clit, circling in tight, relentless strokes, and you sob his name, your hips jerking into his touch. "That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing yours. "Come for me."
The command tears through you like a live wire, your body clenching around him as pleasure crests sharp and sudden. Dean groans, his forehead dropping to yours as he fucks you through it, his thrusts turning erratic, his grip on your wrists tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. "One more," he rasps against your mouth, his breath uneven. "Give me one more." His teeth sink into your shoulder, blunt and possessive, and you gasp, oversensitive but unable to stop the way your body responds to him, the way pleasure coils tight again so soon.
The moment you start to come down from the first orgasm, Dean’s already shifting his grip, his fingers tightening around your wrists as he drags your hips higher off the bed. His thrusts turn deliberate again, slow and deep, each one dragging against oversensitive nerves until you’re squirming beneath him, torn between pulling away and arching into it. His smirk is all sharp edges when he catches your expression, his thumb pressing harder against your clit in a way that borders on cruel. "You love it," he mutters, more statement than question, and you can’t even deny it, not when your body’s already responding, clenching around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper.
Dean’s breath hitches when you tighten around him, his hips stuttering for half a second before he regains control, slowing his pace just to watch you unravel. "Fuck," he exhales, rough and reverent, his free hand sliding down to grip your thigh, hitching your leg higher over his shoulder. The new angle punches a moan out of you, the stretch bordering on too much, but Dean doesn’t let up, just leans down to catch your gasp with his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than finesse.
You barely register the sting of his teeth on your bottom lip, too focused on the way his cock drags against that spot inside you with every thrust, the sensation sharp enough to make your vision blur. Dean groans when your nails dig into his shoulders, his grip on your thigh tightening as he fucks into you harder, his rhythm faltering for the first time all night. "Look at me," he demands, voice raw, and when your eyes flicker open, his gaze is dark with something possessive, something hungry. "Say it."
You know what he wants, know it in the way his thumb circles your clit just right, in the way his hips snap against yours like he’s trying to imprint the shape of himself into your skin. "Yours," you gasp, and the word sends a shudder through him, his breath coming uneven against your throat.
Dean exhales sharply through his nose, that slow, controlled breath that means he's fighting to keep himself in check. But the second the word leaves your lips, "Yours",something snaps in him. His grip tightens on your thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, and then he's fucking into you with a roughness that borders on desperate.
The headboard slams against the wall with each thrust, the rhythm uneven now, like he's forgotten how to be careful. You gasp, oversensitive from your first orgasm, but Dean doesn't let up, just growls against your throat, his teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Say it again," he demands, voice wrecked.
"Yours," you whimper, and his hips jerk, his cock twitching inside you. You can feel him losing control, feel the way his rhythm fractures with every ragged breath he takes.
Dean's hand slides from your thigh to your hip, fingers pressing into the bruise he left earlier like he's reminding himself it's there. His other hand grips your hair, tilting your head back so he can watch your face as he fucks you. "Fuck," he grits out, his voice rough. "Look at you—" His thumb brushes your bottom lip, pressing down just enough to make you open for him. "Taking me so fucking good."
Dean’s fingers tighten in your hair, angling your head back just enough that you can’t look away, not that you’d want to. The moonlight catches the sweat beading along his collarbones, the way his throat works as he swallows hard, his breath ragged. “Say it again,” he demands, hips snapping forward in a sharp thrust that punches a gasp out of you.
You’re wrung out, oversensitive, but your body arches into his anyway, like it’s been programmed to respond to him. “Yours,” you repeat, the word slurred at the edges, and Dean’s breath hitches like you’ve punched him. His rhythm stutters, his grip on your hip tightening to the point of pain, then he’s dragging you closer, his mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue.
The noise he makes against your lips is half-growl, half-groan, raw and unfiltered, and you can feel the way his control frays with every ragged exhale. His thrusts turn uneven, his hips jerking forward like he’s chasing something just out of reach. You whimper into his mouth, your nails scoring down his back, and Dean curses, his forehead dropping to yours.
“Fuck—” His voice cracks, his body tensing above you, and then he’s coming with a groan that rattles through his chest, his hips grinding into yours as he spills deep inside you. You can feel the way his pulse races under your fingertips, the way his breath gusts hot against your neck, his body shuddering with the force of it.
Dean doesn’t pull out, just collapses half on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he catches his breath against your throat. His lips move sluggishly against your pulse, more reflex than intention, his fingers still tangled in your hair like he’s forgotten how to let go. You can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat where his chest presses against yours, the damp heat of his skin sticking to yours in the aftermath.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice gravelly, his thumb brushing absently over your hipbone like he’s checking for damage. His other hand finally releases your hair, trailing down to cradle the back of your neck instead, possessive even in exhaustion. “You okay?”
You hum, too boneless to form words, your fingers tracing idle patterns along the sweat-slick planes of his back. Dean exhales a slow breath, his nose nudging against your jaw like he’s cataloging the scent of you, and you can feel the exact moment his muscles start to tense again, the way his grip tightens infinitesimally on your neck, the way his hips shift against yours.
“Dean,” you warn, but it comes out more breathless than stern, and he huffs a laugh against your skin, his teeth scraping lightly over your collarbone.
Dean's fingers trail down your spine in slow, idle strokes, his touch lighter now,not demanding, just present. His breath warms the curve of your shoulder where his face is half-buried in the pillow beside you, his body still draped over yours like a human blanket. "You're shaking," he mutters, voice rough with sleep and something softer. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. "Cold?"
You're not. The room is thick with heat, the sheets tangled around your legs, but your limbs won't stop trembling, aftershocks, you think, or maybe just the way Dean's fingers keep tracing your ribs like he's counting them. You shake your head, pressing back into his chest, and he hums, low and understanding. His palm flattens against your stomach, anchoring you. "Breathe," he reminds you, lips grazing your shoulder blade.
It takes a second, your lungs stuttering, your ribs expanding under his touch, but then you exhale, long and slow, and Dean's grip tightens approvingly. "There you go." His voice is quieter now, the sharp edges worn down to something warm and drowsy. His fingers skim your hipbone, tracing the faint marks he left earlier with a roughness that's absent now. "Hurts?"
You shake your head again, and Dean's exhale ruffles your hair. "Good." His hand drifts lower, palming the curve of your thigh where it's pressed against his, his touch lingering like he's relearning the shape of you. The silence stretches, comfortable in a way it hasn't been all night, no teasing, no demands, just the steady rhythm of his breath against your skin.
Dean shifts suddenly, rolling onto his back and dragging you with him until you’re sprawled across his chest. The abrupt movement makes you yelp, but his arm bands around your waist, locking you in place before you can squirm away. “Stay,” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion, his free hand carding through your hair like he’s petting a cat. The moonlight catches the sweat drying on his collarbones, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath you.
You press your ear to his heartbeat, listening to the steady thud gradually even out. His fingers trail absently down your spine, pausing to trace the crescent marks your nails left on his shoulders earlier. He huffs a quiet laugh. “You're like a cat” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it, just a drowsy sort of fondness that makes your stomach flip.
A gust of wind rattles the window, and Dean’s arm tightens around you instinctively. His thumb brushes your hip where he knows you’re tender, his touch featherlight now compared to the bruising grip from before. “You good?” he asks again, quieter this time, his chin resting atop your head.
You nod against his chest, and he hums, satisfied. His fingers find yours where they’re splayed against his sternum, lacing together loosely. The calluses on his palm rasp against your knuckles, familiar in a way that shouldn’t make your pulse stutter, but it does.
