Hello everyone! I haven’t had a use for this account for quite some time, so this is going to be the account that I use for fics that I read, simply an organization method for myself. I have used this accounts draft setting as a library to try and bully my way in and out of for years, so I figured I might as well start using it like I should. I’m just letting anyone who doesn’t want to see that know cause I’m going to do hell of some spring cleaning in my drafts over the course of the next few days. As a warning.
This is an ongoing list that will be updated as I read more !!
🏒 Semantics | 2.8k
Pike calls Lily after Shane's concussion, full of restless panic and a complicated sense of responsibility at being the only one who knows about their relationship.
🏒 I Do It For You | 3.0k
jj and hayden visit shane at the cottage & jj realises there’s more to rozanov than he ever knew
🏒 Pretty Boring | 3.2k
4 times shane was less boring than people thought. including hickeys, never have i ever, being in the room next door to them at a hotel, and a russian rookie
🏒 Hidden Devotion | 3.7k
snapshots from the centuars pov of ilya rozanov moving too ottawa
🏒 Lost In Translation | 4.5k
The Centaurs' newest rookie speaks Russian. It's too bad that Shane and Ilya don't know that.
🏒 One Day You Will Understand | 5.6k
everyone asks 'why Ottawa?' Ilya's neighbor, Kate, just happens to figure it out first.
🏒 Slipping Through My Fingers All the Time | 8.2k
3 times Yuna is surprised by Ilya Rozanov and one time she isn't anymore
🏒 Contingency Plans | 8.3k
Ilya needs a place to go, and Hayden's happens to be the closest. It turns out to be a good thing
🏒 you know i think about you all the time (my deep misunderstanding of your life) | 14.4k
Hayden finds himself unlearning everything he thought he knew about Ilya Rozanov
🏒 Ottawa Centaurs - The Mockumentary | 39.7k
This is what happens when the social media manager for the Ottawa Centaurs just finished rewatching the entirety of The Office for the 3rd time
I have fallen and can't get up! I'm in the pit of despair-angst-tenderness-love known as the #soulmates tag of this fandom because goodness gracious are people delivering the juciest fics here! Canon already makes this relationship a star-crossed lovers scenario, but twirl them up in the red string of fate and you get blissful agony. This is the Good Place. Seeing authors exploring unique takes on how soulmates present themselves is the icing on top , and I am so well fed.
💖remember to kudos & comment on fics you read 💖
Soulmates AU
🏒 slipfast by ummrys - 44k
Ilya almost dropped his cigarette. His English was shitty, but he had studied that sentence enough times over the years to understand it immediately.
- Shane says Ilya's soulmate words. Ilya vows to never speak a word to him to keep him from finding out. They fall in love anyway.
zannithinks: amazing navigation of the canon with this nail-biting twist! The boys are so emotionally messy in this one, and the sex is FIRE - truly a masterpiece to be devoured
🏒 a case of you by ausgezeichnet / @oldguardians - 43k
Ilya and Shane soulbond with a handshake in a freezing parking lot in Saskatchewan. It actually doesn’t change very much, until Shane’s concussion drives everything haywire, forcing them into close proximity and an earlier confrontation with all the feelings they’ve been trying to ignore.
- as it turns out, it’s easier than you’d think to be in someone’s head and still not know how they feel.
zannithinks: the Hurt is basically a character in this story and it is REAL. wow did my heart feel tender after this! Also one of the first fics I've seen to dig deep into the legal and professional chaos created by something as simple as love. Fantastic depth to these characters with real issues behind their miscommunications.
🏒 the cadence of a secret by marigoldens. - 39k
Ilya sits down at the desk for a steady surface to explain.
3 things 1 its curse. if true we can break it 2 its spell. if true we can break it 3 we are soulmates. if true we are fucked
“No,” Shane mutters, before he can stop himself. Immediately, he slams a hand over his mouth.
- Ilya and Shane are soulmates, and their bond prevents them from both talking and being apart.
zannithinks: had me glued to the screen the entire time! I adore the added elements of witches and magic into the world while still remaining a grounded reality. The tension between them is constant, relieved only by small and fleeting tender moments together. One of the best push-and-pull relationships I've seen delivered on a silver platter by incredible writing talent.
🏒 the heart is hard to translate by catknives / @catknives - 20k
Shane is twelve when he realizes he can understand Russian.
- in a world where you can understand whatever language(s) your soulmate speaks, it takes Shane and Ilya an embarrassing amount of time to realize they’re soulmates.
zannithinks: Shane needs a hug SO BADLY in this holy shit. I love to see this form of soulmates explored in a longer fic! It weaves gracefully with canon while adding so much. The ending made me so soft and gooey inside.
🏒 i've never needed a reason for keeping secrets from myself by blongblong / @bylroos - 9k
Shane’s immediate reaction is to say that he doesn't know when it started. He doesn’t know who his soulmate is. This is what he’s been telling himself for years, because if he stops for more than a second to think about how long he's been collecting little pieces of Ilya Rozanov, he thinks he'll spiral out of control.
- shane spends twenty-five years not thinking about his soulmate. the drawer in his apartment filled with cigarettes, toothpaste, and awful t-shirts says elsewise.
zannithinks: yet another fantastically original take on soulmates! This character study on Shane blooms beautifully into a defining moment of their relationship. Love to see that there's a second part from Ilya's POV incase your heart isn't squeezed enough.
🏒 Your Mouth is Wine by girlofsalt - 7k
If he focused, he could still feel the phantom touch of Rozanov's fingers on his skin, see the look on his face as Rozanov disappeared into a memory. Shane’s memory.
- Soulmates who touch each other's scars for the first time get to live through the memory of their soulmate acquiring them. For Shane and Ilya, being known so deeply by their rival is not the miracle everyone else says it is. At least, not for about eight years.
zannithinks: such a unique concept! I've never seen a soulmate au like this before, and it was so neat to see the boys forced into this kind of vulnerability before being fully ready for it.
🏒 achilles, come down by voidvapor - 3k
Hayden’s about to fist a hand in Marleau’s jersey and make a truly heroic attempt at rocking the much larger man’s shit (because no matter how legal the check might’ve been, that’s Hayden’s boy) when there’s the thunk of a second body hitting the ice.
- in a world where soulmates share injuries, when Marleau rams into Shane, Ilya goes down too. He and Hayden try to handle the situation as best as they can.
zannithinks: actually obsessed with this small shared experience between Hayden and Marly as they try to lock the fuck in and support their boys.
🏒 the language of us by SafelyCapricious / @safelycapricious - 2k
"So, do you think your soulmate is who you got all this hockey knowledge from?" Now, of course, he smiles the media smile that she is so proud of him for learning and says, "My parents taught me a lot, they both love hockey you know? And it's hard work, every day. But I do love it too and I love doing the work. I haven't met my soulmate yet, but hopefully someday when I meet them they'll love hockey like I do."
zannithinks: what a fun and cheeky play on soulmates! I really love each little moment and the ending had me giggling.
🏒 I knew it, I know you by mblematic / @mblematic - 2k
“It’s been a while,” Svetlana murmurs when Ilya wraps one of his hands around her thigh. He doesn’t answer immediately. He kisses her jaw, then her neck again, then pulls her bra to the side to take her nipple between his teeth. Finally he looks up, his smile off-kilter. “You think I won’t remember how?”
zannithinks: friends, do NOT sleep on this!!! This is a gorgeous Sveta POV of Ilya truly 'going through it' like no man before. Shane isn't there, and yet he is undeniably in the room with them the entire time. A beautiful showcase of the Sveta/Ilya dynamic that highlights the care and affection they hold for each other. I would read 500k more of this honestly.
🏒 A Little More Time by notlayingroses / @notlayingroses - 2k
“Ilya?” Shane tried again, and Hayden swallowed.
“Ilya is okay.” Hayden said, but it felt like a lie. Shane wouldn’t feel like his insides had been scooped out if Ilya was okay. “He’s hurt, but he’s okay. They’re getting out stretchers for you both now.”
zannithinks: why does it feel so good to see these boys in pain? There's something about the way this fic handles the calamity of the on ice moment by framing it from several POVs and making Shane near incapable of saying anything but Ilya's name. Hurts so good!!
more rec lists: canon/canon divergent | a/b/o + bdsm au | outsider + hayden POV | soulmates | smut
baby, it's alright -- ex!michael robinavitch x fem!reader (part three)
The long awaited part 3 has arrived!! And there will be a final part 4, which will be smutty 🤭
Summary: Busy schedules keep you and Robby away from one another, but an accident in the kitchen sends you to the Pitt right at shift change. Will the trip to the ER be the catalyst for forgiveness?
Warnings: our usual angst + lots of fluff, reader is very squeamish ok don't laugh at her bc then ur laughing at me /hj, it's not graphic but mentions of a deep cut that bleeds a LOT + feeling faint, jack being a sweetie, dana being a mother hen, overprotective sister appearance, medical innacuracies are inevitable bc i've had many an ER trip but never for stitches so just run w it, mentions of not eating/disordered eating, they finally Talk ["Baby" by Robert Bradley's Blackwater Surprise]
WC: 8.5k
Letting Robby back in is too easy.
It starts with texting to try to figure out a date to grab coffee. (Not a single day of your schedules line up in the next two weeks. Not one goddamn day.) And then, one evening, when you’re just sitting in bed, he responds to a text that you sent two minutes ago.
He never answers anything on his phone that fast when he’s at work, which can only mean--
“Hello?” he says, sounding exhausted and slightly confused.
“Hi,” you breathe. “I think this might be a miracle.”
His laugh rumbles down the line, warm and soothing. “Jack sent me home early.”
It’s probably nothing, and none of your business too, but you still frown and ask, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, just--” He pauses. He sounds like he’s walking home. “My therapist sometimes fits in a session for me before I go into work and today it was…not a bright idea.”
Your heart aches for him. You’ve made the same mistake before, doing a session before a busy or important day, thinking it’ll be easier to push through when it only makes everything worse. You told your therapist about it after one particularly rough session followed by probably your busiest day of the year, and the look she gave you was enough for you to never do that again.
You are, however, very happy that Robby at least listened to Jack and went home early instead of fighting it. He would’ve fought Jack on it before, and then stayed late just to spite him. You see this as a little glimmer of progress.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask tentatively, sliding down in your bed to get more comfortable. You’ve known that he’s been in therapy this whole time, but the two of you haven’t talked about it. Not like this.
“Not really, no,” he says, chuckling again. “Tell me about your day.”
And that’s how it starts. One minute you’re just texting him once every few hours, sometimes once a day with your schedules, and the next thing you know, nightly phone calls with him are something you look forward to the second you wake up in the morning.
It’s dangerous. But that doesn’t make you want or even try to stop.
Two busy weeks pass easily with a call every night. Robby jokes once that it reminds him of shift handover in a weird way. The way you debrief him on your day, and then he does the same. It’s the fact that he reciprocates that has a spark of hope blooming in your chest.
He doesn’t give you full details, obviously, because there are things he can’t say, and some things he won’t say because he’s not going to traumatize you unnecessarily. But he tells you the good stories, like:
“Dana misses you,” he says out of the blue one night. “I told her that we’ve been talking again.”
“Yeah?” You can’t help the evil grin that crawls onto your lips, not even caring that he can see you because tonight you finally convinced him to work the video option on the call. “What’d she have to say?”
“A few choice words,” he admits, shaking his head. He’s sitting up in bed as well, raking his fingers through his hair. “And that if I fuck this up again she’s going to kick my ass into the next decade.”
“So into the grave, then.”
He looks up at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but a genuine offense hiding in his playful gaze. “Hey.”
Your uncontrollable laughter at his playful hurt is something that Robby wants to bottle up and keep forever. The sound, the look on your face. You don’t realize it until you’ve calmed down that he’s been watching you the whole time, a devastatingly fond look on his face.
“What,” you murmur, now a little sheepish, looking at the blanket on your lap.
“Nothing,” he says quickly, softly, looking away.
But it’s obviously something.
Two weeks ago, you wouldn’t have pushed it. Tonight, for some reason, you’re feeling bold. “You can’t look at me like that and say nothing.”
He looks back at you with that same expression. “I just miss you.”
It cracks your chest open, hearing him admit it so openly. In words.
“I miss you too,” you say, and it sounds a bit like a vow. You’re promising something to each other, neither of you know what just yet, but you feel it there. The heaviness of it.
He drags a tired hand down his face. “If I wasn’t so exhausted right now…”
“I know,” you smile. “Me too.”
If he hadn’t worked a full day today. If you hadn’t too. If both of you didn’t have full, busy days tomorrow. Always if and never when.
When you shift to lay down, he tilts his head at you, smiling softly. “Tired?”
You nod. “I don’t know how you’re still awake.” You get up two hours later than him and get off work two hours earlier.
“I’m used to it.”
You just scrunch your nose at him, and he laughs.
“Go to sleep,” he says. “I probably should too.”
“Or we could do what the kids do these days and stay on the phone until one of us falls asleep.”
“The kids?” He’s incredulous. “The kids do that?”
You’re giggling too hard to hear as he rambles nonsense about how he did that when he was younger so really his generation started it and the kids these days don’t know about their history.
“You are so dramatic!” you cut him off, still laughing. “It’s so easy to rile you up.”
“Oh, so you are doing it just to get a rise out of me!”
“Why else?” you snicker. “You’re cute when you’re so heated.”
“And you’re adorable when you’re laughing at me.”
The two of you just stare for a moment, recognizing what has happened. Somehow, somewhere, the conversation veered dangerously close to sounding like something the two of you would’ve had when you were dating. At least at the beginning.
“Get some sleep,” he says.
You don’t argue this time, you just shut your eyes with a little nod.
He doesn’t hang up until the morning, when he wakes up for work before you do. But you’ve got him all soft again, so he sends you a little good morning text and tells you to have a good day at work. And all of it makes him feel like being hit by an ambulance would hurt less than the fact that he can’t have you and that it’s all his fault.
+++
one year ago
The very first time you went to visit Robby at PTMC, you weren’t immediately met with smiles.
You went through the main entrance, asking at the desk to see Dr. Robinavitch. You told the clerk to tell him that you were waiting for him, and that he would know who you were. Lupe looked skeptical, and like she did not want to tell Robby that you were there, but she did anyway.
Thankfully, the waiting area wasn’t too packed that day. It was still pretty full, because it always is, but there were still some empty seats. You didn’t take a chair, just stood off to the side in eyesight of the doors to the ED.
No less than five minutes after you spoke with Lupe, Robby came barreling through the doors, eyes wide as he searched for you. And once he found you, he was a stream of questions, both hands resting on your elbows. Are you okay? Are you hurt? What are you doing here? Despite the fact that you were standing, fully conscious, and had coffee and a croissant in hand -- because you had a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t eat that morning, and he didn’t -- Robby still looked you over like he was checking for injuries, blood, or anything else concerning.
“I’m fine,” you laughed through it, through the fact that he was causing an obvious scene. “I’m just dropping off coffee and a croissant. I doubt you ate this morning and we were on the phone until late last night.”
He melted. He sighed, shoulders visibly relaxing as he bent to kiss your forehead. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Why don’t you come back for a moment? I can introduce you to everybody.”
Your eyebrows raised slightly. You had only been seeing Robby for a little over a month. You hadn’t introduced him to any of your friends and only briefly mentioned him to your sister, and yet here he was, asking you to come back and meet his coworkers -- who, arguably, classified as meeting his friends.
“Sure,” you had said, forcing him to take the coffee and croissant right then just so you knew he had it. “If that’s okay.”
He shoved the croissant into a hoodie pocket so he had one hand free to hold yours. “‘Course it’s okay. Come on.”
That was the first day you met Dana, and the day you learned her coffee order so you’d “know what to bring in for the next time,” she had told you with a wink.
Hearing it then, next time you’re in, made it all feel so real, so permanent. Like you could get used to it. To stopping by with breakfast after you finally woke up a few hours into Robby’s shift. To dropping in with lunch because you knew otherwise he would only eat a protein bar. And you did get used to it, maybe too quickly.
You became a welcome face in the Pitt, a welcome smile among all the chaos. You only ever stayed for a few minutes at a time because of how busy they were, but it was enough. It was a genuine reprieve, Robby told you. There was a weight that you lifted just by showing up with a smile and a kiss.
You just don’t know when that stopped being the case.
The first day you met Jack, you coincidentally had bought a small Redbull. You had planned to give it to Robby to have him give it to Jack at shift handover. You were delighted to see Jack was still there so you could hand deliver it.
“This is Jack,” Robby introduced you. “Who should be going home.”
“I have a gift for him actually, so this is perfect,” you said, so pleased with yourself as you dug the can out of your bag. “Redbull, right?”
Jack’s ears perked and he smiled just a little, which for Jack was a lot. “Yeah, thank you,” he took the can from you, then tipped it at Robby. “You better keep her.”
“I’m trying, brother,” Robby said seriously, smacking Jack’s shoulder. “Now go home. Don’t drink that.”
“Saving it for shift tonight,” Jack promised, offering you another little smile. “Thank you again.”
You just beamed at him, and then beamed at Robby even though he was shaking his head and calling you a menace.
But he kissed you right through it, right there in the middle of the ED, as if he didn’t have things to do -- but he always did.
“You’re a bad influence,” he had mumbled against your lips, smiling through the words and the kiss. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I can think of a few things,” you had whispered against his mouth, just quiet enough for only him to hear.
The look he had given you was full of awe and lust, one he had to physically shake himself out of. You left that day with a smug smile, knowing exactly what you had done, and knowing with bone-deep certainty that as soon as he got off shift, you’d see him. And you did.
He didn’t even call. Just showed up at your door, and grinned like a madman in love when you pulled him inside by his hoodie.
+++
You try to tell yourself that it isn’t that bad.
Even as you drive yourself to the ER, finger wrapped in a dish towel soaked with your blood, you keep saying it. Out loud, even, because you’re trying to keep yourself sane while you’re behind the wheel.
“It’s not that bad,” you repeat, over and over. “Maybe a stitch. Or two. But it’s fine. It’s fine!”
You’re less and less convinced as you feel your finger pulsing with every heartbeat. You check at a stoplight to see if it’s still bleeding, and curse loudly when you see that oh, it’s bleeding alright.
And then you’re lightheated, so you quickly wrap it up and take deep breaths and think about literally anything else for the rest of the drive.
You park at the hospital in a reasonably close space, thank fuck, but your legs are feeling a little weak on the walk to the ER entrance. You chalk it up to your anxiety and apparent squeamishness -- that up until now you had no idea about -- and make it inside.
There are quite a few empty chairs, so that bodes well for you at least. When you walk up to the desk to check in, though, Lupe’s eyes go wide, her mouth opening to no doubt shout for someone.
“I’m fine!” you rush to tell her, dropping your injured hand out of her view. “I just nicked myself in the kitchen. It’s fine.”
She takes your ID and insurance and says it won’t be long. You believe her, sort of. You don’t think Robby’s here, or Lupe probably would’ve shouted for him. You texted him earlier asking if he was at work and he didn’t respond. Usually when that’s your question, he sends a quick reply, especially if he is at work, so you know he’s there in case, God forbid, you need him to be at the ER.
Today, he hasn’t replied, and it’s around the time for shift change, so you’re thinking he’s gone for the day. Or in therapy. Or sleeping.
God, you wish he had replied. You hold your finger in your lap, still feeling the pulse and cringing each time. But it’s slightly less now than it was on the drive over.
So, like an idiot, you decide to check on the cut. Just very quickly.
Except, even though it’s brief, it still ends with your head in between your knees and the back of your neck tingling like you’re about to pass out any second now.