Dean exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, his fingers tightening around yours in a silent challenge. You can feel the tension coiled in his body beneath you, the way his heartbeat kicks up when your nails scrape lightly over his ribs. "Still restless," he observes, voice rough with sleep and something darker. His thumb traces the inside of your wrist, pressing down on the pulse point there like he’s testing your reaction.
summary: you've always kept things casual. it's just easier that way. you've got a roster, a routine, and absolutely no intention of changing—until you realise you've made one very inconvenient mistake: falling in love with dr. jack abbot.
notes: okay, this took way longer than it should have because i burnt out trying to make all the "medical stuff" absolutely perfectly, then when i picked it back up i feel like the rhythm changed a little? hopefully for the better? i'm not sure if it's worth the wait, but i really hope y'all still enjoy! and as always, please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing, blushing, italics, fwb type situation, jealousy, implied age gap, reader is in serious denial, medical descriptions, medical procedure descriptions (not graphic), most definitely incorrect medical information, sexual references, implied sexual relationships, making out (on shift), and one irritatingly handsome and unreasonably reasonable night shift attending.
word count: 15620
“Hey—oh, thank God.” You kick the door shut behind you. “Can you wait for me? I just need, like, five minutes.”
Ellis sighs. “Really? I was just about to leave.”
“Five minutes,” you say again, already moving toward your room.
You don’t bother shutting the door. You just drop your bag at the foot of your bed, pull the faded old U.S. Army shirt over your head, and shove your sweatpants down. Then you grab a fresh set of scrubs and pull them on, tying the drawstring quickly before opening your bag to check for your badge and stethoscope.
“Aren’t you gonna shower?” Ellis calls from the living room.
“We showered before I left,” you say, “but I didn’t have a clean pair of scrubs.”
Ellis gags. “Gross. Why’d you have to say ‘we’?”
You sling your bag over your shoulder as you step out of your room, grinning.
“Because we had some really great shower sex too.”
Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.
“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.
You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”
She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”
“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”
Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.
The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.
“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”
You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.
“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.
“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”
Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.
Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.
“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”
You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”
He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.
“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”
You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”
Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.
You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.
“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”
“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.
“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.
“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”
Ellis snorts beside you.
“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”
You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.
“You have my badge.”
You frown. “What?”
“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.
He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.
“Attending physician, huh?”
You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”
He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.
“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.
You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.
“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.
You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”
“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”
Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”
She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.
“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”
“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”
You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.
“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”
His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”
He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.
“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.
“Benching?” Ellis asks.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Let me guess—personal best?”
He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”
“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”
He wriggles them slowly.
“Any numbness?”
He shakes his head.
“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”
You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.
“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”
“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.
You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”
“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.
You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”
She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.
“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”
“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”
You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”
“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”
You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.
“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”
He smirks. “So I have a shot?”
You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”
He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.
Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.
“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”
“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”
He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”
“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”
His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.
His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.
“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.
“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”
Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”
You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”
He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”
“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.
You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.
“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”
He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”
Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”
You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.
You look at her. “Ready?”
She nods once.
“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”
You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.
“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”
He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.
“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.
You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.
Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”
You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—
“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”
You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.
“Move your fingers,” you tell him.
He does.
“Any numbness?”
He shakes his head.
“Good.”
You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.
“Comfortable?” she asks.
Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”
“Then have a nap.”
You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.
“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”
“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.
You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”
He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.
Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”
You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I'm not—”
“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.
You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”
You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”
“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”
“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”
Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.
Retiring?
You blink, your brows drawing tighter.
Retiring?
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?
From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?
It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.
Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.
You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.
You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.
Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.
Except for...
Well—except for Jack.
But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.
So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—
“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”
Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.
“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”
He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”
You tilt your head. “Worth it?”
“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”
You nod. “I’m in.”
The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.
You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?
In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”
That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.
“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”
You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.
“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”
“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.
You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.
“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”
You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”
Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”
Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.
Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.
“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.
You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.
“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”
You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.
“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”
“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.
“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”
You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.
“Josh!”
A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.
“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”
Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”
You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”
His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.
“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.
You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”
“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”
You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.
You hum. “Right.”
“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.
Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.
“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.
Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.
“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.
Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.
“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”
Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.
“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”
Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.
“What about alcohol?” you ask again.
“Like—two beers,” he replies.
“Any drugs?”
“No—ah—no drugs.”
You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”
“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.
Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”
Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”
“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”
He nods again. “Good.”
You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.
“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.
“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”
You nod once before turning back to Josh.
“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”
He shakes his head faintly. “No.”
“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”
“Which antibiotic?”
“Cefazolin?”
He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”
You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.
“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”
“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”
He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.
“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”
You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.
“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”
Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.
You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.
When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.
You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—
You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.
“Deran?”
The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.
He smiles. “Hey, doc.”
“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.
He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.
“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”
“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.
He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Go for it.”
You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.
“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”
You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”
He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.
You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”
You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.
“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”
His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”
You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”
“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”
You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”
He gasps. “All of them?”
“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.
“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.
“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”
You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.
“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”
“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.
Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.
“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”
“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”
His brows lift. “Wow.”
Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”
He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”
You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.
After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”
You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”
He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.
“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”
He lifts it slowly.
“Can you move your fingers?”
His eyes go wide.
You give him a flat look. “Just try.”
His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.
“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.
“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.
He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.
“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”
You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”
“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”
It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.
Then it clicks.
“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”
He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”
You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”
“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”
“Everything alright in here?”
You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.
You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”
“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.
“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”
Then you glance back at Jack.
“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”
Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”
You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.
“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”
He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”
You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”
He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”
You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”
Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.
“You know him?”
You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”
He lifts a brow. “Friend?”
You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”
He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”
“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.
Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”
You frown. “Why?”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”
Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.
You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.
Great. Must be a brand-new patient.
You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.
The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.
You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.
“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.
You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”
He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”
You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.
“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”
Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”
You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”
He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”
“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”
His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”
You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”
“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.
Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.
He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.
Then he pulls away.
Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.
You blink. “What was that?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
He steps toward the door.
“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”
You stare at him. “Seriously?”
He reaches for the handle.
“South Sixteen.”
Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.
That was weird.
Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.
It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.
The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.
“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”
Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”
You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”
Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”
“Perfect. I’ll—”
“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”
You frown. “But I—”
“Now.”
You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.
“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”
Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.
You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.
You just can’t figure out why.
He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.
He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.
And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.
But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?
“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”
You blink. “Yeah. Why?”
“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”
“And if I am?”
“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”
“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”
Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”
You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”
“Deran.”
“Oh.”
You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.
“That was fast,” you mutter.
Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”
You shrug. “Yeah.”
“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”
She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”
You sigh. “Yep.”
She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.
You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.
The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.
It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.
“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”
Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”
“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.
“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.
“The wings?”
She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”
You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”
“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”
Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”
“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.
Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”
You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.
You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”
Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”
“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.
Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”
“Nope.”
“Huh.”
You look at her. “What?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”
Ellis nods. “Okay.”
“Good.”
Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.
It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.
Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.
If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.
The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.
“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”
You blink. “What?”
Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”
You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.
“Oh.”
Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”
You frown. “Who?”
“Dr. Abbot.”
“Why?”
Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”
You sigh. “Great.”
He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.
“Did he say where?” you ask.
“South.”
You nod once. “Thanks.”
Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.
You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.
“Shen said you wanted to see me.”
He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”
“And?”
“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.
You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”
You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.
“Okay. I’ll send him up.”
Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.
“Have you eaten?”
You frown. “What?”
“Have you eaten anything tonight?”
“I had an energy drink.”
He stares at you. “That’s not food.”
You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”
“Make time.”
You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”
He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.
“There’s a container in the fridge.”
You blink. “What?”
“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”
Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”
He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”
As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.
“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”
You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.
“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”
“You’re welcome.”
You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.
You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.
“Oh. Hey.”
Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”
You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.
You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.
“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.
“Huh?”
You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.
“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”
You tilt your head. “How do you know?”
“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.
“Oh.”
You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.
“What’d he say?”
Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”
You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”
Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”
You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”
Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”
“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”
“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”
You blink. “What?”
Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”
“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”
The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.
“That’s different?” Ellis offers.
You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.
“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”
Ellis snorts. “Or were.”
You glare at her.
“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”
You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”
“You mean jealous.”
Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”
“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”
Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”
“Thank you.”
“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”
You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.
“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”
You stare at her.
“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”
She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.
“That’s not casual.”
The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.
“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”
Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.
You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.
No.
It’s not—
It can’t be—
You would know if you were in—
Fuck.
You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.
This is ridiculous.
Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.
You’re not in—
God. You can’t even think about that word.
You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.
It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.
Jerk.
You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.
Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.
“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”
Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”
You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.
“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”
He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”
You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”
You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.
“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”
He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.
“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”
He lifts his head.
“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”
“What does that mean?”
“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”
His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”
“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”
He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”
“You’ll be okay.”
“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”
You roll your eyes. “Really?”
“Will you be here when I wake up?”
You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”
He sighs. “Damn.”
You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”
He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”
You tilt your head. “What guy?”
“The one that came in here before. The attending.”
Your stomach drops.
“What about him?”
“I thought he was your boss.”
You fold your arms. “He is.”
“Huh.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”
You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.
“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”
He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”
“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”
“Tell your boss I said hi.”
“Bye, Deran.”
His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.
You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.
The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.
Not that you’re feeling anything.
At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.
You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.
By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.
Because that’s exactly what it is.
Ridiculous.
“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”
You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.
He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.
Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.
Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.
You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.
Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.
It must be really sore tonight.
He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.
Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.
His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.
“You alright?”
You blink. “What?”
Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”
“Uh—”
You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.
What the fuck?
You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.
“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”
Your stomach flips. “What?”
He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”
“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”
He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”
“Ellis?”
“Not just Ellis.”
Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”
He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”
“Together?”
He frowns. “You’re not?”
“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”
His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”
“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”
Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”
Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”
Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”
You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—
“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”
“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”
Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”
You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”
He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.
He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.
Your stomach twists.
Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.
And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isn’t long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and you’re forced back into work mode.
The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jack’s name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jack’s and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.
By the time you’re halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasn’t settled and you’re no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, it’s getting worse.
Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patient’s intake form, determined to stay distracted. You’re just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance up—and there he is.
His brows lift, just slightly. “A word?”
Shit.
“Um. Sure.”
You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nurses’ station that no one nosy can overhear.
When he finally stops and turns to face you, you’re reminded—quite aggressively—just how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.
“What was that?”
You take a small step back. “What was what?”
He nods vaguely toward Central. “You completely dodged that trauma back there.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” You look away. “I just—I had a patient I needed to get back to.”
“We’ve all got patients,” he says, folding his arms. “But this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumas—you know that.”
You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just... a little distracted tonight.”
“Distracted?” he echoes. “Is this about your friend?”
Your head snaps up. “My friend?”
“The one you just sent up to surgery.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure you should’ve been his physician.”
You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a conflict of interest.”
You scoff. “A conflict of interest? Seriously?”
He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.
“Yes.”
You lift your chin. “Alright. How’s Ms. Callahan, then?”
He blinks. “Who?”
“Central Nine. Your ex.”
He stares at you for a second.
“Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “What matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“So he’s not just an old friend.”
You tilt your head. “You knew that, Jack.”
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jack’s looking at you, you’re not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as you’d hoped.
“Look,” you say, desperate to end this interaction. “I’m sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right there—it’s not like I left you hanging. I knew he’d jump in.”
Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.”
You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.
“Guess I should stop playing favourites, huh?”
You frown again. “Favourites?”
He lifts a shoulder. “You’re always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.”
Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.
“What about Dr. Robby?” you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.
He leans in slightly. “I’d still choose you.”
The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.
You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they don’t. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.
Whatever.
Maybe they don’t mean anything.
You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart you’d been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you he’d still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.
Ridiculous.
You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college student’s knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again it’s almost seven.
“Shit,” you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nurses’ station.
You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.
“Hey.” Henderson sits at the computer across from you. “Little girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.”
You glance over at him. “Oh. Nice.”
“Her mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.”
You snort. “Between the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.”
Henderson huffs a laugh. “Apparently she’s been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.”
Your brows lift. “Really?”
Henderson grins. “And now she wants to be a doctor just like you."
“Yeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?”
“Assuming you had one to begin with,” Robby cuts in.
You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.
“And here I was worried you’d be in a good mood this morning,” you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.
His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Careful.”
You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.
It takes exactly eight minutes before you’re interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.
“Alright,” Lena says as she hangs up the phone. “Male, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.”
“I’ll take it,” Robby says, setting his coffee down. “Let’s prep Trauma One.”
He glances around the unusually empty floor.
“I’ll jump in,” you offer, pushing your chair back.
Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nurses’ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. It’s not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you haven’t had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and you’re starting to feel a little guilty about it.
“See,” Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. “There’s hope for you yet.”
You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isn’t long before you hear sirens.
The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldn’t be older than four.
“Thirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,” the paramedic says. “Positive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.”
The second paramedic circles the van from the driver’s side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.
Robby nods toward the daughter. “You check her out?”
“We did a quick assessment on scene, but we’ve been focused on Dad,” the paramedic says, still holding her.
“Alright. We’ll get somebody to take a look at her.”
The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the man’s forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.
“Stay with me, sir,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Barry,” he murmurs.
“Where does it hurt, Barry?”
He winces. “My—my stomach.”
The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly you’re back under the bright fluorescent lights.
“Abbot,” Robby calls. “Can you take a look at the kid?”
Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedic’s arms. “Your dad’s in good hands. Come on, let’s get you checked out too.”
You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.
The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.
“Pressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,” he reports.
Olive quickly cuts Barry’s shirt open.
“Seatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,” you say, pressing gently along his stomach.
He grimaces when you reach his left side.
“Left’s worse.”
Robby holds out a hand. “Ultrasound.”
Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barry’s abdomen.
“RUQ,” Robby says.
You glance up at the ultrasound screen. “Clear.”
“LUQ.”
“Clear.”
“Pelvis.”
“Nothing obvious.”
“Good,” Robby says. “FAST negative. He’s stable enough for CT.”
You turn to Olive. “CT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.”
She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isn’t a guarantee, but it’s a promising start.
Barry groans, trying to lift his head. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Ellie?”
You press a hand against his shoulder.
“Hey, don’t try to sit up. Your daughter’s okay—she’s just outside with another doctor.”
“She’s okay?”
You nod. “She’s okay.”
He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.
“Hold on.”
You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.
“Forehead lac,” you tell Robby. “About three centimetres.”
He glances over. “Alright. We’ll close it up before he goes to imaging.”
He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.
“Lidocaine,” Robby says.
You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.
“Stay still for us, Barry,” you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. “This might sting a little.”
He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.
“Saline,” Robby says.
You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.
“How’s the pain?” you ask.
“‘S okay,” Barry mumbles.
“Forceps.”
You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.
“Light,” he murmurs.
You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that it’s in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.
You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barry’s heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.
“Scissors,” Robby says.
You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barry’s vitals.
“You with us, Barry?” Robby asks.
“Yeah,” Barry murmurs.
“Can’t feel the needle, can you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.
But it isn’t Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.
Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nurses’ station is Barry’s daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.
Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.
Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can make an educated guess.
Ellie’s tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jack’s chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesn’t topple backwards.
Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.
She’s taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.
“Doctor.”
You blink, glancing back at Robby.
“Yeah?”
He gives you a look. “Scissors. For the third time.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. She’s giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jack’s cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.
“Forceps.”
You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.
His eyes flick up. “You alright?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re smiling.”
“No, I’m—”
Oh my God.
You are smiling.
You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.
Oh my God.
You’re in love with Jack Abbot.
“Alright, Barry,” Robby says, peeling his gloves off. “We’re gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
You take one unsteady step back from the bed.
“Can someone call my wife?” Barry asks, his voice strained.
Robby nods. “I'm sure somebody already has, but I’ll check.”
Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.
“What about Ellie? Can I see her?”
“Of course,” Robby says. “She’s right outside.”
Barry lifts his head slightly. “Am I okay?”
“Well, you’re talking to me, your pressure’s holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.” Robby looks at you. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”
Your head snaps up. “Hm?”
He frowns. “You sure you’re alright? You seem—”
“I’m fine,” you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. “I just—I have charting to do.”
Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.
You don’t stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You can’t scream. Can’t shout. Can’t drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just… breathe.
Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic—but can anyone blame you?
You don’t want this. You can’t want this. You don’t have time for this.
Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. That’s all you want.