You distantly hear the doors to the department opening through the ringing in your ears, and then you hear Dana’s voice right by your head.
“Hey kid,” she says gently. “You out?”
“No I’m up,” you say, lifting your head and looking at her, but now the room is spinning, so you kind of look around her, which just means she’s not at all convinced about you being fine.
“Come on, sit,” she pats the seat of the wheelchair she brought for you. “We need to get you back.”
“No, I’m fine,” you say, shaking your head a little. “Just a little cut.”
She raises an eyebrow at the dish towel with red patches coming through. “Uh huh. Sit. Do you need help?”
“No,” you grumble, surprisingly able to shift yourself onto the wheelchair. “This is dramatic.”
“Sure, kid,” she laughs, wheeling you back. “Just be glad Robby already left.”
The confirmation makes your heart tug a little. Maybe he’s just in therapy then, and that’s why he hasn’t replied.
Or maybe he’s just busy doing other things in his free time. He doesn’t have to be texting you all the time. It’s not like the two of you are dating. Anymore. Even if you’ve been talking more.
You never thought you’d let him back in like this, and now that you have, all you want is for him to be here. He told you that if you ever thought you needed the emergency room to call him first. And you did. He just didn’t answer. Why didn’t he answer?
Dana notices your silence. She doesn’t mention it.
She wheels you into an open room, shouting over her shoulder for Jack. You spotted him a second ago through your haze but hoped he wouldn’t acknowledge your presence because at this point you’re just mortified.
Jack calls out your name in surprise the second he sees you and you groan in embarrassment.
“I’m f--” you start to say fine but Jack speaks right over you.
“What happened? Vitals?” And a dozen other questions while he shines the stupid pen light in your eyes.
“My vitals are fine,” you hiss, not knowing what they actually are but not caring either. “It’s a small cut. Just wouldn’t stop fucking bleeding.”
“Didn’t get a chance to triage her yet, she put her head down in chairs and Lupe yelled for me,” Dana relays the info to Jack.
“Lightheated? Dizzy?” he asks, eyes scanning your face as you speak, no doubt assessing how alert you are, but you’re starting to just feel stupid.
“Both,” you admit anyway, knowing better than to lie, especially when Dana is right here. “I’m just squeamish, alright? Don’t laugh when you see how small the cut is.”
Jack just gives you his little smile, wheeling the stool over so he can sit in front of your chair. “Let me take a look.”
You hold your hand out and squeeze your eyes shut. “I genuinely can’t look.”
You hear him chuckle but he says, “Okay, just-- I’ll let you know when you can look.”
You feel him lifting the towel, but he makes no noise, no indication of how bad it is, so like the idiot you are, you crack one eye open.
You see the blood and can barely say, “Oh fuck me,” before you feel lightheaded again, your head dropping into your free hand.
“I didn’t say you could look!” Jack scolds, but you can hear the humor in it. He really is amused by how squeamish you are, and you know you’ll never live this down, but right now all you can think about is how fucking nauseous you are.
You keep your eyes shut as Dana and Jack help you onto the bed, propping you up. You don’t dare open your eyes yet, still feeling cold yet somehow hot and a bit like your body is floating toward the ceiling.
“Dana, can you get some fluids just in case and maybe a sandwich?”
With your eyes still closed, you retort, “I’ll literally throw that dry sandwich at your head, Jack.”
Dana just laughs. “I’ll find something else. And bring you some juice.”
While she’s gone, Jack actually takes your vitals this time, silent as he does, making sure to not mention anything about the cut in your finger (that does need a couple stitches, but he can tell you that after you stop looking like you’re going to hurl).
“So…Robby tells me you two are talking again.”
You feel your pulse jump a little, knowing damn well that he felt it, too. “Yeah.” You pause. “Dana said he already left?” An innocent question. But still hopeful.
Jack nods. “I can see if I can reach him if you want.”
You think about it for a moment, but eventually shake your head, opening your eyes to give Jack a half-hearted smile. “No, it’s okay. Thanks though.”
Jack is quiet while he listens to your lungs just out of habit. Or maybe he’s stalling. He’s not sure yet. “He can’t be far.”
You finish your deep breath and say, “I don’t want to bother him if he’s got things to do.”
Jack hangs his stethoscope around his neck, shrugging. “I think he’d just want to know you’re here.”
“I texted him.”
Jack nods. “Let me see if I can reach him while Dana gets you hooked up, yeah?”
Dana is already emerging in the doorway of your room as he says it, sugary cereal bar and protein bar in hand, both no doubt from her and Robby’s secret stashes. She nods back toward the ED as she walks over to your bedside. “Princess is coming with your fluids.”
You smile, taking the cereal bar from her and ripping it open.
Jack stands and gives you a knowing nod. “I’ll be back in just a second.”
He shuts the door as he leaves.
Dana collapses into the chair next to your bed, setting the protein bar on your thigh. “First time back and it’s you giving us a scare,” she laughs. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I know,” you groan, tipping your head back with a laugh. “I was just trying to make dinner!”
She squeezes your leg fondly. She waits a beat before asking, “Jack going to call Robby?”
“Yeah,” you nod sheepishly, biting off another mouthful of the cereal bar.
“You okay with that?”
“I texted him already,” you say. “So yeah.”
“Okay then,” she says with a smile. “That’s all I wanted to know.”
“We’ve been talking,” you blurt, even though you know she knows, because Robby has told her. And Jack. It makes you wonder who else he has told, and if he told them because he just couldn’t help himself. If he’s just been so consumed by the hope of speaking to you again, the same way you have been.
“He told me,” she says. “Saw your name come across his phone one day and practically smacked him with the tablet.”
“Did he tell you he showed up at my door the night after Pitt Fest?” you ask quietly.
You see the surprise cross her face, and then the sadness. “He didn’t.”
You nod slowly, picking at a string on your leg. “When I broke up with him I told him he could still come to me if he ever had a shift he couldn’t be alone after,” you explain. “I didn’t think he would, but that was the one.”
“That was a rough day for everybody,” she sighs.
“Yeah, speaking of,” you remember what Robby told you and you nudge her arm. “How’s your nose?”
“Better,” she laughs. “Bruised like hell.”
“I bet,” you grimace. “And how are you?”
She squeezes you again. “I’m okay, kid.”
You don’t push it, though you can tell she knows that Robby must’ve told you about her thinking that she’s done here. You don’t think she is, and she’s still here so maybe she isn’t, but you leave it be, just as she leaves the subject of you and Robby alone.
+++
Robby’s phone finally turns back on after having it plugged in for a few minutes at home. He had forgotten to charge it last night, and because it’s older and kind of a piece of shit, it died before his shift ended.
Text messages start rolling in and he sees your name, but before he can click on it to reply, his phone lights up with a call from Jack.
“Yeah?” he asks because Jack only ever calls like this if he forgot something Robby said in his debrief at handover.
“She’s here.”
Robby’s stomach drops. Surely Jack doesn’t mean-- “What?”
“She’s conscious and alert, she cut herself pretty bad while trying to cook dinner, definitely going to need a stitch or two but the bleeding has stopped now. She nearly passed out a couple times, though, so Dana got her something to eat and I ordered some fluids just in case.”
Robby is listening, but he’s putting Jack on speaker so he can put his shoes back on and start grabbing his shit to leave again. But then he stops.
Jack is telling him you’re there, but he hasn’t mentioned anything about if he’s telling Robby this for a reason other than to keep him in the loop.
Robby sits down on his bed, puts his phone back up to his ear, rubs his face with his hand. “Okay. But she’ll be okay?”
“She’ll be fine once you get here.”
“But--”
“Robby. Man. I’m calling you because she asked me to.”
Robby jumps up, his charger getting yanked out of his phone in the process. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Jack tells him what room you’re in and Robby is flying out his door, damn near sprinting down the street back toward the hospital.
He’s never made it to the Pitt as fast as he does right now, and he scoots in through the ambulance bay. Jack is just coming out of another patient’s room when he spots him, and he points toward your room.
The door is open and he can hear you laughing with Dana, so that at least eases his worries. He slows to a walk so he doesn’t startle you when he stands in the doorway, knocking softly on the wood.
“Told you he’d run here,” Dana whispers clear as day, winking at you.
You’re hooked up to an IV and have one of his protein bars half-eaten in your hand. Your finger is wrapped loosely in some gauze with no red peeking through, so that’s a good sign.
Dana stands and lets Robby have the seat by your bed. “I’ll go get everything so we can get those stitches done and get you out of here.”
You nod but you don’t say a word and Robby can see the fear on your face.
He sits next to you and rests his hand over your non-injured one. “Hey clumsy.”
A laugh bubbles out of you and he’ll take it. “Hey,” you murmur. “This is what I get for trying to cook when I’m already starving.”
Ah, he thinks. So that explains you nearly passing out on Jack and Dana. Pair your squeamishness -- that he doesn’t remember being this bad -- with intense hunger and it was inevitable that you’d feel faint.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asks, discreetly glancing up at the bag of fluids and the speed of the flow. He trusts Jack and Dana, of course he does, but still. Doesn’t hurt to double check things.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Sorry for stealing a protein bar.”
He just shakes his head at you. “Don’t.”
“Thanks for coming,” you whisper, turning your hand over to squeeze his palm against yours. “Dana said you had just left.”
“My phone died too, or else I would’ve seen your text and I could’ve been here when you got in,” he says. “I’m glad they got you back quickly.”
“Yeah, well, nearly passed out and Dana came over with a wheelchair,” you chuckle. “Pretty good for a first ER trip here.”
“I’m just glad it wasn’t anything worse,” he says sincerely, gently rubbing your hand with his thumb. “Jack said you just need a couple stitches.”
“Yeah.”
Robby cups your hand with both of his. “Hey.” He tips his head down a little, trying to get you to look at him. You finally do. “Jack’s gonna do the stitches, and I’m gonna be right here the whole time distracting you, okay? We can get Dana in here too, keep you focused on us, and Jack will be quick. He’s a pro.”
“Okay,” you breathe, leaning your head back. “God. I feel like such a baby.”
“You’re not a baby,” he says sincerely. “You might be the most squeamish person I’ve ever seen, though.”
You just glare at him, but you’re smiling. You’re smiling and laughing and talking with him and that’s all he needs. His worst nightmare is you being here unconscious, unstable. He’s not happy that you’re here right now, but Jesus, is he happy that you’re conscious, stable, alert, and you just need a couple stitches before he can take you home.
Jack comes back with Dana a few minutes later, wheeling in a little cart with them. And when you start eyeing all of it warily, Jack shakes his head at you.
“This is none of your business,” he scolds, then points at Robby. “Look at him.”
You look at Robby and say loud enough for Jack to hear, “Tell him he needs to work on his bedside manner.”
Robby snorts, leaning over, “Hey Jack--”
“Can it, Mike,” Jack tells him, but he’s smiling just a little, hands working practically on instinct as he sets everything out the way he needs it.
Dana sits on your bed, so you’re flanked on both sides, and so she can be mostly in your line of sight. Jack stretches your arm out to rest on the tray, and you keep your gaze locked on Robby.
“Do you want me to tell you what I’m doing or just--?”
“Jack, I swear to God, if you don’t get this over with in the next five minutes--”
“Duly noted,” he says. “I am gonna tell you about the lidocaine, just because I don’t need you flinching away from me. Just a prick and some burning, okay?”
You chew on your bottom lip when you feel the burning just as he warned.
“What were you trying to cook earlier?” Robby asks, redirecting your focus.
“Yeah, what’s for dinner?” Dana jokes.
You tell them the dish and Robby immediately recognizes it as one of your favorites -- and his. “I haven’t made it since--”
Well, since that night. The night you broke up with him.
He remembers. “It was really good,” he says softly. “I did eat it all.”
“Good,” you say sincerely. “That’s why I made it.” You pause, trying not to focus on the dull pressure you feel in your finger, no doubt from Jack starting the stitches. “I didn’t get very far tonight, though, so we’ll have to order pizza or something.”
You swear everyone in the room -- including yourself -- freezes. We. You said we’ll have to order pizza.
Instead of calling you out on it, Robby takes it in stride. “Yeah,” he says, face soft as he continues the conversation. “We can order from that place down the street, have it ready to pick up on the way home.”
Home. You love the sound of that. You’ve missed the sound of that word coming out of Robby’s mouth, especially in this context. A place the two of you share. A place the two of you can run away to.
You just nod weakly, hoping he means it. Hoping this isn’t just to distract you. “I can make you watch another shitty romance movie.”
“Anytime,” he replies easily, squeezing your hand. He glances over at Jack’s work. Jack catches his eye for just a moment, a knowing look passing between the two men. “He’s almost done,” Robby tells you, looking back at you with a smile. “Just needs to tie the final knot.”
You nod. “That was quick.”
“Why, thank you,” Jack says, smirking. “You’ll just need to keep it clean and dry for about a week. These should dissolve on their own, so you don’t need to come back unless it gets infected -- redness, if it’s itching, leaking.”
“I’ll just panic and send Robby a picture of it every single day,” you tease.
But in all seriousness, Robby replies, “I can come check on it every day just to be safe.”
It’s a small, though deep, cut. Both Robby and Jack (and Dana and you) know that he doesn’t need to check on it every single day. He really doesn’t need to check on it at all, unless it bothers you. But you all know what this is really about.
An excuse to see you every day. Even if for just a moment, just to hold your hand in his, and take his time examining the stitches just so he can hold you a little longer.
This knowingness hangs above you all. And none of you mention it.
“You should be fine with some ibuprofen for the pain, but again, if it gets too bad, just panic and call Robby,” Jack chuckles. “But seriously, you’re all done.”
“Can I look now?” you ask.
“Are you going to try to pass out on me again?” Dana says, sounding a bit like she’s scolding you, but you can hear the genuine worry.
“No,” you protest. Then, quieter, say, “I don’t know. I hope not. There’s no more blood, right?”
“You’re all cleaned up, kiddo,” Dana says, patting your leg. “Look now while we’re all here to catch you if you go down.”
Robby opens his mouth to protest, but he supposes you need to look at some point, and Dana is right. Might as well look while you’re in the ER, safe in a bed, with all of them surrounding you.
So, you look. And it isn’t so bad now. You take a deep breath and smile, looking up at Jack. “I’m good. Thanks for the handiwork, Jack.”
“Anytime,” he says. “Try to be more careful, yeah? You’re not supposed to be a patient when you’re visiting us.”
“Noted,” you say with a salute of your stitched hand, doing it only because you want to see his eyeroll.
“Okay soldier,” Jack scoffs but grins. “I need to go check on everyone else, but Dana’ll get your discharge paperwork.”
“I’ll bring you a Redbull tomorrow,” you say. “Or two.”
“Looking forward to it,” Jack says, sharing another little look with Robby before he leaves.
Dana leaves as well, with the promise that she’ll return with the formal discharge information that they have to give when you get stitches. Robby stays with you, continuing the distraction, even though you’re better now, and your fluids have finished, so he takes out the IV for you.
While the two of you talk about anything that comes to mind, Dana is at the hub, pretending she doesn’t notice the night shift -- notorious for their gossip -- peering into the room where you sit with Robby.
“Is that…?”
Dana just nods, keeping her eyes on the computer. “Yep.”
“I thought they were--”
“They are,” she says.
“So what the hell is he doing?”
Dana looks up with a smirk. “Groveling. What’s it look like?”
+++
As soon as you’re free to leave, and after giving Dana a hug and Jack another thank-you wave, you head out the main doors with Robby in tow. You turn toward the parking lot and realize you don’t have your keys in your hands yet.
“Let me just dig my keys out of my--”
Robby’s head snaps toward you. “Keys? Car keys?”
“Yeah?” you reply, just as confused while you dig through your bag. “I drove here. You think I have money for an ambulance? Don’t even get me started on what this might cost me--”
“You drove here?” he asks again, his face growing more and more incredulous by the minute.
“Yes,” you huff, finally retrieving your keys.
“Give me those,” he says, though he doesn’t exactly give you a choice because he promptly snatches them from your hands as soon as he spots them.
“Robby!”
“You are not driving,” he says. “I can’t believe you drove here when you were feeling faint. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”
You just glare at him, even though you know you deserve this scolding. It wasn’t your finest moment, you’ll admit that. “Fine. You can drive. Just don’t wreck. You’re not on my insurance.”
He barks out a laugh as you reach your car. “I’ll be careful, just get in.”
You grumble the entire time, though deep down, a tiny fire ignites in you again after hearing him scold you and tell you, not ask, what he’s going to do.
But you shove that feeling away because you can’t. You can’t think about that without it being dangerous. Especially when you’re about to do something that’s equally as dangerous.
“About dinner,” you blurt.
He buckles himself in and turns the key in the ignition. “We don’t have to if you--”
“Do you want to have dinner with me?” you interrupt.
He turns his head toward you, features softening. “Of course, if that’s what you want.”
You nod. “It is. It is what I want.”
His smile is full of relief. “Then let’s order a pizza so we can pick it up on the way,” he says. “The usual?”
“Yeah,” you reply, as if no time has passed since your last dinner with him. The usual, as if the two of you had it just last week. “And--”
He rattles off your favorite drink and dessert with no hesitation. “I know what I’m doing,” he says with a smirk, pressing his phone to his ear.
You melt into the passenger seat as he orders everything and says he’ll pay when he picks it up, which just tells you that he’s planning to pay for it himself, but you don’t have it in you to argue about it. You want to let him, for once.
So you do. He drives straight to the pizza place, heads inside to pick it up, and comes back with a smile and an armful.
He’s driving with one hand, the other arm propped on the center console, and you have to restrain yourself from clinging to his arm the way you used to. It’s so tempting that you almost give in, missing the way you used to weave your limbs around him in any way you could, because he’d let you. He always let you hang on him around the house, never one to complain when you’d walk up behind him and bury your face in his back as you wound your arms around his middle, sometimes underneath his shirt.
You’re just about to say fuck it and wrap yourself around his arm when your phone buzzes rapidly in your lap.
“That would be my sister,” you chuckle. “I sent her a picture of my battle wounds.”
Robby laughs as you answer the phone, barely getting one word in before your sister starts going in on you. He tries not to eavesdrop on your call, he really does, but he can’t help it when your sister is practically shrieking over the phone, so much so that you even have to pull the speaker away for a second.
“Are you okay?! You can’t just send me a picture of stitches with no explanation!”
“I’m fine,” you chuckle, and you pointedly ignore Robby’s little scoff. “Just nicked myself trying to cook dinner and it wouldn’t stop bleeding so I drove to the ER.”
“You drove?”
Robby is glad to not be the only one incredulous about the fact that you drove while feeling faint.
“Yes, but I am fine,” you hiss. “Just shaken up, but fine.”
Your sister says something that he can’t hear, and then says something like, “...eat enough today?”
Robby’s eyebrows furrow as he drives. He really shouldn’t be paying attention to this call. It’s clearly personal and private and none of his business anymore, but.
“I was in the process of making dinner” is your quiet reply to your sister and he can’t help the way his eyes narrow a little at the road. Does that mean you didn’t have breakfast? Lunch? A snack? Anything until Dana handed you a protein bar?
Your sister’s voice goes soft again, but you’re nodding along, looking out the passenger window and saying, “It’s fine. No, I know. I was just busy. It’s fine. We got pizza and stuff. Yeah. He’s driving me. Yeah. I know. Love you.”
You’re quiet when you hang up. Robby doesn’t mention what he heard. He just drives.
When he parks at your place, he grabs all of the food before you can even try, handing your keys off to you instead so you can get the door. Your little glare is met by his unfazed smile.