Or… all you wanted.
Now?
Now you’re not sure what you want.
Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you can’t imagine doing either of those things without Jack.
You can’t imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You can’t imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.
You can’t imagine anything without Jack.
Which is terrifying.
Because it isn’t just sex anymore. It isn’t flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. It’s the way he’s somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. He’s just there. Everywhere.
And now... he matters.
You sit up and drag in a deep breath.
You need to pull it together. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even a thing. It’s only a thing if you let it be a thing, which… you’re not going to do.
With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.
You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings will—
“Hey. You okay?”
Your heart lurches, but you don’t stop.
“I was going to come over there,” he says, keeping his voice low, “but I didn’t want to—”
“I’m fine,” you murmur, without even looking at him.
His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating.
“You sure?”
You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m fine,” you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Seriously.”
He gives you a look. Not one that says he’s offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesn’t believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.
“I need to finish my notes,” you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.
You turn down the North corridor and don’t stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.
It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a few—mostly coherent—sentences. You type Jack’s name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.
Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.
Now you just need to handover your patients.
You find Langdon by the nurses’ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.
“Hey.” You step up beside him. “You got a minute for handover?”
He glances at you. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t know there were still any night crawlers left.”
You frown. “Everyone’s gone?”
“Everyone but Dr. Abbot,” he says. “And you.”
Your eyes go wide. “Ellis is gone?”
He nods. “Saw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.”
You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.
Ellis: Abbot said he’s giving you a lift, so I’m headed out.
Ellis: Need anything from the store?
Your stomach drops.
“Everything alright?” Langdon asks.
“Uh—yeah. Fine.”
You tuck your phone back into your pocket.
“I’ve only got two patients. Can you take them?”
He nods. “Of course.”
“Alright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECG’s clean, waiting on the repeat. If that’s negative too, he can go home.”
“Mhm.”
“And South Nineteen’s the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said they’d come see her, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Langdon snorts. “Got it.”
You nod. “Great. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope.”
He smiles. “Great sign-out.”
“I try,” you mutter, already turning away.
You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.
You: You’re dead to me.
You: And toothpaste.
When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You don’t bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket on—you just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.
Maybe you can catch a bus home. Or—hell—you’ll pay for an Uber if you have to.
“Hey, slow down,” Dana says as you rush past the nurses’ station. “What’s the hurry?”
“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “Just—really need to get home.”
You’re moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.
You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.
Only, you can’t remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?
“You ready?”
You flinch. “Jesus Christ.”
Jack huffs a laugh. “Not quite.”
You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.
“I’m this way,” he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.
You hesitate. “I—uh—I was just going to grab an Uber.”
His brows lift, but he doesn’t look all that surprised. “You were?”
You nod. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
You turn away, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack that’s slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.
“Is there something going on that I should know about?” he asks finally.
“Nope,” you reply, too fast.
Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.
“Where are you going?”
“The bus stop,” you say, without looking back.
He follows you. Because of course he does.
“You’re going to catch a bus?”
“Yep.”
He laughs again, but this time it’s more disbelief than dry amusement.
“I’m offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and you’d rather catch a bus?”
That makes you stop.
You turn around. “No strings attached?”
He lifts a shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”
“What I want?”
“If you want me to just drop you off, I’ll just drop you off.”
You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.
“Just drop me off?”
He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.
“And then what?” you ask.
He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“Then you just leave?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Your throat tightens. “Stop saying that.”
He frowns. “Saying what?”
“If that’s what I want.” You drag a hand through your hair. “You keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like it’s my choice and you don’t get to say anything or—or feel anything, and that’s not fair.”
He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.
“What are we talking about here?”
“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up. “This. Us. Whatever this is. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, Jack. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m... too reasonable?”
“Yes! God—” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Why are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everything’s fine and maybe that’s worked up until now, but I don't think it’s working anymore.”
“Okay,” he says evenly. “Tell me what’s not working, and we can talk about it.”
“Talk about it?” You stare at him. “Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about, because this—this isn’t anything. This is casual, Jack. It’s supposed to be casual. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space or—or something.”
His brows lift. “Is that what you want?”
You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “Yes.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.
“Okay,” he says again. “If you want space, I can give you space.”
“Seriously?” You let out another sharp laugh. “Of course that’s your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and you’re just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to argue?”
“Maybe!” You throw your hands up again. “I don’t know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, you’d give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, you’d end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, you’d just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me that’s okay too.”
You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.
“And don’t tell me that’s not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasn’t paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. You’re a doctor. I know that. I know I’m being irrational.”
You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.
“And that’s the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. That’s the problem. It’s not about her at all. It’s about the fact that you’re always fine. You’re always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I don’t know how you do that.” You let out an unsteady breath. “It's like—like none of this matters to you. Like you don’t care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.”
Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard you’re almost sure he can hear it.
He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly you’re struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what you’ve been trying so hard not to say.
“You think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?” he asks, his voice soft. “You think I could walk away from you?”
He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.
“When this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didn’t want a relationship—and if that’s still not what you want, then okay. I’m not going to pressure you into something you’re not ready for. I’m not trying to be overly reasonable, and I’m certainly not trying to make you feel like you’re losing your mind.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“When I ask you what you want, it’s not because I don’t care what happens. It’s because I do. It’s because I’d rather be patient than push you into something before you’re ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then I’ll give you space.”
His gaze holds yours.
“But don’t mistake that for indifference. Because there’s no version of this where walking away from you is easy. There’s no version of this where I don’t care. And if one day you tell me that’s what you really want, then I’ll respect it. Not because it’s what I want. Not because what I feel doesn’t matter. But because I respect you.”
His expression softens again.
“Do you understand?”
You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.
“Now listen to me.”
He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.
“I know you’ve had a long shift. I know you’re exhausted. I know you’re standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and I’m not trying to make your day any harder than it already is—but I need you to hear this.”
His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.
“I love you too.”
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.
His lips quirk. “You alright?”
“No,” you breathe.
And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.
His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.
He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.
You step in until there’s nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.
And for a second, neither of you seems to care.
The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows he’s got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.
Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.
“Don’t,” you murmur against his mouth.
He doesn’t say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way he’d just been holding you.
Then he pulls back completely.
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.
The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.
“Still catching the bus?”
You immediately let go of his shirt. “Shut up.”
He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.
“My car’s the other way,” he calls.
You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.
Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Shut up,” you say again.
His smile only widens.
You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.
You don’t need to look back to know he’s following you.
You just know.
And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise you’re smiling.
dean’s chain swinging back and forth in your face… 18+ mdni. contains smut.
another grunt tore from deans throat, his head dipping down and eyes following down to where your bodies were connected. your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, keeping him planted deep inside you. sweat was beading in his forehead, damp locks of blonde hair sticking to his forehead. the air was thick, your bodies sticky and slick with sweat. you had lost track of how long you two had been at this and to be fair, it’s because you were under a spell.
dean’s gold necklace swung back and forth with each of his movements, completely mesmerizing you as he fucked into you. his heavy breathing matched yours, his breath mingling with yours. the pendant glistened in the LED lights dean had glued to the wall, which only mesmerized you more. of course you could feel him inside you. the way he reached all the way into your tummy, stretching you out… but you were also completely hypnotized by a stupid little chain.
“going silent on me already?” dean teased softly, eye scanning over your face, watching the way you eyes follow the necklace. your lips curled into a cheesy little grin, biting your lip as you had been caught red handed. your hands left dean’s scratched up back, his movements slowed as he watched you carefully. your finger hooked around the chain hanging from his neck, tugging it down towards you. dean leaned down, chasing the necklace as you guided it, and him, closer to you. he knew what you were doing, now and it made him smile, his dimples making your heart melt.
now, dean’s lips were hovering above yours, his nose brushing against yours softly. your heart was racing, thumping like a drum in your chest. you loved being this close, and intimate, with dean. finally, his lips pressed to yours, your arms wrapping around his neck to keep him pinned flush against you. he was still moving his hips, just much more slow and deliberate now.
he pulled away, just enough to really look at you, and there your eyes again. lain right on his chain again. he figured since you were already distracted by the little movements of it, he’d really make it with your time. dean picked up the pace, his lips slamming into yours, the bedroom flooding with the sound of his skin slapping against yours. your back arched, eyes rolling back as he desperately gripped at his flexing biceps. you felt like your body was ascending and gripping him was your only way to stay right here on the bed with him.