He drops everything on the kitchen counter, letting you help unload it because he can tell you’re restless. He focuses on clearing away the little bit of dishes from when you were attempting to make dinner earlier, trying to give you some physical space.
He doesn’t want to bring up what he heard, but clearly it’s bothering you. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s here again, in your apartment, when you told him he couldn’t do this again. Except you invited him in -- again.
Just as he’s about to open his mouth and say something probably very stupid about how he can go if he’s bothering you, you speak instead.
“It’s not a thing,” you say.
“What?” he asks, feigning innocence and you both know it. He reaches under the sink for the pack of paper plates you always keep there, retrieving a few.
You let out a sigh, taking a plate from him. “What my sister said. It’s-- It’s not a thing.”
He nods slowly, grabbing a slice of pizza and putting it on your plate. “Okay.”
“You don’t need to pretend like you didn’t hear it,” you chuckle. “She was practically screaming.”
“Well,” Robby lets out an awkward laugh, grabbing his own slice. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I know we’re not,” he gestures vaguely between the two of you, “so if you say it’s not my business, then…it’s not my business.”
You rub your forehead, setting your plate down on the counter. “It’s not that it’s-- I just don’t want you guilting yourself.”
“Why would I--” he starts but then stops, the realization dawning on him.
“It’s an old habit, you didn’t cause it,” you clarify. “But the breakup and a load of other shit happened at once and it sort of created the perfect conditions for it to come back, I guess,” you shrug. “Like I said, I don’t want you guilting yourself, it just got worse after things ended, but I know I ended things, so I don’t really have room to talk--”
“Don’t,” he shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”
“But it’s the truth, I’m the one that pulled the plug.”
“That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt,” he argues. “That doesn’t mean you hadn’t been hurting. Because of me.”
You open your mouth, pause, close it. You frown. “Are we doing this right now?”
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Should we?”
“I don’t know,” you reply, just as honest, just as quiet.
“Eat first,” he says, softly, not accusatory. “And let’s sit.”
“Yeah. Okay.” You nod absentmindedly, heading for the living room with your plate in one hand and drink in the other, careful of your finger.
Robby tries not to watch you like a hawk, but still you feel his eyes on you as you move and settle down on the couch. He sits beside you, nowhere near as close as when the two of you shared a blanket that night, but close enough. Close enough to mean something.
“I’m scared,” you say before you’ve even taken one bite. “I’m fucking terrified. Because you’re starting to remind me of the Robby that I fell in love with.”
He sighs, brown eyes softening and growing sadder with your every word.
“And part of me loves it, part of me is so-- so giddy every time I talk to you because I can see it. I can see the man I first met,” your voice breaks at the end, and when you look up at him, there are tears shining in your eyes. “But he disappeared on me once. How do I know he won’t disappear again?”
“Fuck” is all Robby can think to say, and maybe it isn’t the right thing to start with, but it’s honest. It’s raw and it hurts when he hangs his head and thinks about the ways he treated you, the way he snapped at you for days on end.
“Yeah,” you let out a wet laugh, resting your forehead in your palm. “That’s all I can think about. I want you so badly and every time I just-- I remind myself about the way it felt at the end and I don’t want to feel that way again. I can’t watch you fall out of love with me twice.”
His head whips up at that, eyes a little wide as he looks at you like you’ve just said the single most absurd sentence he’s ever heard. “Fall out of love with you?” he repeats. “I never stopped loving you.”
You sniffle, just offering him a sad smile. “Well it sure seemed like you did.”
“No, I--” He stops himself, turns his body toward you, hands reaching for you and landing on the couch cushion instead. “I was so-- Jesus, I was so angry but it wasn’t at you, it was never at you. Or I never meant it to be, but I know that doesn’t change that I hurt you because clearly it looked like I was angry at you, but I promise, you never did anything wrong.”
You cover your face with your hand, sniffling harder as you shake your head. “I want to believe you Robby, I really do, I just--”
“I know,” he cries. “I know and I know it’s my fault that you can’t believe me, I know I did that and I won’t blame you if you can’t, but--” He pauses, realizing abruptly that there are tears clouding his vision too. “When Jack called me and told me you were at the Pitt, for a second I thought something had happened to you, and I’d regret it forever if I didn’t get the chance to tell you I’m sorry and to beg for one more chance, I--” He cuts himself off again, making a split-second decision that he knows he’ll pay for tomorrow with the way his knees creak, but he has to do it. He has to get on his knees in front of you; it’s what you deserve.
“Robby,” you’re fighting back a disbelieving smile, “what are you--”
“I’m begging for forgiveness,” he says, as if it isn’t obvious. He reaches for your hands, sure to be gentle and careful with your injured finger. “For just one more chance. Because I need you to know I never fell out of love with you. I hated myself so much that I thought I didn’t deserve you or to be with you and every time you were kind to me I just felt like I didn’t deserve it, and I was driving myself crazy because I couldn’t understand how you couldn’t see that I was a waste of your time,” he admits it all in a rambling haze, not even sure if any of it makes sense to you, but he needed to say it. He needs you to know that it was never you. It was all him.
You’re shaking your head at him, though, like none of his words are helping. “That’s so-- Part of me hates that you had that twisted train of thought because you do deserve love but a bigger part of me is so pissed at you,” you let out an incredulous laugh. “You didn’t think you deserved me and so instead of breaking up with me, you just treated me like shit?”
“I know,” he cries. “I know it makes no sense, and I realize it now, that none of it made any sense. My therapist is-- We’re working through it and part of it has been recognizing that it was twisted and so unfair to you--”
“Uh, yeah,” you scoff, wiping under your eyes with one hand, but then you return your hands to his, and that small action gives him the tiniest glimmer of hope.
“I’m staying in therapy,” he promises. “And I’m going to keep trying and keep doing whatever it is you need me to do for you to forgive me because I can’t-- I can’t go another day without you. It doesn’t feel right, and I know I did it to myself, I know you don’t have to forgive me, but-- Please.”
You just stare at him. For the longest time. And he lets you. He holds your gaze, never once wavering, because he needs you to see that he’s serious. He means all of those words. Every last one of them.
“You get one chance,” you begin. “Because I meant it, that I can’t watch you leave me twice.”
He nods. “Just one chance, that’s all I need.”
You stare. And stare. Until your silence makes him squirm.
“Please,” he whispers one more time, knowing that you don’t have to forgive him and knowing what a real possibility that is because it’s well within your rights after how he treated you. But he can’t let go until you tell him to. He can’t have this be the end. “Please, just one more--”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Because you don’t let him.
Your hands leave his so instead you can cup his face, tears and all, and bring his lips back where they belong: pressed against yours. He can taste the salt on your lips as he’s sure you can taste the salt on his, and it makes him sigh and relax, hoping this means what he thinks it might.
“You have to stay in therapy,” you mumble when you pull back for air. “I mean it.”
He nods, looking deep into your eyes. “I will. I promise.”
“Good,” you kiss him again. “For the record, I will be too.”
He laughs against your lips. “That’s good, it’s good for us.”
You pull back and stare at him. You twist his head as if you’re inspecting every inch. “Who are you and what did you do with Michael Robinavitch?”
He dives back in for another kiss. “He’s still here,” he whispers. “He just got a little lost there for a while.”
“You’re telling me,” you mutter, but you’re smiling through it. “We’re doing this?”
“I want to,” he says, and every word sounds like a confession. “But it’s your decision.”
“I want to,” you echo. “My sister might kill me, but I really want to.”
“Well, the entire Pitt crew will probably kill me if I fuck this up again,” Robby jokes, though knowing Jack and Dana, you imagine it isn’t that much of a joke.
“Let’s start with dinner,” you smile, hands smoothing down his hair, then ghosting over his cheeks. “Because I’m starving.”
“Yes,” he agrees. He starts to get up, bracing himself on the couch and promptly ignoring the popping sounds his knees are making.
You don’t ignore them, though, based on the little giggles he hears you letting out. He settles onto the couch beside you, a bit closer than before, and you take the opportunity to move even closer.
“I believe I was promised a shitty romance movie,” he says, leaning over to grab the plates of pizza, handing yours off to you.
“And who am I to break that promise?” you grin, reaching for the remote. “I saw one last week that was awful. I need to see your face in the third act.”
“Hit me,” he smiles, letting you tuck yourself into his side as you search for the movie.
It feels easy, just like this. The two of you right back where you should be. Not exactly right where you left off, because things weren’t working then, and changes needed to be made. But now that they’ve been made, the two of you can get back to what you did best: loving one another.
summary: On a night when the moon hangs low and your body bleeds for him, he worships you the only way he knows how: on his knees, mouth between your thighs, feasting like you’re the last taste of warmth in a world gone dark. But in his arms—cold as the grave—you find a different kind of fire. One that never dies.
wc: 4.1k
a/n: AHHH you guys—I’m seriously losing my mind right now. Mercy Made Flesh hit 1.7K notes in 72 hours and I’m just sitting here clutching my pearls and screaming into the void like !!! thank you SO much for all the love, thirst, and pure unhinged energy you’ve poured into my fic!! this fic is lovingly (and hornily) dedicated to @oc3anbxbyxoxo who requested remmick eating reader out while on her period!! and, as always, thanks to my number #1 pookie Nat @kayharrisons for beta reading!!
warnings: vampirism, bloodplay, oral sex (f!receiving), period sex, vampire x human, worship kink, possessive undead love interest, overstimulation, blood drinking, body worship, monsterfucking (soft), southern gothic setting, mild dubcon tones (power imbalance), religious/sacrilegious language, explicit sexual content, knife-edge tenderness, unholy devotion, mutual obsession, sex as ritual, canon-typical vampire violence (implied)
likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!
The moonlight spills across the cold stone floor like spilled cream, pale and thick, stretching all the way to the foot of Remmick’s bed. You don’t knock when you enter. You never have to.
He already knows.
He’s there, seated at the edge of the mattress like he’s been waiting all night—shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his hair a soft tangle from too much pacing. There’s a gleam to his eye that hadn’t been there yesterday. Something feral. Something starved.
His nose twitches before his lips curl.
“You’re bleedin’,” he drawls, voice like bourbon left too long in the sun. “C’mere, sugar.”
You close the door behind you. You should be embarrassed. You’re not wearing anything underneath the long black slip you call a nightgown. Not tonight. The silk clings to your thighs, sticking just slightly with each step.
He’s watching. Always watching. Like he’ll die if he blinks.
By the time you reach him, he’s already reached for your hips, already dragging you between his legs. His hands are cold. They always are. But they warm quickly when they cup the back of your thighs and pull you forward until you’re straddling his lap.
“Could smell you from the hallway,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You don’t know what that does to me.”
“Then show me,” you whisper.
His eyes flick up. Crimson. Blazing.
Ravenous.
And then he lays you back.
The mattress dips under your weight, the room heavy with the scent of old wood, candle smoke, and something darker now—something copper-sweet. His breathing doesn’t hitch, doesn’t falter. But it deepens. Slows. Like he’s savoring every second before he lets the hunger off its leash.
Remmick’s palms press to the inside of your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer. His voice, low and reverent, ghosts over your skin.
“Goddamn,” he breathes, thumbing the edge of your nightgown up, baring the soft heat of your core. “Ain’t nothin’ in this world tastes as good as you do when you bleed.”
The shame you thought you might feel never comes. There’s only heat, only want, only the obscene pulse in your stomach as he lowers his mouth with something like worship painted across his face.
“Y’ain’t scared, are you?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the crease of your inner thigh. “’Cause I’m real hungry, darlin’. Real fuckin’ hungry.”
You shake your head, your voice a whisper. “No.”
His grin is all teeth.
“That’s my girl.”
And then his tongue slides over you—slow, deliberate, impossibly soft. He groans like he’s been starving, the sound deep in his throat, his arms locking around your hips to hold you still as he buries his face between your legs.
You cry out.
The first lick is hot and sinful, laced with something carnal and wrong, the wet glide of his tongue tasting the blood he craves, the slick that coats you. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t build slow. He devours—growling against your cunt like it’s the only meal he’s ever needed.
“Christ,” he moans against you, lips already wet with it, tongue circling your clit with obscene precision. “You’re sweeter’n sin like this.”
Your fingers fist in his hair. You’re trembling. The sheets are damp beneath you from your own sweat, from the way your body shudders every time he moans into you like he lives for this.
And maybe he does.
Because Remmick doesn’t stop.
Not when your legs shake. Not when your thighs try to close. Not even when you gasp his name like it’s a lifeline. He keeps going, mouth locked to your cunt, tongue sliding deeper as he feeds and worships all at once.
“Gon’ give you everythin’,” he mumbles, voice thick and slurred with lust, lips slick. “Gon’ make you cum so hard you forget your damn name.”
You already have.
Your back arches, spine bowing off the bed as the wave crests—hot, thick, electric. His name spills out of your mouth in pieces, broken syllables caught between breathless moans, and he drinks it in like it’s part of the offering.
Remmick doesn’t let up.
Even as your hips buck, even as your thighs tremble violently around his head, he holds you down, strong hands keeping you spread and helpless beneath him. His tongue flicks against your clit with punishing precision now, coaxing you past the edge and straight into ruin.
Your vision whites out.
Pleasure burns—too much, too good, a drag across nerve endings that should’ve long gone numb but haven’t, not under him. Not under the mouth of a man who’s been alive for centuries and still claims you as the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.
He groans again, loud this time, the sound vibrating through your cunt like a sin. You don’t realize you’re crying until he pulls back slightly, lips flushed red and glossy with blood and slick. The sight should be terrifying.
It’s fucking gorgeous.
“Look at you,” he rasps, dragging his mouth up your body, a smear of crimson trailing from your inner thigh to your hip. “So damn pretty fallin’ apart like that.”
He licks his lips, slow. Lingering.
“Could stay between these thighs all night, baby. Might just do that.”
Your breath stutters when he leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is thick with lust, but there’s something else now—something dark. Territorial.
“Ain’t gon’ want nobody else’s blood, y’hear me?” he whispers, one hand cupping your throat, thumb brushing your pulse. “Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than you when you bleed for me.”
You whimper, your body still trembling beneath him.
And Remmick smiles.
Because you're not scared.
You're in love. In lust. In ruin.
The room is quiet now, save for the rasp of your breath and the low hum of Remmick’s satisfaction as he lays against you, one arm heavy across your waist, his nose nuzzled into your neck like he can’t bear to be even an inch away from your pulse.
You’re boneless, ruined—your legs still trembling slightly as the aftermath rolls through you in warm, dizzy waves.
But he’s calm. Too calm.
Like a beast that’s fed and now lies curled around its prey, not because it’s lost interest—but because it’s claimed you.
His fingers trace idle circles over your belly, smearing faint streaks of blood he hasn't bothered to wipe away. He hums low in his chest, then murmurs against your throat:
“Y’don’t know what you’ve done to me, do ya?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth’s parted, your tongue dry, your body still fluttering in the places he touched and tasted.
He presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, then another, lower—his lips dragging slow.
“You come to me bleedin’ like that,” he drawls, voice syrupy and warm, “an’ expect me to behave?”
You feel his smirk as he speaks against your skin.
“Darlin’, you ain’t just mine. You’re marked. Body knows it. Blood knows it. Every time you ache, every time you get that little twitch in your thighs thinkin’ ‘bout me…that’s me callin’ to you.”
You swallow hard.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, those crimson eyes soft now, almost tender—but still burning. Still dangerous.
“I ever catch somebody else smellin’ you like this…” he shakes his head slowly, almost pitying. “They won’t get the chance to learn from their mistake.”
He says it like a promise.
And then softer, almost lovingly:
“Gon’ take real good care of you. Keep you right here where it’s safe. Keep that sweet little body fed, fucked, and mine.”
You blink up at him, dazed and flushed.
He brushes a knuckle down your cheek, then presses his lips to your temple like you’re something precious. Holy, even.
“Rest now, sugar,” he murmurs, voice velvet-dark. “We got all night.”
Steam curls like spirits from the clawfoot tub as the water runs, hot and fragrant with crushed rose petals and herbs from the garden out back. The scent is earthy, grounding—lavender, rosemary, and something darker beneath it. Something that smells like Remmick.
He’s at your side, one hand steady on the small of your back as he helps you into the water like you’re made of spun glass.
“You’re shakin’,” he murmurs, voice quiet now. Slower. “Let me fix that.”
The warmth envelopes you, and you sink into it with a sigh, limbs limp, head tipping back as your body adjusts. The blood between your thighs has already begun to dilute in the bathwater, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. If anything, his gaze softens.
Remmick kneels behind the tub and rolls his sleeves higher. He dips a cloth into the water and begins to wash you gently, reverently, careful around your thighs, your breasts, your throat.
Like he’s memorizing every inch of you again.
“Still can’t believe you walked into that church that night,” he says, the hint of a smile in his voice, low and fond. “All that fire in you, all that fury. Lord, you had no idea what you were walkin’ into.”
You remember.
You’d been eighteen. Hungry. Lost. Sleeping in the loft of the abandoned chapel on the edge of the forest because the shelter was full and the weather had turned. You hadn’t known the stories were true—not until you’d come face-to-face with the man who didn’t cast a shadow, who stood at the altar after midnight like he’d been waiting for you.
Remmick had looked at you the way God might’ve looked at Eve: not with shame, but with curiosity.
And then with hunger.
“I should’ve run,” you whisper.
He hums. “You did. I let you.”
You’d run through the woods, blood pumping so loud in your ears you could hear your own pulse. He hadn’t chased you—not right away. He’d let the fear bloom, let it take root, let you come back on your own.
You hadn’t been able to stay away.
Maybe it was the way he spoke. Or the way he looked at you. Or maybe it was the way the nights weren’t so cold when he was near.
“I didn’t want you to be afraid,” he says now, dipping the cloth to run it between your legs, slow and careful, like he’s cleaning a wound.
“I was,” you say. “But not of you.”
Remmick nods. He knows.
You’d been afraid of needing him.
And now look at you—body bare and pliant in his bath, flushed from orgasm and bleeding in his water, letting him touch you with those old, cold hands like they’ve got the right.
Because they do.
“You were too damn young,” he murmurs after a beat, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “But you looked me in the eye like you’d seen a thousand winters. Said you weren’t afraid of no man, no monster. Only the ones who pretend they ain’t.”
You smile faintly. “And you never pretended.”
His eyes darken.
“I told you what I was. What I needed. And you still chose to stay.”
You open your eyes, tilting your chin toward him.
“I still do.”
He leans in and kisses you then—not hungrily, not with possession, but reverence. Like you’re sacred. Like he’s praying with his mouth.
And in a way, he is.
Because Remmick never asked for salvation.
He found it anyway.
In you.
The water laps gently around you, soft and warm as skin, swirling faint pink around your hips. His kiss is slow—an ache, a promise, a tether. When he finally pulls back, your lips are damp, parted, breathless, and Remmick is just watching you.
Like he always does.
There’s something about the way he looks at you. Not just hunger. Not just obsession. It’s deeper than that—like he’s memorizing you, like the sight of you is the only thing anchoring him to this wretched earth. Like if he stopped looking, the centuries would catch up to him and pull him down to hell where he knows he belongs.
But not yet.
Not while you’re here. Not while your blood is still warm and your body still pliant and your soul still just out of reach.
He brushes the edge of the cloth over your collarbone next, then your shoulder, dragging it across your chest with trembling restraint. There’s a smear of blood on the side of your breast—his doing—and he wipes it away with the gentleness of a man afraid to break the thing he worships.
“You’re somethin’ holy to me,” he murmurs, low enough it sounds like it’s more for him than you. “Somethin’ sacred.”
You swallow, your throat tight, heart tripping over itself in your chest.