“don’t look away now, baby. keep your eyes on that chain, okay?” dean’s voice was soft, sweet, fucking innocent. he leaned down again, his nose rubbing yours. “open your eyes, baby. keep watching that chain.” he cooed, his voice so soft, it was melting and turning your insides to goo. turned your brain to goo too. your eyes slowly shifted back to his chain that was swinging back and forth directly above you. dean couldn’t help but smile as he noticed you finally looking at the pendant again. “good girl.”
within seconds, you were pretty much gone. completely hypnotized by the chain in your face, looking so pretty… on an even prettier man. the bedroom reeked of dean’s expensive cologne and sex, but neither of you cared. dean’s hips rocked into your yours, each thrust making your tits bounce. “fuck, you feel so good, baby. like an angel on earth. my angel.”
your eyes were trained on the metal still rocking in time with dean’s hips, a moan falling from your lips at how good he felt. his large hand splayed out on your outer thigh as he hitched your thigh up on his hip, giving him access to a slightly different angle. an angle that let him go deeper. “got a little drool.” dean teased, wiping the corner of your mouth though there was nothing there. okay, maybe you did have a little drool there. you leaned up, opening your mouth and gently biting down on the pendant swaying, your eyes locked on dean’s.
“shit, just like that, sweetheart.” dean groaned, the sound music to your ears. he wasn’t going to last much longer and he could tell you were close too by the way your pussy was gripping his cock. with just a few more thrusts, dean’s cock hitting your cervix, both of you came. hard. your body shuddered and jerked beneath him, toes curling and back arching. dean had let out this primal roar, his cock twitching as he filled you, painting your walls white. he gently brushed some hair from sweat slicked face, his fingertip lingering on your skin as he looked down at you.
after several moments of both of you just trying to catch your breath and come down from your fierce highs, you finally spoke. “i want that chain dangling in my face 25/8. not 24/7, that’s not enough. sun up to sun down. life or death.” too dramatic? dean let out an amused chuckle. he was definitely, absolutely, not opposed to that plan. whatsoever.
summary: You and Dean figured that breaking up was the best decision for the both of you. But he is always one number away and you're still his favorite contact. or… in which there are 3 times you need each other and 1 time you stop running from it.
pairing: dean di laurentis x reader
w.c: 3.6K
warnings/content: exes; lots of feelings; fluff fluff; angst with a happy ending (sort of); canon divergence.
A/N: I really liked the song and it gave me huge angst vibes. this is a 3+1 one shot. I barely write in his format cause I never gave it a chance, but now I decided to give my writing a challenge. I liked it a lot. it's kind of little short drabbles but that still connect. aaaaand yes I changed my moodboard style again cause apparently I can't follow a pattern. gifs offer so much more to imagination, am I right?
The Cranberries’s Linger was playing softly through the radio as you drove back from visiting your parents. It was a three-hour drive, maybe two if there was no heavy traffic.
It became five though, because your car stopped and it didn't turn on anymore. It would have been a perfect weekend if your car hadn't broken down on the road.
“C'mon.” You kicked the tire after raising up your phone to get reception. There weren't even that many trees around. “Fucking hell.”
You stared at the phone screen, the little No Service icon mocking you. Of course because when things started going wrong, everything went wrong.
As soon as you got one bat of reception, you placed your phone to your ear. You only realized the number you dialed when he picked up.
“Hello?”
You stared blankly at the ground. What the fuck had you just done?
“Dean?”
A sigh on his end. “Did you butt dial me?”
“No.” You rolled your eyes, shoulders slumping in defeat. “You're my only chance. I only got one bar of reception and my battery is dying out—”
“What? Where are you? Is everything okay?”
“I'm fine.” You cut in to not lose your short time with your working phone. “My car broke down on the middle of fucking god knows. I… I wouldn't ask it if I didn't need it.” Pride was a hurtful thing that twisted at your chest and it clawed at your insides. Pride wasn't the only feeling. “But I need—”
“Send me your location.”
“Uh, okay but if you're busy—”
“I'm not.” You could hear a car door closing. “... inside your car?”
You sent the location to him and put your phone back to your ear again, having heard only partially of what he was saying.
“Hi, what? I didn't hear.”
“Are you inside your car? Is there anything else close by, like a.... a establishment?”
Your brows furrowed as you looked around, your gaze finding that old diner so you told him that.
“Is it open? Are there people in there?”
You squinted through the windshield, seeing the warm, yellow glow spilling out from the windows and the silhouette of a truck parked out front. “Yeah, a few people.”
“Alright,” he said, the sound of his turn signal clicking on through the phone. “Listen, go in there. Take your bag, make sure your car is locked and take your keys with you. Grab a booth or something, order a coffee, I don't know. I'll be there in about fifteen to twenty minutes.”
“Or… I can just wait inside the car.”
“It's getting dark.” Dean said in a deadpan tone that made you roll your eyes. “Can you just not stay in the middle of the road for my peace of mind?”
You should've said no. Why would you should give peace of mind to your ex? But since you didn't want him to give up from saving you…
“Fine, I'll go in.” You said between balancing your phone between your cheek and shoulder while you got your purse from the backseat.
The waitress, Marge, was kind and funny. When the rest of the customers left, she started talking to you and asking about the car trouble she saw you facing on the other side of the street. Both of you held a long conversation until the diner door jingled. You let go of the straw you were sipping your strawberry milkshake with to look at the newcomer.
Blonde. Red jumper. Slightly wet hair. Extremely hot.
And your ex. You had to remember that.
He slid next to you, offering one of his charming smiles to Marge, who smiled politely and asked if he wanted to order something. He said he wanted a latte. God, he's such a sweet tooth. “Your favorite?” He pointed to your milkshake.
You pulled it closer to you, glaring at him. “It's mine.”
“I just asked a question!”
“You always steal it.” You mumbled with the straw in your mouth.
“Yeah cause that's my favorite.” Dean pushed his hair back when a few wet strands had fallen on his forehead. “You never order strawberry.”
You snort, pulling the half finished cup away “What? Yes, I do. Why wouldn't I if it's my-”
“It's not your favorite.” Dean pulled the glass toward him, watching your reaction as he slowly put the straw in his mouth.
“It is though. You're just gaslighting me.” You ignore that he has taken your strawberry milkshake. Every time you ordered, you never finished it because you thought it was too sweet. And it was his favorite. Maybe, unconsciously, that was why you ordered the strawberry one every time. Our brains do have trouble with letting go of old habits, they seem to seek the ghost of what it was.
Marge came back and placed Dean's latte in front of him.
“You're a cute couple.” She said, casting a knowing glance at you while she cleaned a stain on the counter with a dishtowel.
“Oh, no, we're not—”
“Thank you.” Dean cut you off, didn't even bother to correct her or anything. After finishing your milkshake, he grabbed his latte and took a sip.
Your jaw snapped shut and your body, as usual, betrayed you in the worst way possible. You felt it as your cheek heated up.
Setting the empty milkshake glass down with a soft click, he shifted his focus to his own drink. "By the way," he started, blue eyes meeting yours "I called a tow company on the way here. They’re about forty minutes out. Since my car is already blocking yours and there’s no point in us standing out in that downpour….” he sipped his latte. “we’re going to be here for a bit.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. "Forty minutes?”
"Probably closer to an hour with this weather," he added, lifting his latte. He didn't look at you as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the steam rising from the cup. “You hungry?”
You pondered the question, turning to check your car outside and the pouring rain, which was coming down in sheets now, turning the world outside the window into a blurred, gray painting.
“I guess I can eat while we wait.”
“Mhm, do you want the pancakes?”