“No I’m not.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe not to the world. But to me? You’re a goddamn miracle.”
You can’t speak. Can’t move. All you can do is feel as he pours warm water over your shoulders, cupping the back of your head like he’s baptizing you in blood and roses.
“First time I saw you,” he says, “I thought I’d finally gone mad. Thought I was seein’ a ghost. You walked right through that broken door, moonlight at your back, lookin’ like vengeance and salvation in one breath.”
He sets the cloth aside.
“You didn’t flinch when you saw my teeth. Didn’t cry when I told you what I was. You just looked at me with those big, tired eyes and asked if I was gonna kill you.”
You remember that night. You remember the way your voice hadn’t shaken, even though your knees did. The way his eyes had gone wide—startled, not by your fear, but by your lack of it.
He laughs softly now. “And I told you, didn’t I? Told you I don’t kill what I’m fixin’ to keep.”
Your breath catches.
“Remmick…”
“I meant it,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, to your temple, to the crown of your head. “Meant it then. Mean it now. You’re mine. And I ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”
Your fingers curl in the water. His arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest, the sound of his dead heart silent beneath your ear.
But it feels like it’s beating.
Only for you.
Only here.
The water’s gone tepid by the time he speaks again.
“Time to get you outta there, sugar,” he drawls, voice velvet-thick. “Before I end up joinin’ you.”
He stands, boots echoing soft on the old tiles, and leans over the tub to scoop you into his arms. It’s effortless—like you weigh nothing at all. Your wet skin presses to his chest, and the chill of him—cold, corpse-cold—sinks straight into your bones.
But you don’t flinch.
You never do.
Because even if he doesn’t have blood that pumps or a heart that beats, there’s warmth in him still. In the way his arms hold you like you’re breakable. In the way his mouth brushes your temple like a promise. In the way he carries you through this crumbling house like you’re something he’d go to war for.
You cling to him out of instinct, arms curling around his neck as your cheek rests against the hollow of his throat. It’s icy. Still. But it’s home.
“I got you,” he murmurs, “Always do.”
He steps out of the bathroom and into the dark hallway of the house you’ve come to know like a second skin—your house now, though no one but the ghosts know it. The floorboards creak beneath his slow steps, the wallpaper is peeling, the chandeliers are draped in cobwebs like mourning veils. The wind outside presses against the windows like a lonely thing begging to be let in.
But here, in his arms, even cold, you feel untouchable.
You bleed against his skin.
It’s not until you reach the bedroom—your shared bedroom, with the worn four-poster bed and the rotting wainscoting and the lace curtains yellowed with time—that he speaks on it.
You feel the pause in his chest before the low, filthy rasp leaves his lips.
“Leakin’ all over me, sweet thing,” he mutters with a smirk, voice dipped in reverence and filth. “Leavin’ a trail like you want the whole damn forest to follow your scent home.”
You suck in a breath. The heat in your belly curls tight again.
He sets you down on the edge of the bed, your thighs parting on instinct, your slick skin sticking to his shirt, to the old quilt beneath you. The blood between your legs is thicker now, heavy. He watches it, eyes dark as pitch.
“Lord have mercy,” he whispers, dragging the back of his hand up your inner thigh just enough to catch the wet. His fingers are cool—unnaturally so—but they don’t make you recoil. They make you burn.
“You’re drippin’ for me. Bleedin’ like you want me to taste you again.”
He leans in, teeth grazing your ear.
“You know what that does to a man like me? That warm, dark sweetness runnin’ down your thighs? Ain’t nothin’ on God’s green earth tastes more like heaven than that.”
You shiver.
Not from fear.
From need.
He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your shoulder.
“Don’t you worry, baby,” he murmurs, voice so low it sinks into your skin like wine. “I’ll get you cleaned up again. Real slow. Real good. Might just make you bleed a little more while I’m at it.”
You tremble under his touch.
And Remmick smiles.
Because he knows you’re already his.
He kneels.
Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. You can feel it—what’s coming. The weight of his stare between your legs, the way his cold hands slip beneath your thighs and spread them wider, wider, until you’re completely exposed to him in the dim, flickering candlelight.
His fingers drag slow along the inner swell of your thighs, smearing blood and slick across skin like paint. His mouth parts.
“Christ almighty,” he breathes, voice reverent, his accent rougher now, more ragged. “Look at this mess. Look what you do to me, girl.”
He kisses the inside of one thigh—cold lips on burning skin—then the other. He doesn’t go for your pussy yet. He lingers. Worships. Drags his tongue along the seam of your thigh where the blood’s heaviest, groaning low and obscene as he tastes it.
He licks it up like it’s the finest thing he’s ever touched.
“Could spend hours down here,” he rasps, voice already wrecked. “Feastin’ like you’re my last goddamn meal.”
You whimper, hips twitching, your legs threatening to close—but he doesn’t let you.
“Uh-uh,” he warns, using his strength with ease to keep you open. “Don’t hide from me now. Not when you’re bleedin’ for me like this.”
His mouth finally descends on your cunt.
And this time, he takes his time.
The first pass of his tongue is so slow, so deep, it makes your eyes roll back. He licks a long, deliberate stripe from your soaked entrance to your clit, tasting everything—blood, arousal, need—and moaning like it’s divine.
His tongue flicks against your clit, again and again, featherlight but maddening. Then he shifts—mouth flattening, sucking, lapping at you with wide strokes of his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you.
And god, he is.
You fist the sheets, back arching, mouth open in a silent cry as he moans against your cunt, the vibrations shooting straight through your core. Your blood coats his mouth, his chin, his lips—but he doesn’t care. He relishes it. His hands grip your thighs tighter as he buries himself deeper, tongue fucking into you like he’s trying to crawl up inside and live there.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans between strokes, pulling back just long enough to pant against your slit. “You taste like heaven and sin all at once. Never gonna get tired of this. Never gonna stop wantin’ it.”
He slides a cold finger inside you—then another. Your body clenches hard, the contrast of his freezing hand and warm tongue almost too much to bear. But he knows your body now. Knows exactly how to curl his fingers, how to suck your clit while his tongue and hand move in tandem.
You start to shake.
Your vision blurs.
You cry out, your orgasm building harder than the last, pressure curling, snapping, about to break—
And he doesn’t stop.
Not when you start to sob his name.
Not when your thighs tremble and spasm against his shoulders.
Not even when you cum, shattering hard enough to see white behind your eyelids, your body jerking beneath his mouth like you’re being ripped open.
He keeps going.
Sucks your clit through it. Licks up every drop of blood and slick. Fingers you slower now, more gently, like he’s helping you ride it out instead of trying to end it.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your swollen cunt. “Gave it all to me, just like you’re meant to.”
You’re ruined.
Your chest is heaving, your limbs loose, soaked through and aching, and he’s still between your thighs, still worshiping, still tasting like he’ll never get enough.
And maybe he won’t.
Because you’re bleeding.
And he’s starving.
Your breath hitches—caught somewhere between a sob and a moan—as your legs twitch from the aftershocks, thighs sticky with blood and saliva. But Remmick’s still there.
Still devouring.
Still worshipping.
His tongue moves with aching tenderness now, lazy, slow—almost teasing if it weren’t so reverent. He licks through the mess he’s made, lips parting to mouth at your folds like he’s kissing your mouth, not your cunt. Like every inch of you is sacred.
And even as your hips jerk, trying to pull away—too much, too sensitive—he doesn’t let you go.
“No,” he murmurs, voice low, steady, commanding. “We’re not done yet, sweetheart.”
He pins your hips with those cold, strong hands, mouth descending again.
You cry out, thighs shaking violently, the sensitivity blooming into a new kind of agony—pleasure twisted at the edges, electric and sharp, making your toes curl and your spine bow. The room is spinning. Your pulse thunders in your ears.
But he’s soothing you as he ruins you.
“Shhh,” he breathes against you. “I got you. Just take it. Lemme taste every last drop you’re willin’ to give me.”
You feel your body trembling apart for him again, your stomach clenching, heat pooling low and impossibly fast.
Remmick’s voice is almost gentle now, slurred with arousal and reverence as his tongue drags across your clit.
“Don’t you go hidin’ from me, baby. You know I’ll chase you down.”
He kisses your cunt again, tongue flattening and lapping, nosing against your entrance where your blood is still fresh, still dripping slow. He moans deep in his throat like it’s a vintage he’s been saving for decades, like this moment—this mess between your thighs—is a gift he doesn’t deserve.
And god, the way he sounds when he speaks between strokes—
“Your blood’s hotter’n the devil’s breath tonight.”
Another lick.
“Tastes like lust. Like pain. Like home.”
Another.
“You were made for me, girl. Built to bleed for me.”
Your body coils tighter and tighter, the pleasure sharper now, no longer soft or slow—it’s demanding, relentless, fire at the base of your spine.
And he feels it.
He moans against you as you cum again—louder this time, messier, your entire body going rigid under him as you fall apart a second time, writhing as he holds you open and takes it all.
You’re crying now, softly, not from pain but from being so thoroughly undone.
From how deeply he sees you.
How completely he wants you.
When he finally pulls back, he’s soaked. Lips red, chin slick, eyes glowing like coals. He kisses your inner thigh, then your knee, then the scar on your ankle he once asked about and never brought up again.
You’re limp beneath him, panting, ruined.
And he looks so fucking proud.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers, crawling up your body. “My perfect, filthy little thing.”
He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms, curling your spent body against his cold one—and somehow, you feel warmer for it.
He presses a kiss to your temple, then your hairline, then your shoulder.
“Sleep now,” he breathes. “Ain’t no one ever gon’ touch you but me.”
And as your eyelids flutter closed, muscles aching, pulse slow and full, you realize this is what he’s given you—what no one else ever could.
Not warmth.
But safety.
Not love.
But devotion.
And in a house filled with ghosts, buried in a forest that forgot its name, you fall asleep knowing you’ll never be alone again.
summary: you've never let him in. Not once. And still, every night without fail, he comes crawling back to your doorstep. Thirteen centuries old and rotting with want, Remmick worships you from the porch, drooling thick onto the floorboards, begging for permission to taste. And you? You watch. You love the power. Love the ache in him. Love the way he weeps when you deny him again and again.
But the night you finally say come in—he breaks.
Now that he’s inside, he’s never leaving. Not quietly. Not gently. And not until he crawls all the way inside you and makes a cathedral of your skin.
wc: 5.4k
a/n: based off this prompt that blew up!! It's been exactly one month since I released my first Remmick fic Mercy Made Flesh so it felt fitting to release something today, as a thank you for the tidal wave of love and support I've received since!! Seriously it's insane!! So, as a further thank you, I'm hosting a giveaway for followers here if you're interested, as a way to give back to all of you <333 thanks to @ddlydevotion for finding the photo refs for the banner!! and thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for once again beta reading for me!! credit to Diana @hyoscyxmine for the photo of Remmick she initially edited <333
warnings: vampirism, blood kink, obsessive behavior, feral begging, oral (f! receiving), sub!remmick, somno-adjacent sleepiness, religious undertones, predator/prey dynamics, begging kink, worship kink, voice kink, monsterfucking, marking, blood drinking during sex, degradation, dark romance, possessive partner, crawling kink, aftercare, bite kink, creampie, power imbalance, bodily fluids (drool, blood, etc), control kink, manipulation by omission, mildly blasphemous themes
likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
Masterlist
You've never let him in. Not once.
And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.
Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.
You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.
“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.
“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”
His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.
“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.
“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”
Your just watch him, tilt your glass.
“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”
He nods, drooling harder, trembling.
“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”
You don’t answer him at first.
Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.
The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.
Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.
Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.
“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”
You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.
Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.
“You look like shit, Remmick.”
He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.
“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”
His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.
But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.
Not unless you say the word.
You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.
He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.
“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.
“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”
And oh, how he sounds ruined.
You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.
A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.
“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”
You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.
“You already are wicked.”
He smiles, wild and ruined.
“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”
You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.
Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.
But you say nothing.
You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.
And Remmick?
He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.
| six months ago |
You didn’t move here expecting silence.
You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.
But not the silence.
Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.
The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.
But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.
And the silence? You’ve started to like it.
Until one night, it breaks.
It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.
You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.
And then—
“Evenin’, darlin’.”
You look up.
There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.
You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.
You don’t move. Neither does he.
He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.
In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.
Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.
He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.
“You look like you could use some company.”
You don’t invite him in.
You don’t say much at all.
Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.
But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.
You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.
First, it’s flowers.
Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.
Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.
Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.
Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.
Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.
You don’t see him again for a week.
And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.
You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.
Ripe.
He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.
“You ain’t said my name yet.”
“I don’t know it,” you say.
He smiles like that hurts him.
“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”
It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.
The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.
And there he is. Again.
You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.
He doesn’t knock.
He never does anymore.
Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.
You don’t speak.
You just watch.
The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.
You’ve seen how he suffers.
And you love the way he suffers.
He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.
When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.
He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.
“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.
His voice is shredded. Used up.
“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”
You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.
His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.
“Please.”
The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.
“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”
You shift in the doorway.
Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.
“Why do you keep coming here?”
He whimpers.
“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”
You don’t respond.
Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.
“You want to come in?” you murmur.
His breath catches.
Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.
“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”
You tilt your head.
“Why?”
He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.
“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”
He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.
Your stomach flips.
You almost say it. Almost.
But then you pull back.
And he breaks.
He wasn’t always like this.
You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.
Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?
Now?
He’s a wreck.
On all fours.
Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.
His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.
You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.
He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.
It’s pleading.
Pathetic.
Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.
You tilt your glass. Take a sip.
He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.
“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”
You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.
His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.
“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”
You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.
“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”
He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.
“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”
You stay silent.
Let him spiral.
Let him beg.
Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.
His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.
Then—
“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”
You watch him twitch.
You don’t speak.
And that silence?
It undoes him.
He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.
Maybe.
But not tonight.
It’s late.
Later than you usually sit up for him.
The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.
The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.
But he’s louder.
He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.
But when he hears the door creak, he moves.
Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.
“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”
You say nothing.
He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.
You step forward.
And he growls.
Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.
“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”
You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.
He chokes.
You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.
And then you whisper it.
Soft. Small.
The word.
“Come in.”
He doesn’t believe you at first.
His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.
“Wh-what?” he croaks.
“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”
And that’s all it takes.
He lunges.
Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.
He weeps.
On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.
And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.
“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”
You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.
He sees it.
And loses what’s left of his composure.
He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.
Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.
And you do.
Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:
“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”
You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t even pause.
Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.
You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.
“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”
He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.
“Tell me I can fuck you.”
You nod.
He breaks again.
And then—
He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.
He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.
“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.
You nod again.
“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”
And he pushes in—
Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.
He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.
“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”
You clutch his shoulders.
He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.
He doesn’t move at first.
Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.
Then he growls.
Low. Deep. Possessive.
And moves.
One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.
“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”
He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.
Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.
His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.
You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.
“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”
He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.
He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.
“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”
And he does.
He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.
You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.
“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”
You nod.
He doesn’t even hesitate.
His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.
It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.
You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.
You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.
“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”
And he does.
Hot and thick and endless.
He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.
He finally stills, trembling.
Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.
And then—
He kisses the bite.
Soft.
Gentle.
His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.
“You saved me,” he breathes.
And for once, you don’t correct him.
You don’t know how long you lie there.
Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.
You feel it when he finally starts to move.
Just a shift.
The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.
You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.
He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.
“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”
You don’t answer. You don’t need to.
Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.
There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.
You glance down.
He’s watching you.
Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.
You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.
“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”
You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.
“Don’t get poetic on me now.”
“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”
He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.
“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”
You nod. You did.
And you meant it.
He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.
“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”
“You’re mine,” you whisper.
And he moans.
Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.
You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.
Neither does he.
Eventually, he sleeps.
You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.
And you?
You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.
The blood on your neck has dried.
The slick between your thighs has cooled.
But his body stays warm against you.
And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.
No birds. No blue.
Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.
Because he can’t survive the sun.
And tonight, for once, you don’t want the morning to come either.
♱ summary: They called you a witch. A heretic. A whore for consorting with the devil. So they dragged you to the pyre, but before the fire can touch you, Remmick, a creature of the night you've come to fall for, descends upon your village and leaves no one alive—teeth bared, hands soaked, your name on his lips. Every scream was a psalm. Every body, a sermon. They called you cursed, and maybe you were. Because what followed wasn’t salvation. It was him.
You were never meant to be spared. You were meant to be his. You weren’t saved. You were sanctified.
♱ wc: 7k
♱ a/n: Big Castlevania fan over here—this fic was heavily inspired by the Lisa Tepes x Dracula dynamic (you already know the vibes). Because listen…if my man isn’t willing to slaughter an entire village for trying to burn me at the stake, then I don’t want him 😤 This is the third and final fic in the triple drop—hope it ruins you in the best way!! shout-out to raven @theabhartachsbride for letting me use her remmick edit for my fic banner <333
♱ warnings: graphic violence, mass murder, gore, blood play, biting, marking, mild breeding kink, possessive behavior, monsterfucking, supernatural elements, dubious morality, post-massacre intimacy, soft x violent dynamic, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f! receiving), Castlevania-inspired themes
♱ likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
♱ Fic Masterlist
They told stories about the woods.
Whispers passed from mother to daughter, scrawled into the margins of hymnals, murmured between shutters as night fell thick and quick over the village. They said things lived past the river. Old things. Things that watched, waited, fed.
They said girls went missing.
They said their bodies were never found whole.
They said the monster had red eyes and could smell a lie like smoke.
You listened to the stories the way everyone did: with one ear and half a soul. Then you turned twelve, then fourteen, and stories gave way to bruises.
You learned quickly that the real monsters lived in your house.
And when you turned eighteen and your mother was gone and your father’s backhand had grown careless and cruel, you stopped being afraid of the woods.
Because the woods didn’t scream at you. They didn’t smell like rot and whiskey. They didn’t hold grudges and broken plates and the weight of every word you didn’t say.
The woods were quiet.
And quiet, for a girl like you, was holy.
So you crossed the river barefoot one night, lip split and blood crusting in your hairline.
There was no moon—just the churn of the current beneath you and the hollow in your chest that never quite closed. You didn’t mean to go far. You just needed somewhere to sit, to breathe, to shake the feeling that your skin didn’t fit anymore.
But the trees seemed to part for you.
Like they’d been waiting.
The clearing was there, tucked beyond a bend in the river trail, ringed in ash and crowned by a crooked, rotted tree that clawed at the sky with splintered fingers. Bones scattered the ground—bird bones, deer bones, bones too long to name.
And in the center, as if he’d been carved from shadow itself, sat a man.
Or something that only resembled one.
He was still. Sprawled. One leg drawn up, the other stretched long. A heavy coat hung from his shoulders like wet smoke, collar turned high. You couldn’t see his face until he lifted it.
Eyes like dying stars.
Red. Not bright. Not glowing. Just wrong.
Your lungs forgot themselves.
He stared at you. And kept staring.
Not like a man startled by a trespasser. Not like a beast sizing up prey. But like he knew you. Had been waiting for you.
Your heartbeat drowned out the river. Your bare toes curled in the wet grass. And still, you didn’t move.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t snarl.
He blinked once. And then looked away.
You came back the next night.
And the one after that.
You didn’t know why. You just did.
At first, he didn’t speak.
He watched from the shadows like you were something delicate he didn’t trust. Like a flame that might flicker out if he exhaled too hard.
The third time, you found him with blood on his hands. It slicked his knuckles, pooled beneath his claws—because yes, they were claws now, long and sharp and black at the tips. There was a fox carcass half-shredded beside him. The smell of iron was thick in the air.
You froze. He didn’t.
He simply wiped his fingers on a strip of cloth, slow and methodical, and said, “You shouldn’t be here.”
Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “But I am.”
Something twitched in his expression. Like he didn’t expect you to speak. Like he didn’t hate it.
“You don’t fear me,” he said, more statement than question.
You hesitated. “Should I?”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Over time, you learned the shape of him.
Not just his body—though that, too, lingered in your thoughts. His movements were too quiet. His shoulders rolled like something used to hunting on four legs. His canines weren't just fanged—they all were, every one of them sharp, crooked, stained.
But there was restraint in him.
A stillness that felt held together by a thread. A monster tied to a pillar and dared not to snap.
He never got close. Never touched. But you felt it. The way his gaze pulled at you. The way the air bent around him. The way your pulse betrayed you every time he looked at your throat.
And God, he looked at your throat a lot.
Sometimes, you talked.
You told him about the church bells that rang too loud, the father who drank too much, the boys in the village who stared at you like they deserved something. You told him about the ache in your chest that never went away, the dreams that ended in silence, the scar on your thigh from falling off the roof when you were nine.
He listened.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t tell you to pray harder. Didn’t try to fix you.
Sometimes he said nothing at all.
Sometimes, silence was the kindest thing in the world.
Once, you brought him something.
A peach, stolen from a merchant’s cart.
You set it down on the stone between you. Said nothing. He didn’t touch it at first. Just stared.
Then, finally, he picked it up. Turned it over in his palm. Held it to his face and breathed in, like scent was new to him.
Then he looked at you.
And you couldn’t breathe.
He didn’t eat it. Didn’t throw it away.
He placed it gently in the dirt, pressed into the earth, and covered it with a flat stone.
Like he was planting it. Or burying it.
You never asked which.
The first time he touched you, it was an accident.
You tripped, as you sometimes did. The forest floor was uneven, and you’d gotten too close to him while walking the ring of ash that surrounded the clearing. Your ankle buckled.
And before you hit the ground, his arm was around your waist.
Cold. So cold.
He steadied you. Just long enough to catch your balance. Just long enough for your hands to find his coat and for your chest to knock into his. Just long enough to feel the breath hitch in his throat.
Then he stepped back like you’d burned him.
He looked at his own hand. Flexed it once. Twice.
“Sorry,” you whispered.
His voice came low and raw. “You shouldn’t be.”
After that, something shifted.
Not in the way he behaved—he still sat just out of reach, still watched without speaking—but something had opened. A thread had been tied between you, thin and shimmering, and every visit pulled it tighter.
You started dreaming of him.
Of his hands, his mouth, the way he moved.
Sometimes you woke with your thighs slick and your pulse frantic.
Sometimes you woke with his name in your mouth, even though he’d never told it to you.
The bite didn’t come all at once.
You talked about it, in your way.
“What happens if you drink from me?” you asked.
He stiffened. Then: “I don’t feed on mortals who ask to die.”
“What if I’m not asking to die?”
He said nothing. But his hands clenched in his lap.
“I want to understand,” you told him. “You’re always so careful. So still. Doesn’t it hurt?”
He looked up at you then.
And something broke.
That night, you let him bite you.
You offered your wrist, palm up, your breath shaking but your eyes steady.
He took it slowly. Gently. His hands were cold, but careful. He brought your skin to his mouth like it was a prayer.
His lips were soft. His breath—none.
And when his teeth broke your skin, you gasped.
Not from pain.
From feeling.
Like every nerve lit up. Like a flame passed through you and didn’t burn—just reminded you that you were alive.
He drank slowly. Barely a mouthful.
But it was enough.
When he pulled back, blood shimmered on his chin, and his eyes—his eyes were blazing.
You touched his face before you knew what you were doing. Wiped the blood away with your thumb.
He leaned into your palm.
And for a moment, the monster didn’t exist.
Only the man. Hungry. Reverent. Real.
Then he pulled away, like it hurt to be near you.
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he rasped.
You did.
You just weren’t sorry.
Later, you felt it.
The thread between you became a cord.
You could feel him. Not clearly, not always, but enough.
Enough to sense when he was near. Enough to feel him watching when you couldn’t see him. Enough to hear his breath when the wind died. Enough to wake from sleep with your chest aching like he’d whispered your name into your dreams.
You were marked.
And you didn’t care.
You came back to him, again and again, because nowhere else felt like anything anymore.
You never asked what he was.
He never asked why you stayed.
The bond between you didn’t need language.
Only time. And blood.
And something older than fear.
It began with the change in the air.
Not the wind. Not the scent. Not the thick press of late-autumn fog rolling in off the water. No, it was something deeper. A shift beneath the skin of things. A tremor that hadn't reached the surface yet, but you felt it anyway.
Remmick felt it too.
He was quieter than usual. More still. His movements, usually fluid and slow like water, became sharp. Calculated. Like a creature trying not to spook prey.
Only you weren’t prey. Not to him.
You’d given him your wrist. Your pulse. Your trust. You belonged to each other in a way that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.
So when he stopped meeting you in the clearing for three nights in a row, you knew something was wrong.
On the fourth night, you found him kneeling in the ashes.
The ring of the firepit was cold and broken, stones overturned like something had scattered them in rage. The ground was scorched beyond its usual blackened ring. His coat was discarded at the base of the tree, damp with river mist, as if he’d waded in fully clothed just to feel the chill.
He looked at you with eyes that were too dark. Too tired.
You crouched beside him slowly.
"What happened?"
"You’ve been seen," he said.
His voice sounded ruined. Like it had been dragged across broken glass and handed back to him.
You blinked. "By who?"
He didn’t answer.
But you knew.
You felt it, suddenly. A pulse of fear that wasn’t yours. It hit the bond like lightning.
Remmick’s hands twitched once in his lap.
"They followed you," he rasped. "To the river. Didn’t cross, but…close. They know you’ve been leaving."
You didn’t speak.
There was a pressure blooming behind your eyes, and your throat felt full of stones.
He finally turned to look at you.
"We don’t have much time."
You tried to act normal the next day.
Tried to carry your basket to market and not flinch under the stares that lingered too long. You noticed it now. The way they watched your throat. The way they leaned toward the priest when he spoke. The way chalk marks had been scraped along your doorstep in a language that no one taught aloud.
You thought of the way Remmick flinched when sunlight touched his coat.
You thought of the way he had looked at you the night you let him bite you, like he was holding the only softness he’d ever known.
You hurried home with your shoulders curled forward like you could keep a secret that way.
That night, you crossed the river barefoot.
He was waiting for you.
Not in the clearing.
At the edge of the water.
Standing beneath the trees like he belonged there. Like he was the forest. He didn’t speak when you approached. Just opened his coat.
You stepped into it without hesitation.
His arms came around you. Cold. Strong. Familiar.
You buried your face against his chest and breathed in the scent of pine and iron and smoke.
You stayed that way for a long time.
"They want to burn you," he said finally, his lips against your hair. "At dawn."
You didn’t move.
"They think I marked you."
"You did," you said quietly. "But not how they mean."
His arms tightened around you.
"I won’t let them take you."
You knew he meant it.
But you also knew what sunlight would do to him.
You returned home before dawn, shoes dripping river water, his voice still in your ears.
They want to burn you.
You didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Didn’t speak to your father when he spat on the floor and muttered something about witches.
You sat in your room with the door bolted and your scarf clutched tight in your hands, tracing the faint marks on your wrist. The place where his mouth had touched you.
You tried to think of plans. You thought of running. Of slipping away before the sun rose. But even if you left, where would you go? There was no place he could follow safely. Not at dawn. Not in sunlight.
You were the one marked for burning. But he was the one who would die trying to stop it.
You considered staying. Giving yourself over. Dousing the fire before it reached your toes.
But you thought of him.
The way he touched your hand like it might vanish. The way his breath shivered when he pulled away from your skin. The way his eyes changed when you said mine.
You wouldn’t let him die for you. Not like this.
So when they came for you, you didn’t run.
It was just before first light.
They kicked down your door. Three men. A fourth behind them with a noose. One of them had a cloth soaked in vinegar. It stung your eyes as they pressed it to your face, shouting over your screams.
Your father stood in the corner, arms crossed, eyes blank.
He said nothing. Did nothing. Just watched them drag you away like it wasn’t even happening.
You were yanked through the doorway, arms bound behind your back, the wind biting at your bare ankles. A torch flickered ahead of you. Salt was poured in your path. You tasted metal in your mouth. Your knees gave once, but they didn’t let you fall. They dragged you upright like a sack of grain.
The square was already full.
People poured from their homes like rats from the walls. Stonefaced, shawls wrapped tight, lips moving with quiet prayers. Children were pulled behind skirts. Men stood with arms folded, expressions grim and tight. You saw the boy who once gave you a flower look away.
The priest stood at the edge of the chapel steps, his arms outstretched like he was welcoming rain. His mouth moved too fast for words to keep up. Spit flew with each syllable.
“Witch!” “Marked!” “Daughter of rot!”
You were pushed forward. Stumbled. Your shoulder slammed into the edge of a crate, and you hissed in pain.
They tied your wrists tighter. Rope rough and old and stained with something dark. Your skin burned where it chafed. You felt the bite marks under the wrap on your wrist throb—like they knew what was coming.
The pyre had already been built.
Not at the chapel, but the center of the square.
A tall post. A platform beneath it. Bundles of dry brush stacked at your feet. Oil was being poured in lazy waves around the wood, darkening it. Someone was humming.
They tied you to the post with three thick ropes. One at the waist. One at the chest. One at the throat.
You shivered.
Not from cold.
From knowing he could feel this. That somewhere in the woods, across the river, Remmick knew.
You closed your eyes. Tried to block it out. But it was all too loud. The torches. The voices. The hammering of your heart.
The priest approached. In his hand, he held a bowl. He dipped his fingers into it and flung something wet at your face. It smelled like garlic and bile.
“I cast out the demon in you!” he screamed.
“I cast out the rot and the curse and the unclean seed!”
Someone in the crowd repeated him. Then another. Then a chorus. It rose like a wave, building and frothing and curling over your head.
Burn her. Burn her. Burn her.
The sky was turning. From black to deep blue. Then to pale.
You could feel the air shift. The morning coming.
You looked to the tree line.
Nothing moved.
You prayed he wouldn’t come. And you prayed he would.
The priest held up the torch.
“Let this girl be cleansed!”
He turned toward the pyre.
Your breath caught.
And far, far away, under the trees—something moved.
The torch never touched the wood.
Not because the priest faltered. Not because the crowd intervened.
But because something landed on the chapel roof with a sound like thunder cracking bone.
Every head turned. The air changed. The birds stopped. Even the fire held still.
You didn’t see him—not yet.
You felt him.
A pulse. Through the trees. Through your blood. Through the mark on your wrist that burned like it had just been made.
The priest turned back to you, torch raised again.
“Let this girl be cleansed!” he screamed.
And then—Remmick dropped into the square like a curse made flesh.
He didn’t descend. He didn’t fly. He fell—from the bell tower in a blur of movement, coat flaring, claws bared, a snarl already ripping from his throat. He crashed into the center of the crowd, and the ground shook.
Someone screamed.
Then came the tearing.
You had seen him still. You had seen him cold. You had seen him hold back.
You had never seen him like this.
Berserker. Gone. Unleashed.
His eyes weren’t red. They were glowing—brighter than firelight, bleeding light like open wounds. His mouth was all teeth. Not fangs. Teeth. Rows of them, jagged and wrong and drenched in blood before the first man even hit the ground.
He didn’t move like a man.
He didn’t even move like an animal.
He ripped.
The priest tried to speak again. Remmick was on him before the sentence was finished. One hand closed around his face—not his throat, his face—and crushed it like fruit. Bone and brain and blood exploded across the chapel steps. Bits of skull clattered across stone.
The crowd broke.
But it was already too late.
He was in it. Through it. A blur of rage and claws and shrieking flesh. People ran and were caught. Screamed and were silenced. One woman slipped in a pool of blood and tried to crawl—Remmick dragged her back by the ankle and split her open across the stones like a sack of meat.
You couldn’t look away.
He was beautiful.
Awful.
Covered in red. A silhouette against the rising sun, unmoved by it, untouched by it—for now. For just long enough.
A man swung an axe. It glanced off Remmick’s shoulder. He grabbed the man by the jaw and the chest and pulled in opposite directions.
The sound will never leave you.
Wet. Snapping. Screaming.
Another tried to stab him from behind. Remmick turned and sank his claws into the man’s stomach, twisted, and pulled out something that glistened.
Intestines spilled like rope. The man screamed until Remmick tore out his throat with his teeth.
Children were screaming. People trampled each other. Doors slammed shut—too late.
Remmick didn’t care.
He leapt onto a rooftop, drove his claws through the tiles, and pulled a screaming body through the window. Blood sprayed across the panes. He burst through the door seconds later, dragging two more by the hair.
He threw one so hard into the chapel wall that her bones exploded on impact.
The second he held by the back of the neck and slammed her face-first into the pyre, again and again, until the wood was painted with pulp.
Another man—one of the ones who tied you—tried to run. Remmick caught him by the spine and lifted him clean off the ground. Then he bit—not the throat, but the shoulder, tearing through muscle, chewing, snarling as the man shrieked and flailed.
He dropped him half-alive. Then crushed his skull beneath his boot.
A group of villagers tried to form a line—tools raised, makeshift weapons drawn.
Remmick laughed.
It wasn’t human.
It was a jagged, broken, animal noise that echoed through the square like a war cry.
He charged.
Three fell in the first pass. One had his arm torn off at the shoulder. Another had his ribs opened like a door. The last tried to crawl away and was dragged backward, leaving deep red trails in the dirt.
Remmick crouched over him and feasted.
You heard the snap of bones. The gurgle of blood. The wet, rhythmic tear of sinew.
You gagged. But still, you watched.
The chapel bell began to ring—someone trying to sound an alarm.
Remmick blurred upward.
You saw him leap. You saw the bell stop mid-swing.
And then the bell tower collapsed.
Bricks rained down. Dust choked the square. A man’s leg jutted from the rubble, twitching.
Remmick walked through the smoke. Face split wide in a snarl. His coat hung in tatters. His claws were drenched to the elbows.
He was still hungry.
And then—he saw him.
Your father.
Standing at the far end of the square. Too cowardly to come close. Too proud to run.
Remmick’s head tilted slowly.
You felt the shift in him—not hunger. Not rage. Hatred.
Not for what your father had done tonight.
But for everything he had done before.
Remmick didn’t sprint. He stalked.
Your father turned and bolted.
He didn’t get far.
Remmick tackled him to the ground in front of the chapel steps. One clawed hand slammed into his shoulder, pinning him like a nailed insect. Your father screamed and punched and kicked—but it was nothing.
“Please—please, I didn’t know—she’s nothing—”
Remmick growled low, deep. A sound like stone splitting.
Then he started at the knees.
Claws tore through tendons. He dragged the body closer to the flames. Your father screamed and thrashed, but Remmick held him fast, shredding muscle, grinding bone under heel.
He didn’t kill him quickly.
He peeled skin from flesh. Tore out the tongue. Drove a claw straight through his eye and twisted it until the socket cracked. The screams became gargles. Then wet moans. Then silence.
He stood over the twitching wreckage of the man who raised you and spat blood on his corpse.
Only then did he turn back to you.
It took twelve minutes to empty the town.
The square was unrecognizable. Blood pooled in the gutters. Viscera clung to windows. A head rolled to a stop near your feet.
You were crying.
You hadn’t realized until the tears cooled the blood on your cheeks. Your body shook against the post. The ropes still held, slick with your sweat and the spray of what had once been your neighbors.
Remmick stood with his back to you.
His shoulders rose and fell like bellows.
And then, slowly, he turned.
His face was half-blood, half-shadow. His chest heaved. His mouth was open. His teeth were wrong.
And then his eyes met yours.
And the red dimmed.
He came back.
One step. Then another.
He was limping. One hand hung broken. His coat had burned away on one side, revealing a chest carved with old scars and new wounds, healing already. You could see the steam curling from where his skin tried to fight the coming sun.
He reached the pyre.
He reached you.
Without a word, he pulled the ropes free.
Your knees gave. He caught you.
His hands were sticky. His arms shook.
He held you like you were something soft in a world made of fire.
“You came,” you whispered, voice wrecked.
His head lowered.
“I’ll always come.”
You buried your face in his neck.
And as the sun finally crested the chapel roof, he lifted you into his arms and walked—limping, burned, bloodied—into the tree line.
Where no one would ever touch you again.
The forest swallowed you.
His arms did not falter.
Smoke still clung to your skin. Your mouth tasted of iron. Your body trembled with the ghost of fire, the memory of rope, the phantom press of eyes that no longer existed.
He didn’t speak as he carried you. Didn’t look back. Didn’t slow.
Not even as blood dripped from his fingers onto your thighs. Not even as smoke curled from his exposed skin where the sunlight licked too close.
Only once you were deep within the trees—deep enough that the air felt thick again, that moss swallowed your steps and the light broke in filtered green—did he fall to his knees.
He laid you down like something precious. Like something his.
You reached for him first.
Your fingers found his face, slick with sweat, with blood—not all of it his—and cupped his jaw.
His eyes had dimmed, but not dulled. The glow had faded to a low ember, banked but still burning.
“Remmick,” you whispered.
He closed his eyes. Just once. A single, slow blink. As if hearing his name from your mouth still did something to him.
You sat up slowly, muscles screaming, bones aching in ways you hadn’t known possible.
There was blood in your hair. On your lips. You didn’t ask if it was yours.
“I’m alright,” you murmured, though your voice trembled.
He opened his eyes again. “You’re not.”
But his hands still hovered like he didn’t know where to touch you. Not after what he’d done.
So you took his hand and laid it on your cheek.
“You came,” you said again.
“I told you I would.”
You leaned into his palm.
And he let out a sound—quiet, low, almost like a sob, if monsters could sob.
He cleaned you slowly.
Pulled water from a stream that ran cold and sharp nearby, and soaked a scrap of cloth in it. Pressed it to your face, your neck, your wrists. Hands trembling the whole time.
You let him.
Even when it stung. Even when it hurt.
He worked in silence until he reached the edges of the wound on your shoulder, and then he paused.
His thumb grazed the mark he left. The bite.
It pulsed beneath his touch.
“You’re bound to me now,” he murmured.
You nodded. “I want to be.”
He inhaled sharply. Like he didn’t know what to do with that.
“You don’t understand what that means.”
You leaned forward, forehead to his. Your breath shared. Your blood, still in him.
“I don’t care.”
That night, he didn’t sleep.
He sat with his back to a tree, holding you wrapped in what was left of his coat. Watching. Listening.
You woke to find his eyes on you. Always on you.
“Rest,” you whispered.
“I don’t need rest.”
“You’re hurt.”
“I heal.”
You reached out, pressing your fingers to the edge of one of the fresh burns. His skin was already knitting itself back together, but the heat of it made you hiss.
“You still feel it,” you said.
His eyes dropped to your throat.
“So do you.”
In the days that followed, you began to move again. Slowly. Carefully.
You followed him deeper into the woods, into places no human foot had touched in centuries. Places where the ground steamed in the morning, and the air hung heavy with the scent of moss and decay.
He found a ruin for you.
An old chapel, long since claimed by the forest. Vines covered the stones. The roof was half-gone. Ferns grew through the cracks in the altar.
You made it home.
He brought you what you needed. Soft cloth. Food you didn’t ask about. Furs to sleep on. Fire when you needed it. Silence when you didn’t.
And every night, he lay beside you.
Not touching. Not speaking.
Just breathing.
Just there.
And the bond between you grew.
You felt him before he entered a room. Felt it when his hunger stirred. Felt it when his anger flared like a match in your blood.
He never asked to feed again.
But one night, when your fingers brushed the edge of his coat and your eyes met his across the fire, he said, barely audible—
“You’d let me.”
You nodded.
He didn’t move.
Because he didn’t trust himself to stop.
You dreamt of him.
Not the way he had been in the square, not the red-eyed god of vengeance, but the way he looked when he was calm. Quiet. Still.
You dreamt of his hands. His mouth. His voice in your ear.
You woke up wet. Shaking.
You didn’t hide it.
You found him standing at the edge of the ruin, bathed in mist, looking out at the trees like he could see something you couldn’t.
You stepped behind him. Touched his back.
He didn’t move.
“Remmick.”
A pause.
Then: “Say it again.”
You did.
He turned slowly, eyes burning. But not with hunger.
With want.
With restraint.
With desperation.
“I want you to touch me,” you said.
His breath hitched.
“I’m not gentle.”
“You are with me.”
The mist coiled around you both.
And for a moment, everything in the chapel stopped breathing.
Not just Remmick—who held your gaze like a man shouldering the weight of a thousand years—but the walls themselves, the night wind, the crumbling rafters overhead. Even the shadows seemed to retreat into corners, as if what was about to unfold wasn’t meant to be witnessed.
Remmick didn’t move. Not at first. But the flame behind his eyes flickered—slow, red, hungry—and when he finally did take a step forward, it felt seismic. You heard it in the crack of old stone, in the shift of air around your bare skin. His boots echoed against the flagstones like thunder. Deliberate. Controlled. Until he was right in front of you.
His hand came up—that long, scarred, bloodstained hand—and for a moment you thought he might cup your cheek like you were fragile. Instead, he hovered just above your jaw, trembling.
“Say it again,” he said, voice low, like gravel and prayer.
You swallowed. “Touch me.”
He did.
His thumb brushed your jawline, featherlight. Reverent. A careful man cataloguing something holy. Then his palm cupped your cheek fully, warming to your skin. His other hand followed—tracing the edge of your collarbone, ghosting over the still-tender marks he’d left earlier. The ones that proved you were his. His fingertips shook slightly.
“You’re sure?” he murmured, lips close to your temple now. “You want me like this? After all I’ve done?”
You nodded, leaning into him. “I trust you.”
And that—that did something to him.
He surged forward, but didn’t kiss you yet. Just pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing hard. Hands roaming down your shoulders, your arms, as though grounding himself.
“Then let me worship you,” he rasped.
You were lifted—not thrown, but lifted—as if your weight meant nothing. He carried you to the nearest patch of moonlight spilling through a shattered stained glass window. The kaleidoscopic light painted your skin in fractured reds and oranges. He knelt with you, laying you out on the padded cloak he had shed earlier.
Remmick hovered above you, straddling your hips, his hands sliding beneath your thighs, guiding them apart gently. He stared—at your flushed chest rising with breath, your bitten lip, your parted legs—and he swallowed something like a growl.
“If I start, I won’t stop,” he warned.
“Don’t stop.”
His mouth was on your neck in a second—not biting, not yet—just kissing, slow and open-mouthed. Tongue dragging across the sensitive line of your throat. Then lower, over your collarbone, his hands following the path of his lips. Palms flat, warm, roaming up under your shirt, pushing it up inch by inch.
He groaned when he saw your bare skin. Bent down and mouthed at your ribs, your stomach, like he’d been starving for this. He kissed each scar like it was a sacred scripture.
You writhed beneath him when his tongue circled your navel. When his fingers hooked in your waistband and paused.
“Still want this?”
“More than anything.”
He slid your clothes off slowly—not to tease, but to savor. As if he’d never get this chance again. When he bared you fully to him, he stared. His lips parted. His eyes flashed.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered.
You reached for him—desperate to feel him bare too—but he caught your wrist, gently pinning it beside your head.
“Let me have you first,” he said. “Let me take my time.”
His head dipped between your legs.
You gasped—a raw sound, primal—as his tongue pressed flat against your cunt. Long, slow licks. Like he was memorizing you by taste. He groaned against you, the vibration making you cry out. His fingers spread you open. His mouth didn’t relent.
You gripped the stone floor, legs trembling. Whimpering his name.
He didn’t stop when you came the first time. Or the second. He held you open and devoured you, whispering broken praise in between.
“So sweet,” he muttered. “Never tasted anything like you.”
When he finally surfaced, his mouth and chin were slick. His eyes were wild.
He stripped in a blur—shirt shredded, belt undone, pants shoved down—and you got your first look at all of him. Pale, marred with scars, hard and ready and utterly beautiful.
Remmick knelt over you again, kissed you deep—let you taste yourself on his tongue—and groaned when you clawed at his back.
“Tell me how you want it,” he growled. “I’ll give you anything.”
You bit his bottom lip. “I want all of you.”
He aligned himself—slow, careful—and when he pressed into you, it was overwhelming. Stretching, burning, perfect.
You cried out, and he stilled, trembling.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You take me so well…fuck, you were made for me.”
And then he began to move.
He starts slow, but the weight of him is unbearable in the best fucking way—like he’s carved himself inside you and intends to stay.
Every deliberate roll of his hips stretches you open, wet and aching, your cunt already slick and clenching as he sinks in to the hilt over and over. The slow grind of his pelvis against yours is obscene, maddening, and all the more unbearable because he’s looking at you like you’re something holy. Like you’re the damn relic he’s been hunting. Like you’re the chapel.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters raggedly into your throat, voice tight and breaking, his forehead pressed against your cheek. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven. You know that?”
Your legs are locked around his hips, heels hooked together at the small of his back. You can feel every muscle in him shift with each thrust—deliberate, deep, dragging through your soaked pussy like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out.
He shifts up onto his knees so he can watch you take it. His hand slides between your thighs, thumb grazing your swollen clit, teasing circles that make your spine arch off the floor with a needy cry.
“There,” he grits, breath fogging as he watches your mouth fall open, “that’s it, girl. Just like that. You feel me?”
You nod, but it’s useless—you can’t speak, not with the way he’s fucking you now. Deeper. Harder. Still so slow, but decadent—like he’s savoring every single second your cunt clings around his cock.
The chapel groans around you both, beams shifting in the wind. Dust trickles from the rafters. But the only sound that matters is the wet slap of skin against skin, your slick noises echoing in the stone ruin with every thrust of his hips and the desperate little whimpers you can’t hold back.
“Didn’t think I’d ever get this,” he says, voice shredded, like it hurts to admit. “Didn’t think you’d let me. Thought I’d fuckin’ die wantin’ you.”
“You have me,” you rasp, fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders. “You have me now.”
That does something to him.
He swears under his breath and kisses you—hard. Tongue sweeping yours, swallowing your whimper, stealing your breath. His hips stutter. Then pick up pace. He starts fucking you for real now, not just slow, reverent rocking, but full-bodied thrusts that have your back scraping across his cloak, your thighs trembling around him, your pulse thrumming in your ears.
Your cunt is dripping, and it only eggs him on. He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder, folds you deeper, angle sharper. The next thrust punches the air out of your lungs.
“Goddamn, look at you,” he groans, voice wrecked, watching the way your body arches for him. “Mouth hangin’ open like a little fuckin’ doll, takin’ me like this.”
“Remmick—”
“Say it again.”
“Remmick,” you gasp, sobbing out his name now, “don’t stop, please don’t stop—”
He growls low and leans down, his teeth grazing your jaw as his cock drives deeper, harder, steadier. The sound of you squelching around him is filthy and loud, your arousal smearing down your thighs and slicking the base of his cock with every relentless thrust.
“You’re gonna come on my cock, aren’t you?” he grits. “That what you want? You want me to make this sweet little cunt come, baby?”
You can’t even answer.
You’re close, so close—that fluttering buildup making your thighs shake and your belly clench, heat coiling, rising, burning in your bloodstream like fire.
Remmick knows it too. He slides his hand back down and presses two fingers to your clit, rubbing tight circles that match his rhythm, his voice hot and desperate against your neck.
“Come on then,” he mutters. “Let me feel it. Want you to soak my cock. Show me you’re mine.”
That’s all it takes.
You break—thighs locking tight, cry torn from your throat, cunt spasming around him so hard it makes his breath catch. You’re gushing on him, stars popping behind your eyelids, whole body trembling as you shatter beneath him.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.
You’re still coming when he buries himself to the hilt, lets out a deep, wounded groan, and spills inside you—heat flooding your pussy in thick, pulsing waves, his hips twitching through every breathless thrust.
And even then, even as his mouth finds yours again in a breathless kiss, he doesn’t pull out.
The world is still when it ends.
A hush, like the chapel itself is holding its breath. As if even the ghosts that once lingered in the ruins have turned away to grant you a moment of peace.
You lie tangled together on the altar floor, your skin flushed and sticky, legs still wrapped loosely around his waist. Your thighs tremble in the aftermath, soft tremors echoing from somewhere deep in your core. His come spills out of you slowly with every exhale—thick, warm, spent—as he stays buried to the hilt inside you, his weight slumped against you like a blanket you never want to shed.
Remmick doesn’t move for a long time. He just breathes.
His head is buried in the crook of your neck, lips ghosting against your throat with every quiet, grounding inhale. You can feel the tension slowly bleeding from his shoulders. His hands still shake, even as one of them settles low on your stomach, splayed protectively. The other brushes tenderly against your jaw, his thumb catching the edge of your mouth like he’s tracing the curve of something sacred.
“You alright?” he murmurs finally, voice raw and hoarse.
You nod, too wrecked for words.
You feel more than alright. You feel full in a way you’ve never known. Like every piece of you that had once been hollow—all the parts that had withered and hardened under your father’s shadow, under the weight of cruelty and silence—have now been filled, stretched, stitched back together with the warmth of his body, the fire in his gaze.
You don’t know how long you lie there, tangled and silent. The air smells like dust, like rain coming. There’s ash in the distance, woodsmoke still drifting in thin ribbons through the broken rafters. But none of it touches you.
Here, in this ruin, you’ve been rebuilt.
Eventually, he lifts his head. Looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.
And he smiles—not wide, not crooked, but small. Soft. The kind of smile that feels like sunlight on bruised skin.
“Didn’t hurt ya, did I?” he asks, voice low, gentle.
You reach up, thumb brushing his damp hair from his face, fingers cupping his cheek. “No. You made me feel…” You pause. Swallow. “Like I’m not broken anymore.”
His breath hitches.
“You never were,” he whispers. “They just made you forget.”
He finally pulls out, slow and careful. You wince at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. His come trickles out of you in thick, wet drips down your thighs, but he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t recoil.
Instead, he lifts your leg and presses a soft kiss to the inside of your knee. Then another. And another. His hands trace lazy paths down your body like he’s mapping the shape of safety. Of home.
You reach for your clothes, but he stops you. Drapes his coat over your bare body instead. Then gathers your hair in his hands, palm smoothing over your head tenderly.
“Come on,” he murmurs after a while. “Let’s get you warm. You’ll sleep better with a fire.”
You let him help you up. Your knees wobble, but he steadies you without a word, pulling you close against his chest. His heartbeat thuds slow and steady beneath your ear—a rhythm you swear you’ll spend the rest of your life memorizing.
The town is gone. The chapel is empty. The world outside has been gutted and rebuilt in your image—razed to ash so something new can grow.
But this…this moment is untouched.
And as you both step outside hand in hand, blood long since dried and the earth soft beneath your feet, you know without speaking that you’ll never be alone again.
Not in this life.
Not in the next.
Not even in the grave.
Because he chose you. And you chose him. And the only thing left now is everything.
Summary: You've got a problem: you want your sort-of-boss. He has a terrible name, he's a retired hero, and you're pretty sure that your actual boss might have feelings for him, and yet you can't manage to get him out of your head. And the unexpected friendship you've made with him over lunch certainly isn't helping your case, either.
Content: 22.2k words. AFAB, female pronouns, 18+, MDI, reader is low-key a pervert (just a tad), she's down bad (so is Robert). Vampiric abilities. Canon typical swearing. They're both switches. Scent kink, voice kink, P in V, creampie, oral (f!receiving), cowgirl, male whimpering.
Notes: this is probably one of the most random characters to ever pull me from the dredges of writers block, but he's so depressed, I want him to wear me like a puppet. Divider made by @deltamel, gif made by @deadpoolian. Not fully proofread, but bear with me.
Part Two.
You should be paying attention. You should be working. There's a stack of mission reports on the table, piled up, almost four inches thick, unfiled, unsigned, waiting for you to finally put pen to paper and work through them, but you haven't even started yet. You should get to it while most of the details are still fresh inside your head, vivid enough for quick recall before they expire and become murky enough to cause you trouble. You can't get yourself to move though.
Your fingers tighten around the ballpoint pen in your hand, fitting in a tight squeeze around the plastic like the friction against your skin might save you. Like it might break you out of the trance you seem to be in. You aren't completely a lost cause. You aren't just blatantly staring like some kind of creep, you're only occasionally . . . staring. You do know how to compose yourself — if just barely.
The others would eat you alive if they could see you now. Chew you up and spit you out while laughing like a pack of demented hyenas. You could practically hear them cackling, voices overlapping and echoing in a brutal delight. Not that you would entirely blame them. You'd probably do the same if you were looking at yourself from the other perspective.
You've had a lot of low points in your life, but this might just be a new one. You've officially hit rock bottom . . . or blown right through it and plummeted into the molten core of hell. This is undoubtedly pathetic. You have a crush on a guy named Robert Robertson for fuck's sake — though even referring to it as a crush is somehow arguably worse than his actual name.
It's all so lame. It feels so immature, miles away from anything that should exist within your life. Too fluffy, too naïve; feelings that bubble and fizzle it inside your stomach. All pink-hued and blushed. The sort of emotions that go along with bouquets and innocent pecks on the cheek, not for someone who's broken bones. Felt ribs and jaws shatter beneath the strike of their fists, split jugulars between the cut of their teeth to taste the blood. Killed and mauled, robbed life after life just to dull the ache in their belly.
You don't do flowery and sweet. It's a shoe that doesn't fit. There are certain lines that not even you will cross, and this has to be one of them. He's you're boss — technically. Not that the power imbalance and the possible HR violation it comes strapped with bothers you. You have a criminal record. The idea of a fling with your superior doesn't exactly induce fear in you, but the warmth, the heat that settles over you, a blanket that swaddles and holds whenever you see him, kind of does.
It's off. Different, somehow. Unusual in a way that you can't quite place. A scattered jigsaw, meant to create an image that's familiar, but the pieces are interspersed and broken up into an unrecognizable mess. Chaotic and jumbled.
God, you hate it.
And now you're tucked away in the break room, holding onto the fraying threads of your sanity with pure desperation, because of course he's here too. And you're only in here because SDN is about as cheap as they come and they couldn't be bothered to supply the entire Z-Team with your own cubicles or designated workspaces. There's only a handful of members who actually have their own desks, and you aren't one of the lucky ones.
But the execs are just waiting on all of you to give them a reason to pull the plug on the whole Phoenix Program, some kind of slip up grave enough to give them a reason to throw you all back on to the street (or at worst, prison) and wash their hands clean of you. It makes sense that they wouldn't be willing to supply your team with any proper funding. You're the basement kids of the entire organization, let out reluctantly and donated hand-me-downs from dead heroes.
You should have just taken the files back home with you and finished them up there. Or blown them off all together. You've done it before, probably more times than you can count. So much so that you've developed a reputation for not being dependable for it, always turning in your paperwork weeks after the deadline, or not at all. But you — holy shit, it's humiliating to admit — but you actually want to get it done because Robert's been pressing the team about finishing up their reports on time, and you want to — what? Make him happy? Proud?
But now you can hardly even focus on the pages in front of you, because he's sitting at the table directly across from yours and you're crudely hyperaware of that fact. It's awkward. Stifling in the sense that you feel as though you're being choked, the kind of pressure that prickles up your back when you're being observed at by someone unseen. A hyperaware weight. Nerves prickling and humming. You're too conscious of the way your shoulders draw in, hunching up like you're trying to shield yourself from an oncoming blow.
You can't stop yourself from muttering, cursing low in a strained "Shit" under your breath. He's completely in his own world, chewing on a bite of those shitty mini chocolate cakes from the vending machine (they taste like the plastic they're packaged in), staring down at his phone. Scrolling disinterestedly, eyes flat and tired. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, probably at home, in bed if the dark bags under his eyes are anything to judge by.
(The things you'd give to see that. You wonder if he sleeps shirtless. Just in his boxers. Or in nothing at all.)
— Focus, focus, focus.
You can smell him, and you can't focus. His scent permeates the air, brushing against the four walls, probably undetectable to anyone else with duller (normal) senses, but to you it's intense. As though someone had soaked a cloth with it and pressed it directly against your nose. It's a myriad of fragrances, textured, lived in. You can smell the shampoo he uses, unremarkable, clean smelling but ordinary. The detergent on his clothes, artificial in its perfume. Subtly floral, possibly meant to be lavender or jasmine, but the chemicals are too strong to properly produce the notes.
But underneath all of the that, warmed by the heat of his skin, is salt and sweat. Grease, and the traces metal, all fabricating together to make something that is just distinctly him. Natural. Human. It makes your mouth water, your gums ache with the urge to bite, saliva pooling within the gentle cradle of your tongue. You want to taste him.
—You need to pick up more gum on the way home.
You're thankful for how he seems to be oblivious. Though you probably have to thank that for your sunglasses, still seated on your nose, shaded lenses keeping your line of sight a mystery to anyone else who might be looking at you. You'd worn them only to stave of a migraine that the light could possibly produce, but they prove useful in other ways. If Robert were to glance up right now and make direct eye contact, he'd be none the wiser. All he'd see are two blank black pools, reflecting the sunlight streaming through the window blinds in pale golden rivulets, reflective, blocking out the shape of your eyes. With the way your neck is bent downward, he probably thinks you're occupied staring at the files. The same files you really should be filling out.
You should have just taken them home with you, that though looms over you again, sour with regret. But in your defense, you didn't think that he'd show up here. It's pushing 4:30 by now; you thought he'd be caught up doing whatever duties he has being dispatch. You don't know much about the job, but he has to have some kind of end-of-the-day tasks that need attending to . . . preferably far, far away from here.
Now you're second guessing everything. You practically have a heap of files to work through, at least twenty different folders, about eighty-five percent of which are older than four months. The due dates technically long expired.
You've put off a lot of work.
"You know, it helps if you actually use the pen to put the words down on the paper. You move your hand around a bit, and the pen makes ink, the ink makes words. That's generally how that works." It's delivered in that usual monotone as always, tone deep, just a little husky. Lightly graveled in a way that never fails to send a warm tremble soaking down the shape of your spine. Skipping over each individual notch, a thrumming glide. If this is what his regular tone does to you, you're pretty sure his morning voice would turn you into braindead puddle.
But regardless of how hot he is, you can't keep yourself from bristling at the comment. "No shit," you snap, tilting your chin down even further to openly glare at him from over the edge of your sunglasses. Realistically, you can't get too pissed at him for using sarcasm or being exasperated. Z-Team isn't the easiest to work with, and you definitely aren't exempt from that. You aren't ignorant to how uncooperative you all are, if not downright combative. You all make things difficult in your own way, stubbornly digging your heals into the earth just for the sake of making things complicated, kicking and screaming the whole way just to stir up trouble.
He's obviously tired. Dealing with you lot all alone has to be heavy weight. Juggling nine ex-villains is far from simple, and you're sure that Blazer doesn't always make things painless with how uptight and corporate she can get. She's practically the poster child for good behavior, eager to please the higher up and earn a gold star for her efforts. To be praised and lifted up on a pedestal.