When you looked back at him was already checking out the menu. You could hear Marge leave the room with a little laugh.
“I remember you loved those when we came here last year.” He added, looking up at you when you didn't answer his question.
You remember a lot about me. Guess two years dating would do that to two people.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
II. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑯𝒆 𝑾𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈
The bass from the house party was so heavy it made the windows vibrate, a dull thud thud thud that followed Dean out onto the porch. The cool night air hit him as soon as he arrived outside, his sneakers crunching on the dead leaves, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the muffled, sounds of the party inside.
He just let out a long, shuddering breath when you picked up. In his defense, he expected to be ignored.
"We won," his voice was raspy and he sounded tired but relieved. "Double overtime. I swear to god, I thought my lungs were going to give out, but we pulled it off.”
Dean paused, tilting his head back to look up at the dark, empty sky, his thumb nervously rubbing the edge of his phone screen. "I know I shouldn't be calling. I told myself I wouldn't. But you were the first person I thought of." He let out a short, hollow laugh that quite reached his eyes. "The only person, really.”
You could hear him shift on the other end, the faint sound of the wind rustling past his microphone, and for a second, you imagined him standing there in the dark, looking just as lost as you felt.
"I heard," you said, your voice small. Guilt creeping in because you should've been there to see him win but at the same time you did the right thing by not going. "Everyone's talking about how great you guys were... congratulations, Dean."
On his end, the line went deathly quiet. You could almost feel the weight of his exhale, a long, shaky sound that carried the exhaustion of the game and the cure phone call.
“Thanks,” he finally whispered. “Why didn't you come?”
No, don't ask me that. You inhaled deeply before answering. A bad excuse you had come up with.
"I was studying. My finals are coming up." You still had a whole month for your finals, actually.
"It's just one night." Dean insisted. "You wouldn't fail your finals because you watched one game—"
"Dean, seriously?” you snapped. "Don't do that. Don't act like it's just a game, and don't act like you don't know exactly why I wasn't there.”
"I know why." His voice had dropped its softness. Now, it was guarded and clipped. "I just thought, after all this time, maybe we were past the point of avoiding each other.”
The silence that followed was different now. It was definitive. Reality setting in for what it truly was. Two people realizing that if they didn't pull the plug, they were going to fall right back into the same old habits that didn't belong to them anymore.
"Dean, we're not doing this. We're not avoiding each other. We're not doing this because we’re done. Remember?”
"Yeah," he said, shaking his head because he just realized how stupid he was for dialing your number. "I remember. I don't know why I called. It was a mistake."
"It was," you agreed, though the words felt like they were scraping your throat raw.
“I'm gonna go back to the guys.” You could hear him shift, the crunch of gravel under his sneakers as he turned back toward the warmth and noise of the house. “Have a good studying section for your finals.”
“And you have a good party.”
“Oh, I will.”
The first thing he did when he entered the noisy house was to go upstairs, throw his phone on his bed and close the door. Better not have any chances when he's drunk to the point of calling his ex.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
III. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑯𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝑩𝒂𝒅 𝑫𝒂𝒚
“Why do you keep answering my calls?”
You were sitting on the cold floor of your dorm room, knees pulled up to your chest, wearing an oversized shirt that swallowed your frame. Your hair was held together by a fraying elastic.
“Seriously, Dean, why haven't you blocked my number?”
His line went silent for a long second and you thought he had hung up on you. But he speaks.
“I could ask you the same thing.” His tone is amused and you hate him even more for that.
“It would make it easier. It wouldn't even ring.” You said, picking at the fabric of your shorts.
“You can also just not call.”
“You're the only one who gets me when I'm like this.” You admit, voice cracking up as much as you force yourself to sound strong.
“Bad day?”
“I really bad one.”
“Wanna tell me about it?”
In a perfect world, you would say no and hang up. It was the right thing to do. But this wasn't a perfect world and you were far from perfect.
You spent an hour on the phone with your ex boyfriend, crying and sobbing and just letting out every fucking shit that had crashed on you during the week. Dean listened because that's what he does best.
“I feel like an idiot,” you admitted after you vented, the shame of the last hour finally settling in.
“Don't,” he cut in, his tone firm. “You’re a lot of things, but an idiot isn't one of them. You’re just exhausted.”
Your back complained as you stood up, having spent more than two hours in the same position.
He let out a short, quiet breath that sounded almost like a laugh when he heard your groan. “You’re getting off the floor now, right?”
“Yeah,” you breathed, slowly uncurling your legs and standing up. Your joints ached, and your head felt like it had been put through a grinder, but the suffocating panic had ended.
“Feeling a little better?”
“Yes.” The twitch in your lips that resembled a smile was only there because of him. Dean was still the only person who could pull that reaction out of you on bad days. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.” He mumbled and you heard what sounded like him yawning.
“Go to sleep. Thanks for picking up.”
“I'm never ignoring your call.” He repeated, voice even lower now, muffled by the pillow he was likely pressing his face into.
You closed your eyes, the quiet of the dorm room feeling safer now. When you did that it almost felt as if you were beside him.
“Goodnight, Dean.”
“Goodnight, b—” He stopped himself right before the crime was done. Goodnight, baby may just have been the nail in the coffin. “Goodnight, sleep well, okay?”
“You too.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
IV. 𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑯𝒆'𝒔 𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒅
Behind him, the noise of his teammates was a constant, distracting hum. Logan was complaining about one of the new guys on the team, while Tucker and Garrett were arguing about where to head next. But Dean barely heard them. His focus was entirely on his phone.
He pulled it out of his duffel bag, his thumb finding your contact with a muscle-memory familiarity that he hadn't been able to break.
He didn't have to hesitate on calling you anymore because you had reached a common ground. No need to avoid each other like the plague, you could now be friends. Who said you couldn't be friends with your ex clearly hadn't met the two of you. Two mature people who definitely could be around each other without bringing up the past.
A few steps back, Tucker nudged Garrett, his eyes darting toward Dean’s profile.
That small, secret smirk had taken root at the corner of his mouth before the phone even reached his ear.
“There it is,” Tucker murmured, his voice laced with a knowing, tired sigh like a dad with a difficult child. “The look.”
Garrett and Logan followed his gaze, watching Dean intentionally fasten his pace, letting the gap between him and the rest of the group widen.
“Always the same,” Logan muttered, shaking his head, though there was no teasing to it but a hidden concern for a friend who wouldn't let go of his ex-girlfriend. “He’s calling her. Again.”
“Bro, we're headed off!” Garrett yelled so Dean could hear since he had walked a significant distance away from them.
“I'll meet you later!” Dean yelled back and his attention went right back to his phone when you picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey,” he said the moment you picked up. “I'm off the ice.”
“Oh? And how was practice?” You sounded careful not to raise your voice and he wondered if you were in the library.
“Good. Yeah. Are you at the library?” He reached the building where he suspected you were in.
“Mhm. And Miss Stewart is glaring at me.”
Dean let out a low, rough chuckle that vibrated through the speaker. “Sounds like she’s just jealous you’ve got something better to do than organize dusty archives.”
“Don't do her dirty like that.”
“Sorry,” he said, though he wasn't sorry at all. “Are you sitting at that corner spot?”
“How'd you know?”
“I don't know. I guess I know you a little too well?” His smirk grew into his dimpled grin as you looked up and caught him walking toward your table at the farm corner of the library. Miss Stewart staring daggers at his back.
You froze, your fingers hovering over your keyboard. “What are you… God. you can't live without me, can you?” You teased him, quickly recovering from your heart's doing a strange, stuttering skip.
When he reached your table, he didn't sit. He just leaned over, his hands braced on the wood, effectively blocking your view of the rest of the room and creating a small, private pocket of air that smelled faintly of ice and cedar. He lowered the phone, but he didn't hang up.
“Why should I when I have the choice of not to?” He clearly didn't want to provoke the librarian any longer since his tone lowered to slightly more private. “What you studying?” He pulled a chair to sit next to you, leaving his duffel bag on the floor.