Well, maybe you're just the pot calling the kettle black given the circumstances. You're literally doing paperwork just to please a guy who hardly gives you a second glance. You're just another pain in the ass for him. Another villain to rehabilitate. An evil to change and alter. Something that needs fixing.
"That sounds about right," he huffs. He hasn't even looked up from his phone, thumb hovering over the screen in between periodically swiping upwards. He doesn't sound defeated, like he's giving up, just ragged. Drained. There's no fight because he's come to expect the resistance. He's learned to pick his battles with the team, and it seems that he's deemed this one a fruitless venture. Undeserving of any true push back.
The exhaustion underneath his eyes is dark. Vaguely lilac, like aging bruises. You can visibly see the weariness in his posture, slumped over, elbows propped on the table like he needs it to keep himself from keeling over. You don't know why, but it does something to you to see him like this. It hits you in your center, a place that's hidden and too soft. It cracks the scowl on your face apart, a mask shattering and slipping from its perch, leaving only the concerned expression beneath exposed.
Again, you have to send out a thankful prayer to the universe that you were still wearing your sunglasses when he had walked in. It gives you a barrier between you and him, enough to hide what might be something close to remorse showing through your gaze.
"No, you're right," you relent with a sigh. "I need to get this done. I've been blowing this off for long enough, and all I did was make more work for myself. I should have known that it would come back to bite me on the ass."
You hate how a part of you preens under the genuine surprise that shows on his face, the thick shape of his brows lifting up like he can't believe what he's hearing. Like he could be happy. Proud even. The ghost of the smile that lifts at his mouth is worst of all. There's a little laugh that comes with it, small, barely there, but your ears pick it up. A fleeting scrap of joyful relief or shock, because you're actually apologizing, but it has your chest aching no matter how brief, butterflies tracing along the shape of your ribcage, because you're responsible for that. You lifted a burden, no matter how small or insignificant.
"If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure Flambae's got an entire filing cabinet worth of paperwork that he needs to get done — not that he ever will. So consider yourself one of the lucky ones."
"It does just a little bit." You smile in return, though it's probably something closer to a smirk, at Bae's expense. It's small, whatever passes between you two. Delicate, new, soft-edged. If you could hold it, it would probably fall apart in your palms, fine dust and paper-thin shards. And it's sweet. Too sweet for you. Cozy, as though you and Robert could be considered something like friends, and not only co-workers, simple and uncomplicated, tied together by only an impersonal schedule, but more. You could imagine.
But now he's getting up, the metal legs of his chair scraping across the tiles as he shoves it back with his weight to straighten to his full height. He grabs his phone, slipping it into his back pocket. He takes the empty packaging from his snack up too, crumpling it up into a plastic ball within his palm.
You pretend that you aren't paying attention to him anymore, returning the angle of your head back downward to stare at the files, but you aren't reading a single word. Letting your vision skip back over the ink over and over again while you listen to him walk over to the trashcan to discard the wrapper, the soles of his shoes whispering across the floor with each step.
"Hey," he calls, and like an excited dog, your head shifts on its own accord, tugged on an invisible rope to look to him. He's standing in the doorway now. A hand clasped around the knob, but he's watching you from over his shoulder, and the warm shade of his eye seems to glimmer from the light trickling into the room. "Thanks, for at least trying to get that done. I know it's pretty low effort stuff, but you've shown more initiative than most of the team, so . . . I appreciate it."
And then he's gone in blink, the door closing behind him with a gentle click, and your heart feels as though it's going to explode inside of your chest. You aren't sure if it's possible to overdose on your own adrenaline, or oxytocin, or what other chemicals go into making your nerves feel as though they're electrified, brain fuzzy and dopey, but you think that you might be the first person in history to do it.
He'd hardly even complemented you. He explicitly said what you're doing bare minimum, and yet you couldn't stop the warmth that engulfs your body, dancing beneath your skin. That modicum of praise was water flowing down your throat. A crumb of food given to a beggar, small, petty, and yet your mouth still waters for it.
You're truly pathetic. You're also completely fucked.
At first, in the beginning, you didn't think much of Robert. Z-Team has had countless other dispatchers in the past. The majority of which, lasted less than a full shift. The record for the quickest leave had to have been when one had left only two hours in. You never met the guy — kid? He sounded young — personally, but you had known as soon as you heard his voice, rigid and textbook, that he wouldn't last. Sometimes he would wobble between hesitating before he spoke, or bulldozing directly over everyone else, determined to prove himself, and the group had grabbed onto that little show of inconsistency and ran with it.
He'd been talked over relentlessly, too scared or frustrated to try and rope you all back into order. You think that it had all become too much for him when Invisigal had called him a "dumb bitch" more than once, and Prism had taken to making fun of the man's voice, pitching her own up into a thin warble to mock. But the catalyst, the final straw was probably when Flambae threatened to find out his address and set his house on fire.
No one seemed to survive the team for long. It was something you all kept in mind, just how much you could provoke and nudge before they'd ultimately break and go running for the hills. But Robert hadn't. For whatever reason, he had stayed. He was stubborn. Latching onto you all like a dog, teeth burrowed in and jaw clenched tight. It's like he has something to prove. To someone specific, or just to himself, you aren't quite sure yet. But whatever the reason, you're glad that he did.
When you first heard his voice over comms, you didn't think much of him. You were actually too busy laughing over the absurdity of his name to pay much attention to him. Chuckling and ridiculing alongside everyone else. But once the jokes had worn off, you did your best to listen to his orders when he dispatched you out to take care of emergencies. Mostly low level stuff, like tracking down a family's lost dog and apprehending a creepy van full of kidnappers — though you didn't listen to his orders too well on that one. In your defense though, he only said that you weren't allowed to kill them, nothing was stated about breaking a couple of bones. They were all still alive by the time the ambulance showed and the police arrived to the scene.
Besides, the college girl they had snatched had been thankful, and that's all that really mattered, right?
But somewhere along the way, you had actually started to anticipate hearing him. It really was that damn voice. It was difficult not to grow attached when you hear it constantly, nearly every day, giving orders, extending advice when needed. Pressed close inside of your ear, kept there by the plastic weight of the comms device, purring in a smooth baritone. You got hooked on it before you had even realized it.
It snuck up on you, circled around your feet and sunk beneath your skin. Deep. Down in your blood and into your marrow. You didn't realize how much you hung off of every word he spoke before it was too late, and now you're left to scramble with the discovery. To try and deal with the aftermath of it. You aren't doing very well so far.
You try not to be obvious. Any time there's a meeting, you try to sit as far away from him as possible. You look anywhere else but him, passing glances in his direction only when its necessary. Instead, you're usually staring at a wall, or whatever documents might have been passed around amongst the team. You study productivity reports, mission evaluations, rereading the paragraphs so obsessively that you probably have them all memorized by now, printed across your frontal lobe. You pretend to be bored, uninterested with the corporate droning that comes out of Robert's mouth whenever he berates the team for slip-ups or a costly mishap.
You try not to get close to him, but its next to impossible when your paths are set to cross daily. You try to remind yourself to remain clinical, detached. And yet you struggle to distance yourself from your emotions. They churn and toss and throw themselves against the flimsy barriers you've constructed against them, wild and illogical. Burrowed deep into you like feeding parasites.
Nothing has been able to snuff out what you feel. Not even the way she looks at him. You think that she tries to be professional (emphasis on 'try'), but it's there, naked and clear for anyone who isn't a complete moron to notice. Ever since she broke things off with Phenomaman, it's been blatant. Clear as day. She looks at Robert with a light in her eyes, alive and electric. It's kind of hard to blame her when the chemistry between her and Phenomaman had been . . . lacking, to say the least.
You've seen more sexual attraction between cousins. Watching them try to banter and flirt was a little pitiful. There was always this tension between the surface, and not the good kind. Awkward, stiff, like two lifeless dolls smacking up against each other, plastic clacking together. You're pretty sure that their relationship was company orchestrated. Manufactured to boost popularity. It's not a farfetched theory considering that Blazer had not so subtly insinuated that a fake relationship between you and another villain — ex-villain — might help humanize you to the public. You were quick to shut the proposition down with a very firm "fuck no." Thankfully, she hasn't brought it up again.
You can't bother to get angry that she might have feelings for Robert, or that maybe, he might like her back too. They make sense, you suppose. The both of them being heroes and all. Representatives of societies best attributes, pinnacles of humanity.
You are far from that. You've done things that couldn't be forgotten, committed sins that wouldn't be washed from your hands no matter how furiously you scrubbed. Despite all of that, Robert still looks at you as though you're worth saving. Like you aren't just a statistic, a possible success story to be written about on blogs and magazines. The higher ups of SDN don't care about you — any of you. Not really.
Your team is on life support as is, and they're just waiting to pull the plug on the entire operation. But Robert showed up, walked into all of your lives one day, and he's been here ever since. Persistent, stubborn. Hoping, even though he probably shouldn't, that you'll all change for the better. When he stares at you, you think that he might actually see something that's not completely irreparable. Something worth saving.
Despite your best attempts to keep away from Robert, going through great lengths to maintain a professional dynamic, you nosedived in that venture with a startling speed. It started in the break room, the single place where the universe seemed determined to draw you two together. You were taking advantage of your free thirty minutes, eating your way through the half of the left-over burrito you had in your fridge from last night. You splurged on takeout, ordered a dish of double burritos, but you hadn't even been able to make it through one before your low appetite had finally reared its head and kept you from finishing it off. The rest of it had been swapped inside Tupperware for a tighter seal and stored in your fridge for later.
You were working through the remaining half from last night, taking bite after bite in sluggish chews when a soft sigh caught your attention. You focus flickered over to the left side of the room where Robert was standing, looking indecisive and disappointed with the selection of junk food offered. From what you could tell, his eating habits left a lot to be desired. Every time you've managed to see him having lunch or a snack, it was always something that was total garbage. A bag of fun-sized chips, or Twinkies, or those awful chocolate cupcakes, maybe a sandwich or old pizza slices if he was feeling especially famished. You aren't sure how his body hasn't collapsed from lack of nutrients alone.
You were completely unsurprised to watch him press in a code onto the keypad of the vending machine, the coil inside shifting to release a pack of those familiar golden Hostess cakes. You rolled your eyes, tracking him as he walked over to the vacant table to take a seat before glancing back down at your own food. You still had one burrito left, untouched in the corner of the plastic container, and you really didn't think your stomach could handle any more food. You were at your limit. Another bite would have your gut busting, nausea bubbling at the back of your throat, and it would go from indulging in a simple pleasure to a complete discomfort.
You stole another cursory glance at him, roving over the shape of his back, the slouch of his head, the motion of his hands gently tearing the plastic packing open. A terrible meal. Fucking Twinkie's for lunch.
Your body had made a decision for you. Before you realized it, you were lifting yourself out from the seat, picking up the Tupperware as you went. You didn't think as you approached him. He was oblivious, back facing you. He didn't look up until you sat it down in front of him, settling it down right beside the remaining cake that he'd yet to eat. It was only then that he saw you, eyes darting up, brows lifted in a silent question while he tried to chew the food in his mouth, wiping at the bit of vanilla filling around his lips.
"Your diet is terrible." You said it as though that was explanation enough. To you it was.
"Uh, thanks. I know," he answered, still confused.
"It's a burrito. Some of my leftovers. You can have it, if you want; I don't really eat all that much at a single time. Not regular food, anyway."
"I didn't know you could eat regular food," he replied, drawing the container closer, nudging the Twinkie out of the way with its breadth. He scanned it inquisitively, like maybe he was worried you had poisoned it, but he couldn't hide the visible hunger that had crossed his face. It made you smile, amused, and a little proud, maybe.
"Yeah, I can. In small doses." You clarified. "Too much can make me feel a little sick. Anyway, I just thought I'd offer. You don't have to eat it if you don't want to, it's not gonna hurt my feelings. Promise I won't cry if you throw it away."
He blinked, but his lips curled, a suggestion of mirth. "I'd at least wait until you left the room before I tossed it. But no, thanks, I appreciate it."
"Sure." You shrugged like it didn't matter, but warmth seeped within your chest, light, shifting, as though the sun had expanded behind your lungs. And then you left without sparing another word. But that day had marked a shift in your relationship. A small one. You'd almost forgotten the entire experience, and then a week later he gave you a wrapped sub during your lunch break. Unprompted and unexpectedly. It was your favorite one, from the little mom and pop deli just down the street; the same shop that you typically frequent from the convenience of its proximity to the SDN building. Baked Italian herb, plenty of dressings to keep it from being too dry, plump with seasoned chicken and vegetables. It's your usual order. The one you get almost obsessively, but there's no way he would be able to know that.
You had scoffed, out of disbelief rather than scorn or upset. "How did you...? "
"I asked Mal." He admitted it like it was nothing, and maybe it wasn't supposed to be. It was probably just his way of getting even, to keep himself from feeling like he owed you for the burrito. But rather or not it was intentioned to, the exchange had begun a sort of ritual. Whenever your schedules allowed, you would both spend your breaks together. It went undiscussed, but you would both rotate between who would bring lunch. Sometimes it was just meals brought from your respective homes — typically leftovers. Though more often than not, you had found yourself beginning to leave the SDN building for lunch, frequenting the restaurants and cafes nearby. So much so that you had started being recognized by the staff of said establishments.
But some of your favorite lunch-time rendezvous were the ones that happened up on the rooftop of SDN. They were calm, private, and you didn't have to worry about any co-workers walking in and making assumptions. You'd spend more time talking rather than eating, and more often than not, you'd end up with a full meal left over, enough for you to save for dinner if you still felt the desire to eat a regular meal.
You would talk about whatever came to mind. You'd sit with your backs to the cluster of satellite dishes, hidden from the sun underneath the cover of their colossal shadows. Mostly for your sake rather than his. Thirty minutes spent in the sun wouldn't kill you, and it wasn't a long enough period to sap your energy, especially not with your suit on, protecting most of your skin. But you liked to keep your mask off, and having to squint against the sun would get annoying. More embarrassingly, you also didn't like having to looking at him through the polarized lenses built into the eyeholes.
The tint on the see-through plastic washed him of his true shades. It made the chestnut color of his hair murky, a little washed out. It dulled the brown hue of his eyes, turned them cool and vaguely gray-toned. It was such a small insignificant thing, and you couldn't stand it. You refused to wear your mask or your sunglasses during your lunch breaks with him, even with the glare of the sun beating down on the concrete and asphalt of the parking lot below and the roof, reflecting back into your vision, annoyingly bright.
But the blaze of it, the dull sting would pale into an afterthought whenever you talked to him. For a few minutes, the world would fall away entirely. It wasn't so serious anymore. You both would prattle on about anything. Petty gossip, old rivals, music, which would make you bicker and joke about the other's tastes in bands. You learned that he had a hard time watching movies with mechs, and a brief mention of Chrome Defenders had him going on a tangent about why the piloted robots were so unrealistic. Why they would never work, how the combat depicted was all wrong, the physics off.
You weren't even a fan of the film despite it being so popular. You just wanted to get a reaction out of him, and it definitely had.
"You do know it was all fake right? A bunch of CGI and practical effects," you teased, nudging him with the point of your elbow.
"I know, but if you're going to try and trick me into believing what's on screen, you could at least do a little homework first. You can't piss on me and tell me it's rain. I mean — what the hell was that mech called?" He'd snapped his fingers together, once, twice, three times in a row like it might help him catch the name. "Reaper!" He'd shouted in success. "Where they put the thrusters on its design, there's no way it would be able to get airborne. It'd get, like, maybe five meters off the ground before hurtling back down again."
But not all of your conversations were always so lighthearted.
"Why did you do it?" he asked one day, delivered in between a bite of lo mien. "All the crimes. The theft, the murders."
You didn't answer right away. You let the question hang there between you, long enough for it to sink in, saturating the moment with all its weight and layers. It wasn't exactly unwelcome, just unexpected.
"You don't have to answer that." He'd tensed a little, as though he'd only just realized what he said, fingers flexing around the white paper to-go container in his hold like if he squeezed it hard enough, he could turn back time. Start over again.
"I know," you replied.
"Really. I shouldn't have asked—"
"No, it's okay," you reassured. You supposed it was a fair exchange, considering you knew his secret. Though that hadn't been intentional. Your hearing isn't nearly as sensitive as Galen's, but it's still keen enough that you had unintentionally eavesdropped on a private conversation between Blazer and Robert when you had been passing by her office, picking up fragmented bits of their exchange, about a suit, about Mecha Man. You put the pieces together pretty quickly, and once you had the knowledge, you weren't able to keep it from him, giddy like a kid who saw something they shouldn't.
You let him know randomly one day, dropped it like a nuke in the middle of an empty conference room. You were the first to arrive to the meeting, slipping into the chair closest to where he was standing at the head of the table when you told him. "A little word of advice Mecha Man, there are a lot of people in this place with good hearing, so if you're trying to keep your identity a secret, you should learn to be conscious of when and where you're talking about it."
He had looked like he could have shit himself. Once the temporary shock had worn off, he practically interrogated you, demanding to know how you heard. You caught the muttered, "Jesus Christ, does everyone here know who I am?" to himself as he paced. But you had promised him then that you wouldn't blab to anybody. And you wouldn't.
"I may have killed people before Robert, but I'm not a complete asshole," you had told when he'd looked you over skeptically. And you weren't lying. You liked engaging in gossip as much as the next person, but you weren't the type to snitch over anything serious. And Robert, unlike any of the dispatchers before him, had earned your respect. And your respect wasn't worthless.
But being privy to his old identity still hadn't made talking about yourself any easier. You were nudging at an eggroll with the point of your finger, watching it wobble on the styrofoam, detached and temporarily mute as you tussled with your past. It's always quiet up on the roof, save for the wind, and the occasional rumble of traffic carried in on its currents. The type of silence that makes everything feel clandestine, secret. For the first time, you didn't know what to do with that kind of hush. The pressure of it that had transformed from peaceful to uncertain. Shaken.
"Believe me, I ask myself the same question a lot." The confession came out taut, the exhaustion evident in the inflections of your voice. He turned his head to properly face you, but you couldn't meet his gaze. You scattered your own attention everywhere else, scanning the textures of the city, the sunlight caught in shimmers reflected from the windshields of cars and windows of apartment buildings and skyscrapers; the distant mountains in the far horizon, a flat jagged stretch of lavender. "The first guy I killed wasn't on purpose. I was young. Twelve. I wasn't supposed to be outside of the house, for that specific reason. He was just walking. Some regular guy, probably heading home from work, or the corners store or some shit. Wrong place at the wrong time."
But it hadn't been the wrong place or the wrong time. Not for him. You weren't supposed to be there. You shouldn't have been outside at all. But your dad had been late with your food. The nurse that he had been buying donated blood from had severed ties with him suddenly, cut him out with little notice or explanation. Maybe he had gotten caught, been discovered by another co-worker that he had been illegally selling blood off, stealing from the hospital he worked at for cash. But it didn't matter why he had ghosted your father and seemingly dropped off the face of the planet without warning, your dad was left to deal with the aftermath.
He had you to feed. He'd been panicking, stretched thin by the demands of your biology, and he'd been out all day trying to find an alternative. You'd been living off of animal blood for a week, provided by some butcher shop. But the blood of pigs and cows and chickens would only suppress your hunger for so long, and he knew that. It nullified the ache in your gut, cavernous, gnawing, for only a brief time. A very narrow period. And he had been out God knows where trying to find you what you really needed. Human. Rich. Nutritious. Impossible to obtain. It led him down into dark places, rusted warehouses, seedy underbellies; rooms where blood smeared the cold walls, where harvested organs were sold to the highest bidder; red on concrete.