“Nothing.” You offered him a tired smile, not letting slip how good he looked in that outfit. Dean knew how to dress, more than half of the population in Briar University was plenty aware of that. But it wasn't just the clothes, he walked with a confidence that inevitably made him more attractive. “Just finishing up answering emails for the students I'm tutoring.”
“How many left?”
You looked down at the laptop and press send on the last email, shutting it off. “I'm done.”
Outside, the campus was bathed in the bruised purple and gold hues of early evening. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows across the buildings.
A few students blurred past on bicycles, others sat by a tree enjoying the end of the afternoon. No one was rushing to get to class — well, except for the ones who had evening lectures, of course — so the campus carried a calmer atmosphere.
“That was awful, oh my god.” You made a face as Dean recalled Drunk Shakespeare from last week. “Garrett cannot dance for the life of it.”
“Well the public was very happy with it, they didn't complain.” Dean pointed out. And it was true.
“His dance was terrible but people have eyes, Dean.”
He turned to you, an expression of disbelief. “What is that supposed to mean?”
You laughed at how much he sounded offended.
“He's hot. Y'all are. Now, moving on…”
“No, absolutely not.” Dean opened the door for you to get in first. “You think Garrett's hot? He's not even your type.”
“Who told you I have a type?”
“Baby.”
The smirk that had been dancing on his lips vanished, replaced by a look of sharp realization. He hadn't meant to say it and that's what caught him off guard.
You stood in line. A short one, three people. The two of you awkwardly looking anywhere else but each other.
Baby.
It was a slip. A reflex.
He made sure to put a mental note on not calling you that because friends definitely don't call each other baby. Well, he did call Logan that sometimes but it didn't mean the same thing obviously.
“I hear Summer is coming here this weekend?” You asked him, fingers tapping against your coffee cup.
Dean sighed as if the thought itself of his little sister arriving at Hastings would be too much. “Yeah, I'll pick her up from the airport. My parents are cooking every favorite meal of hers.”
“Aw, she's the baby of the family. Let them do that.”
“Favorite child, I guess.” Dean shrugged, lips tugging down in a pout. “They would never do that with me.”
“Oh, shut up.” You rolled your eyes, lifting your cup to your lips. “They totally would. Whenever they come to a game, they scream the loudest and smother you with kisses when they find you. It's cute.”
Redness crept up his neck, blooming dark and warm against the pale color of his shirt, quickly climbing to his cheeks. You covered your amusement with the rim of your cup.
“Wait, how'd you know Summer is coming?”
You shrugged. “We still talk. She told me.”
“You and my sister still talk.”
“Yes, Dean…” You drawled out. “Is that bad?”
“Well, I don't know. Summer loves to talk shit about me.” Dean was still thinking about that information actually.
You chuckled, head tilting to the side. “Mhm. We do that together now.”
Dean let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that drew a few looks from the people heading into the coffee shop. He sat up straighter, his smirk deepening into a look of genuine, albeit mock, betrayal.
His smile turned softer. “Summer always liked you,” he said quietly. It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact he’d known for years. He leaned back, his shoulders relaxing, gaze lifting to find yours again. “I don't know how or why ‘cause she never warms up to anyone that fast.”
“We bonded over Heated Rivalry.”
He gave you a puzzled look. “Is that a dish?”
“Let's call it that.” You shook your head, chuckling. “I… um. I like what we're doing.”
He stayed silent for a long beat, his thumb unconsciously rubbing against the heel of his palm as he studied you like you were something worth losing time with.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“I like it too.”
“I've missed you.” You don't look at him as you say it, deciding that staring at the rest of your coffee is best.
“Hey.” He tugged at your wrist so you'd look at him. “I've missed you too. It's nice having you around again.”
You offered him a mirror of his smile, a small, shy curve of your lips. You wondered then if that little bubbling in your chest meant healing. Maybe it could happen. Being friends with your ex. You and Dean were doing a good job at that, right?
c/w ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ needy!dean, cutting corsets, unprotected p in v, backstage sex, tearing tights, praise, pet names (baby, beautiful + no y/n) + di laurentis is absolutely 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 for it
The corset clings to your body like it was painted on, teasing your curves with every shift. The shiny material of your skirt, the little wings, the fishnets stretched across your thighs—you knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands to himself and that’s exactly what you wanted.
The second his eyes land on you, you know it’s game over. Dean hasn’t stopped staring at you since you stepped on the stage, his attention zeroed in on you whenever someone so much as breathes your air.
You’re halfway through the first act when your phone buzzes in your hand. You glance down, immediately having to bite back a smile.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚗𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?
A second bubble appears before you can answer. You look up through the curtains, seeing him sitting in the crowd with the other hockey boys. His phone rests in one hand while he scans the stage looking for you, his thumb tapping against the screen when you make him wait a few seconds.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.
He glances up, catching just a glimpse of you backstage, craning his neck for a better view. He drags a hand across his mouth and shakes his head to himself when he catches you looking, lifting his chin toward the stage, a grin tugging at one corner.
“Text me,” he mouths, his eyebrow arching. “C’mon.”
You bite your lip and roll your eyes, looking down at your phone.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 💕
The second it delivers, his gaze drops to the screen, the light glowing against his face. His mouth curves, that cute little dimple popping in his cheek.
He runs a hand through his hair before typing something, thinking better of it, then typing again when he just can’t let it go.
The lights flicker and dim, and the next act begins. You look up through the curtains again and catch him leaning forward in his seat, forearms braced against his knees.
The rest of the hockey boys are laughing about something beside him, but Dean doesn’t even glance over. His eyes stay fixed on the stage for another second before he finally looks down at his phone.
The after party rages around you and every time someone leans too close—every time a drunk college boy makes a comment to him about how good you look, he winds up a little tighter until his hand catches your wrist.
“Let’s go. Now.”
Dean wastes no time pushing you into the backstage room, shutting the door with a slam, pressing your back against it. His fingers tilt your chin up, his grip a little rough as his eyes burn into yours.
“You kidding me with this?” He murmurs.
“You don’t like it—”
“I love it,” he stops you before you can even start. His hand skims down your body, over the fabric stretched across your waist and ass, gathering the material in his big hands. “Me and every other guy here.”
“You seem jealous.”
“I am jealous,” he corrects you before his mouth crashes against yours, starved and desperate. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers twisting and tugging at his hair; gasping when he grinds his hard cock against you.
Dean squeezes your ass, dragging his rough hands up your hips before smacking the satin stretched across your skin, letting that satisfying crack fill the room.
The corner of his mouth twitches as he presses his fingers against your clit, cursing under his breath. Sure, you’re in panties, but those little shorts and fishnets are still in his way. That little gasp and a moan don’t tumble from your lips like they usually do. Easy fix.
You break for air, chuckling breathily against his lips. “What’s wrong?” You whisper.
“Can’t get to you,” he pushes out a sharp breath, tugging your shorts off your hips, yanking down your panties between rough kisses, looping his fingers around the fishnets between your thighs just enough to yank a hole.
“Dean!” You gasp and he chuckles.
“Beautiful.” A rough breath leaves him and he rolls his neck once, jaw flexing as his eyes drop to the torn fishnets stretched across your thighs. “Yeah,” he says under his breath. “That was even better than I thought it was gonna be.”
His hands slide to your hips as he kisses you, your heart leaping when he flips you, your hands slapping quickly against the wall.
His lips brush along the side of your neck, chuckling deeply against your skin, pressing wet kisses as his fingers work open the bow of the corset.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans when he feels your ass press back into him, his fingers working at the ribbon faster and faster when it refuses to cooperate. “M’getting—Holy shit,” he mutters. “How do I get you out of this?” His words come out clipped with frustration.
You hear him rummaging through the clutter beside you long enough to snag a pair of scissors. He grabs your hip, huffing out a laugh when you giggle, arching your back to get a better view before—snip!
“Dean!”
“Spare me,” he rasps.
The sound of the blades snapping together makes you gasp as he cuts the ribbon crisscrossed up your back.
He tugs the top ribbon away with a satisfying slip, baring hot skin to the cool air when the corset pulls away. The scissors fall to the dressing room floor with a clatter—the zipper of his pants already down by the time he turns you, lifting you up into his arms, your bare back pressed to the cool brick wall.
Dean pushes his dick into you in one slow, steady stroke. A strangled sound catches in your throat and your hand flies back, grabbing a fistful of his hair while your other hand clamps over your mouth.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Pussy’s so damn good.”
Your head falls back against the wall as he stretches you wide, his big hand tightening on your ass. He rocks back, making you whimper, his lips pressing against yours to swallow your sounds as he pushes back in again.
“Lucky I’m not teasin’ you. Needed you too bad,” Dean sighs, smiling against your lips as you breathe out, hearing just how wet he has you, the sounds of your pleasure filling your room. “These fuckin’ tights, huh? Buying you another pair so I can do this shit again.”
His tongue drags across his bottom lip as his eyes stay locked on yours. Your eyes soften as he slows down, letting gravity do the work, your body sinking down on his cock with his arms locked around you.
“You have any idea how good this feels?” He whispers, burying himself in your neck, thrusting up into you. Your fingers twist into his shirt as he grips you by your hips, drilling into you again and again until your back arches into him, and your pussy gushes, cumming around his while he does everything he can do to keep his pace, but it feels too fucking good.
He grits his teeth, not stopping until he feels your body melt in his arms, his heavy head falling to your shoulder as he breathes out a sigh of satisfaction and relief.
“I was so well behaved, you know that? I could have been so, so much worse,” he says softly, his voice breaking with pleasure as he leans in and presses a slow kiss to your mouth, tender and deep as his rough thumb traces your cheek. “Put on my sweatshirt. Let’s get out of here, huh?” He asks, quiet now, a smile pulling against your lips.
“The after party’s not over,” you tease through a breathless giggle as his nose nuzzles against yours.
He sighs, his big body pressing you up against the wall again, his head falling back with a smirk on his lips when your nails slide through his hair.
c/w ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ needy!dean, cutting corsets, unprotected p in v, backstage sex, tearing tights, praise, pet names (baby, beautiful + no y/n) + di laurentis is absolutely 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 for it
The corset clings to your body like it was painted on, teasing your curves with every shift. The shiny material of your skirt, the little wings, the fishnets stretched across your thighs—you knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands to himself and that’s exactly what you wanted.
The second his eyes land on you, you know it’s game over. Dean hasn’t stopped staring at you since you stepped on the stage, his attention zeroed in on you whenever someone so much as breathes your air.
You’re halfway through the first act when your phone buzzes in your hand. You glance down, immediately having to bite back a smile.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚗𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?
A second bubble appears before you can answer. You look up through the curtains, seeing him sitting in the crowd with the other hockey boys. His phone rests in one hand while he scans the stage looking for you, his thumb tapping against the screen when you make him wait a few seconds.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.
He glances up, catching just a glimpse of you backstage, craning his neck for a better view. He drags a hand across his mouth and shakes his head to himself when he catches you looking, lifting his chin toward the stage, a grin tugging at one corner.
“Text me,” he mouths, his eyebrow arching. “C’mon.”
You bite your lip and roll your eyes, looking down at your phone.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 💕
The second it delivers, his gaze drops to the screen, the light glowing against his face. His mouth curves, that cute little dimple popping in his cheek.
He runs a hand through his hair before typing something, thinking better of it, then typing again when he just can’t let it go.
The lights flicker and dim, and the next act begins. You look up through the curtains again and catch him leaning forward in his seat, forearms braced against his knees.
The rest of the hockey boys are laughing about something beside him, but Dean doesn’t even glance over. His eyes stay fixed on the stage for another second before he finally looks down at his phone.
The after party rages around you and every time someone leans too close—every time a drunk college boy makes a comment to him about how good you look, he winds up a little tighter until his hand catches your wrist.
“Let’s go. Now.”
Dean wastes no time pushing you into the backstage room, shutting the door with a slam, pressing your back against it. His fingers tilt your chin up, his grip a little rough as his eyes burn into yours.
“You kidding me with this?” He murmurs.
“You don’t like it—”
“I love it,” he stops you before you can even start. His hand skims down your body, over the fabric stretched across your waist and ass, gathering the material in his big hands. “Me and every other guy here.”
“You seem jealous.”
“I am jealous,” he corrects you before his mouth crashes against yours, starved and desperate. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers twisting and tugging at his hair; gasping when he grinds his hard cock against you.
Dean squeezes your ass, dragging his rough hands up your hips before smacking the satin stretched across your skin, letting that satisfying crack fill the room.
The corner of his mouth twitches as he presses his fingers against your clit, cursing under his breath. Sure, you’re in panties, but those little shorts and fishnets are still in his way. That little gasp and a moan don’t tumble from your lips like they usually do. Easy fix.
You break for air, chuckling breathily against his lips. “What’s wrong?” You whisper.
“Can’t get to you,” he pushes out a sharp breath, tugging your shorts off your hips, yanking down your panties between rough kisses, looping his fingers around the fishnets between your thighs just enough to yank a hole.
“Dean!” You gasp and he chuckles.
“Beautiful.” A rough breath leaves him and he rolls his neck once, jaw flexing as his eyes drop to the torn fishnets stretched across your thighs. “Yeah,” he says under his breath. “That was even better than I thought it was gonna be.”
His hands slide to your hips as he kisses you, your heart leaping when he flips you, your hands slapping quickly against the wall.
His lips brush along the side of your neck, chuckling deeply against your skin, pressing wet kisses as his fingers work open the bow of the corset.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans when he feels your ass press back into him, his fingers working at the ribbon faster and faster when it refuses to cooperate. “M’getting—Holy shit,” he mutters. “How do I get you out of this?” His words come out clipped with frustration.
You hear him rummaging through the clutter beside you long enough to snag a pair of scissors. He grabs your hip, huffing out a laugh when you giggle, arching your back to get a better view before—snip!
“Dean!”
“Spare me,” he rasps.
The sound of the blades snapping together makes you gasp as he cuts the ribbon crisscrossed up your back.
He tugs the top ribbon away with a satisfying slip, baring hot skin to the cool air when the corset pulls away. The scissors fall to the dressing room floor with a clatter—the zipper of his pants already down by the time he turns you, lifting you up into his arms, your bare back pressed to the cool brick wall.
Dean pushes his dick into you in one slow, steady stroke. A strangled sound catches in your throat and your hand flies back, grabbing a fistful of his hair while your other hand clamps over your mouth.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Pussy’s so damn good.”
Your head falls back against the wall as he stretches you wide, his big hand tightening on your ass. He rocks back, making you whimper, his lips pressing against yours to swallow your sounds as he pushes back in again.
“Lucky I’m not teasin’ you. Needed you too bad,” Dean sighs, smiling against your lips as you breathe out, hearing just how wet he has you, the sounds of your pleasure filling your room. “These fuckin’ tights, huh? Buying you another pair so I can do this shit again.”
His tongue drags across his bottom lip as his eyes stay locked on yours. Your eyes soften as he slows down, letting gravity do the work, your body sinking down on his cock with his arms locked around you.
“You have any idea how good this feels?” He whispers, burying himself in your neck, thrusting up into you. Your fingers twist into his shirt as he grips you by your hips, drilling into you again and again until your back arches into him, and your pussy gushes, cumming around his while he does everything he can do to keep his pace, but it feels too fucking good.
He grits his teeth, not stopping until he feels your body melt in his arms, his heavy head falling to your shoulder as he breathes out a sigh of satisfaction and relief.
“I was so well behaved, you know that? I could have been so, so much worse,” he says softly, his voice breaking with pleasure as he leans in and presses a slow kiss to your mouth, tender and deep as his rough thumb traces your cheek. “Put on my sweatshirt. Let’s get out of here, huh?” He asks, quiet now, a smile pulling against your lips.
“The after party’s not over,” you tease through a breathless giggle as his nose nuzzles against yours.
He sighs, his big body pressing you up against the wall again, his head falling back with a smirk on his lips when your nails slide through his hair.