You had tried to quell the hunger pangs by eating the regular food he gave you before he left, but it was as good as junk. PB and J's, crackers, left-over steak from the other night. It was useless. As satisfying as chewing a pack of gum for breakfast, all flavor and no substance. But you gorged yourself on it all, forcing yourself to swallow down the mouthfuls past the rise of nausea. Panting through the sickness that churned in your stomach, oil-slick and bitter at the back of your throat.
You can't clearly remember when you lost yourself to it. Succumbing to the agony wracking your body. But you know that you had broken free, ripped the chain that he had clasped around your ankle from the basement wall, bolts tugging loose from the drywall without a fight. You remember shuffling down the street. It was dark out. Nightfall. The shrill screech of iron dragged across the asphalt behind you, scratching inside your ears, chain rattling.
You aren't sure how long it had been before you found him. Seconds, minutes, hours. But you were staring at him while he shuffled down the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette as he went, and then in a blink your teeth had been in his throat. Tearing, vicious. An animal.
When you came to, you were being carried, swaddled in a protective embrace and a familiar scent. The light of streetlamps blossomed across the street, a nasty yellow splash of color in the dark, trembling from the pace of the unsteady, frantic gait of the person carrying you. Iron was wet and warm on your tongue, smeared on your mouth. A dog with a cruor-soaked maw, gore from the rabbit.
A man's voice trembled in your ear. Soothing. Terrified. Your father.
"It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. You didn't mean it. You didn't mean it."
Your body had rejoiced, finally satiated. The hollow pit in your stomach finally buried. You cried into his neck.
You never blamed your dad for the way that he handled your appetite. It's hereditary, your condition, but it hadn't manifested inside of your family tree since your great grandmother. He grew up normal. Regular. So did his brother and sister, and their own kids. They got to go to football practices, ballet recitals, have neighborhood potlucks without worry, without struggling to hide some abnormal secret.
You played with dolls, too, just like any other kid. You held tea parties for your stuffed animals, made them drink invisible tea from plastic cups, but you always knew, deep down, that you weren't quite right.
You sighed, shifted your weight, trying to shake off the self-consciousness that attempted to cling to you, to the moment. Robert hadn't made anymore attempts to touch his food. He was engrossed your words, in you, watching like he didn't want to miss a thing. It could have made you feel unbearably awkward, but there was a sincerity in his expression that kept the atmosphere from turning sour. It wasn't performative, or insincere. It was warm, a sunlight that didn't hurt.
"When I first started killing, it was abusive ex-lovers, a few Herbert the perverts, human traffickers, crooked cops. I figured if I was going to live with myself, with . . . the constant fucking hunger, I might as well as make it useful." A plane flew somewhere overhead, its engine droning over the quiet in a noisy crawl. "And then somewhere along the line, people found out about me, through rumors, speculations on the street. They'd offer cash. For hits. Assassinations — whatever you want to call it. For politicians, cheating husbands, mafia bosses. I took the money."
You sighed, tension leaving you with the exhale, shoulders relaxing like wax softening under heat. "I had a really nice condo. A deck with a full skyline view, a walk-in closet. A pool. It was pretty nice." Your mouth pressed, making a scowl. But then you had stopped taking hits, accepting money, held back by the guilt. You weren't completely stupid; you did save a large sum of it, hid it away far beyond the governments sight. It's enough to keep you comfortable for a very long time, if you play your cards right, stashed away for emergencies. Just in case shit ever hits the fan and you have to book it.
It was with the income that you started to receive from SDN that you moved into your new apartment. It's humble, but in a decent neighborhood, and the condition it was in when you were first given a tour by the landlord was good considering the state of most places in Torrance. You couldn't be picky.
"Yeah, that's pretty rough," he agreed. You could see him wince outside the vignette of your vision like he wanted to kick himself for the lack of complexity in his response. His guilt apparent in the tick of his jaw. "But you had all of that. Success, wealth. What made you give it all up?"
Because you couldn't stand to look at yourself in the mirror. Because when you went to sleep at night, all you would dream of was screaming; wide, panicked eyes. The men, the women, and children, people close to the victims you had slaughtered. Most innocent despite their associations with your targets but harmed by the damage you had done.
But you couldn't say all of that. So you settled. "After a while, you just get tired of all the killing."
"For what it's worth — I mean, I know I'm pretty much just some random asshole— " you smiled at that, the first time in the past ten minutes "— but you did the right thing. It doesn't absolve you of the harm you've done. The pain you might have caused. But you're trying to make a change, and I think that's worth something."
He said it with conviction, as though it were an undisputable fact. An absolute. When you looked to him again, he was already observing you. His stare unyielding, the rich shades of his eyes, a wealth of amber and umber and rust, blazing in the coruscating flare of the sun.
Yeah, you knew then that you wouldn't be able to stay away from him.
You should have known that the team would find out eventually. You suppose you weren't exactly subtle. It didn't matter that your interactions were innocent. Just two people finding some kind of solace, companionship in each other. But no one talks more shit than Z-Team, and it was only a matter of time before gossip was swirling around the workplace like a flesh-eating disease.
You knew something was up when you walked into the building one morning. The ride up in the elevator had been strange, the two heroes standing beside you kept passing each other glances that they thought you couldn't see. You had chalked it up to the regular bullshit, heroes talking and jeering because you were an ex-villain. None of them particularly had faith in Z-Team. It wasn't a secret, and you didn't care.
And then the tall one who looked suspiciously similar to Ernie from Sesame Street lifted up his thick hands, shaping his fingers together to make the crude imitation of a dick thrusting into a hole.
You weren't usually the type to entertain gossip, but something about the smug expression on both of their faces had really dug under your skin.
You had crowded into their space, abrupt enough that they both had jerked back like they'd been struck, crowding against the wall of the elevator from the shock. Your fangs bared instinctively, irritation causing them to flash when your mouth twisted up into a snarl. "If either of you have something to say about me then at least you could do is have the balls to mention it to my face."
The rest of the ride up was uneventful. You had to chew gum hard to ignore the urge to bite, adding strip after strip to give yourself something plush to sink your teeth into. You hoped the sound of it smacking in your mouth was annoying to them, childishness be damned. If it was, they didn't speak up. They kept to themselves, no longer chattering like a pair of obnoxious old ladies. But they weren't the only ones. You noticed the cursory looks, the way that some people would try and covertly peek over the tops of their cubicles as you passed. There was a myriad of different emotions displayed: amusement, surprise. Most were salacious. Alight with perversion, like a bunch of creeps trying to spy inside someone's window, drooling at the prospect of seeing something they shouldn't.
You connected the dots pretty easily. Someone had blabbed, spread a rumor, and you were willing to put money on it being Visi or Flambae. Maybe Prism. Possibly Malevola. Honestly, it could have been just about anyone on the entire team, and you had no real way of knowing.
But your suspicions were just that. Suspicions.
You smelt her long before you saw her, ozone and wind and expensive presume, fresh and flowery. You walked for as long as you could, as though you might just be able to evade her, but Blazer seemed to materialize within your trajectory, cutting you off from your path with her body. Her hands were raised, as though she were trying to appease a dangerous animal, eyes soft. "Hey, Nosferata. I hate to jump you like this so early, I know you just got in, but I've been hearing some rumors swirling around the workplace lately, and I—"
"I'm not fucking Robert." You said bluntly, stepping around her to carry on. She followed, as persistent as ever, trailing behind your heels like a shadow.
"Oh, that's great — well, not great necessarily. It's just that these sorts of things require a lot of paperwork. HR has to get involved—"
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, sucking down a spike of jealousy, unwanted and searing, making the pulse of it burn. You hated the way she almost sounded relieved to hear that nothing was happening between you two. Like she was happy with the news. It made some petty part of you tempted to lie about the whole thing, maybe backtrack and say that, yes, you and Robert actually were hooking up. You'd love to see the way her face would probably crumble, how she'd struggle to put on that plastic, unruffled veneer. But you wouldn't do that. Not to Robert. Instead, you just listened, hearing the repeated, thump, thump, thump of her footsteps pattering after you, as grating as nails on a chalk board.
"Yeah, don't worry. We aren't 'fraternizing,' or anything so you can spare me the corporate interrogation, alright." You almost regretted being rude, but that little interaction in the elevator had already put you on edge, and her hounding you wasn't helping matters. You don't hate Blazer. You really don't. But jealousy is like a sickness, and unfortunately, it's already in your blood stream, brutal and illogical.
Her voice had drifted after you, a low, "Sure, I just needed to check," like she'd stopped following, and was just watching you leave. You didn't turn to check, but the gradual loss of her scent let you know that she was gone.
You were thankful for her absence. It meant you were able to locate Robert's cubicle without her being there to make things weird. Or weirder. You were relieved despite the circumstances to see him, seated at his desk. He had probably just got in. His headset wasn't on yet, untouched on the corner of the countertop, right next to a cup of steaming coffee.
He didn't have time to register you were there before you blurted out the sentence that you'd been carrying like a hot coal in your mouth. "Just a heads up, people think we're fucking."
His head jerked up, mouth agape as he took you in. Clearly astounded . . . or horrified. "What— why, where did that come from? Why would anyone think that?"
Your eyebrows perked as you hitched an arm up to prop it on the corner of the cubicle's panel, features morphing into a caricature of mock offense, but the smirk toying with your mouth must have made your true delight more than obvious. You always loved to tease him. He looks adorable when you actually manage to fluster him, when the impassive way he carries himself fractures around the edges and reveals flushed cheeks and stuttered breaths. You're probably a little sick for it, but it makes satisfaction smolder in your belly, molten, a little zealous.
Sometimes (all the time), you wished you could bite him. Not out of sadism, some desire for him to be in pain, but just to feel him. To have the weight of him pressed against the edges of your teeth, cradled safely within your mouth, all warmth and a heartbeat.
"Wow, is the idea of having sex with me really that horrible?" you pouted in your faux outrage.
"That's not what I meant— no, it wouldn't be ho— " He sucked in a breath, stilling himself like he was preparing what he was going to say next carefully. Balancing his words as deliberately as stones. "That's not what I meant. I just don't understand why anyone would think that."
You shrugged, then crouched down to pat the top of Beef's head who had waddled out from behind Chase's cubicle. He wagged his tail in greeting, tongue lolling dumbly out of his mouth. His fur was soft, well taken care off, glossy underneath the fluorescents. "We hang out a lot. People are bored. It passes the time. I just figured you'd like the heads up because I'm sure that the team is absolutely going to be talking loads of shit today."
He sighed, already defeated. "Great."
The team did indeed talk shit that shift. And the shift after that, and the shift after that. He'd addressed it only a handful of times but quickly threw in the towel. He was pretty well adept at recognizing what was a lost cause in terms of Z-Team, and this was one of them. Bae had taken to calling you uncreative nicknames like Mrs. Bob Bob. He also accused you of sleeping with Robert to work your way up the ranks. That comment had earned him a broken nose. He had the bruise for days.
Mal and Invisigal and Prism would prod and poke at you, trying to dig up dirt on your nonexistent sex life with him, like if he was vanilla or not. What kind of positions he enjoyed, if he could make you come. Visi asked if he whimpered, a question that you yourself have actually pondered. Many nights. In your bed. With your vibrator.
You probably need to be neutered. Or just put down. That would probably make more sense. You've imagined your boss in positions that no one should picture their boss in, but the fantasies always seem to creep in, late at night when you're alone and your thoughts are idle. They manage to slink in, fueled by the fire beneath your skin, the ache between your legs. It never takes long before your restraint crumbles and you've got your hand or a toy buried between your thighs, using it to work yourself up, teasing and building that pleasure until it throbs and crests. His name is always on your lips when it happens, breathless, a little drunk, as though if you say it loud enough, he might hear you and come crawling to your front door.
If only.
And now that the entire team has begun to tirelessly clown the both of you for your imaginary relationship, it only serves as a constant reminder of what you won't have. That the dynamic between you and Robert will always just remain surface level. A professional (as professional as it could be with Z-Team) relationship. Nothing more than the occasional lunchbreak. Conversation shared over fast-food burgers and Taco Bell. And yet the most pathetic part of it all, is that you think that would be enough for you. Probably not forever, but it is now.
You would take it, if it meant that you could keep close to him. If that means that you get to hear his laugh, his deadpan jokes. You'd eat them all like scraps.
But that never meant that it never got exhausting. The constant charade. The permanent loop you seemed to be stuck in, deflecting the comments made by your co-workers, pretending that they were all wrong when they taunted you for having feelings for him. They were right. But you could never tell them that.
As awful as it might sound, you were a bit grateful when your last assignment out on the field had resulted in you getting shot. It was nothing too severe. A pretty standard robbery. Thieves robbing a gas station, holding the cashier at gunpoint. You'd been sent with Coop, and you had no complaints there. You both worked well together, sharing an affinity for stealth, similar backgrounds making your techniques compatible. You had the same mentality: get in, get out, and make sure the job is done. It made every assignment efficient, off without a hitch. Except for this one. Technically.
You thought everyone had been accounted for. You and Coop had dealt with the robbers pretty quickly. It had been lightwork, with only one of the four only giving you a brief bit of resistance. A minotaur — or that's what he looked like, horns and hooves and all. Eight feet tall and built like a brick shit house. But with both you and Coop, you worked to take him down together. But one of the others, still managing to cling to consciousness despite the fact that you had punched him hard enough that you think his jaw might have dislocated, had used the distraction to shakily lift himself up and reach for the gun hidden and tucked inside his boot.
You think that Robert had yelled to warn you, guiding you from the security cameras. Most of the time you love having his voice in your ear, but it was such a distressed noise that it turned your blood to ice. You felt gutted by his terror projecting through the device in your ear rather than the bullet plunging through your stomach. Punching a hole through meat and sinew.
It wasn't a life-threatening blow. You will and have experienced much worse injuries in the line of duty, especially back in the day, when you were solo and operating on your own. When you had to patch yourself up in dingy alleyways, hunched in the grimy crevices of the city, organs hemorrhaged behind shattered bones, blood pouring through raw gashes, clinging to life. This wasn't one of those times. The shot did little more than temporarily stun you, and you recovered quick enough to move before he could properly orient himself. You were in front of him before he could pull the trigger a second time, and the swing up your knee cracking across his face, nose crunching underneath the strike, blood gushing, had been the final blow it had taken to knock him out for good.
The injury was pretty small, all things considered. You healed long before you got back to SDN, the bullet having been pushed out by healing tissue and flesh back when you were still in the gas station. It dropped somewhere on the floor. You're pretty sure the police confiscated it as part of evidence. But the emergency blood pouch stored in the back of the breakroom fridge had helped you feel a little bit better, dulled the faint hunger pinching at your gut into nothing.
Blazer had proposed giving you the rest of the day off, a suggestion that you typically would have refused, but honestly, you needed a bit of a break. From you co-workers, from work, from being shot at. You hadn't denied her, as much as you wanted to, and you think that the lack of defiance had shocked her. It was there on her face, glittering in the blue of her eyes. You could tell she wanted to grill you over it, to see if you were feeling okay. You were thankful that she didn't.
"Blazer," you called before she could step away, halting in her tracks, watching you expectantly.
"Yes?"
"Could you let Robert know that I'm okay?" You tried to repress the care in your own voice, but she'd heard it. It was a slip up, careless. You can't remember the last time you'd gone out of your way to check in on another person, to make sure they were alright, and she noticed. You could see that she had questions to ask, that perceptive glimmer in her stare seemed to bore into you. She wanted to poke at you until she finally figured out whatever was going on between you two. You could see the fervor of it. "I know it'll be a while before he's able to step away from the computer. I don't want him to worry too much. He's like a helicopter mom, you know, I'm sure he's already beating himself up over the whole thing."
You tried to ease the moment with a flimsy excuse, but it felt unconvincing to your own ears. And she hadn't taken the bait. You felt like a riddle she couldn't figure out, dissected and splayed open under her focus. A doll that she was toying with, tugging with its limbs and body. But you could see that curiosity soften, turning into something that seemed at lot like sympathy and understanding. As though it had all clicked into place for her. Like she figured something out that you couldn't.
"Yeah, absolutely," she agreed, relenting.
You parted with a genuine thank you. When you got home, it felt as though burden had been lifted, a stone pulled free from your back, and you could finally breathe again. You showered, changed your clothes, fed your fish. You baby-talked him as he swam around the tank, nipping at the pellets as they sunk, the kaleidoscopic fan of his tail swishing.
You contemplated doing laundry, but you technically don't have to do it until Wednesday, and so that plan was quickly abandoned in favor of lazing around you living room and browsing through apps and TV shows that you've already seen a hundred times.
You aren't expecting the knock at you front door, three separate taps, spaced apart and dull. As though the person on the other side is hesitant, unsure of themselves. Your thumb pauses mid press on the select button as you pivot your head in its direction. You aren't expecting anybody. No friends, no takeout deliveries, and you hadn't heard any notifications ding from your phone alerting to any incoming texts or phone calls.
You're almost tempted to not even answer. You could pretend that you aren't home, the curtain on the front window is drawn shut, and whoever is on the other side would have no real way of knowing. But then it creeps in, muted, diluted from the barrier of the door, sneaking in past the crevices between it and the threshold. Softly metallic, remnants of grease, salt and heat, sunlight incarnate. But there's something beneath it all that makes your spine snap straight. It's acrid, bitter, burnt around the edges. Anxiety. Concern.
You're moving before you fully register it, lifting off from the couch. Bare feet padding across the wooden floorboards to carry you to the other side of the room. You don't think much when you unlock the deadbolt and the twist knob, not bothering to check the peephole before jerking the door open with a little more urgency than intended, all but swinging it on its hinges.
It's Robert, a fist poised midair, frozen like he was preparing to tap another set of knocks across the frame. He's still in his work clothes. The shirt is messily untucked, powder blue material wrinkled, the first couple buttons undone, fully baring the pale stretch of his throat, the divot of his clavicle. You can hear his heartbeat. Steady, but you swear it spikes when his eyes settle on you, though that might be from how your pupils are probably glinting in the growing shadows, that filmy, inhuman silver. You always forget about that.
The sky behind him is turning dark, a gentle dusk. The last stubborn rays of sunlight bleeding along the horizon in thin smear of lilac and blush, the stars just beginning to wink against the darkest point. He doesn't have Beef with him, so he must have dropped him off at home after leaving work before immediately swinging back around to come here. The fading sun throws shadows over his face as it gradually sinks behind the city, the light fixtures above on the ceiling of the corridor grow brighter, highlighting streaks of gold within the strands of his hair.
For a fleeting moment, you both just stare at each other, but it swells and ebbs as suddenly as a tide. He drops his hand by his side, lips parting while his eyes rove over you. Like he's scrutinizing you, analyzing you for anything that may seem out of place.
"Nosferata." He greets, settling his posture straighter, shoulders leveling out. "Sorry if I'm bothering you, I know it's getting kinda late."
"No, not at all," you gesture a thumb back toward the inside of your apartment. You try not to focus on his heartbeat pattering across the quiet. "I was just watching TV. What's up? Is something wrong? You smell . . . worried. I asked Blazer to let you know that I'm alright; did she forget?"
"I — " he sighs heavily, seeming to still himself. "I always forget you can do that. And yes, she did tell me. I just wanted to check on you, personally. Cause of the mission. I wanted to make sure that you're okay," his gaze darts off, brows pinching close. He gestures vaguely in your direction. "The gunshot."
He almost looks embarrassed. Or maybe just hesitant. Like maybe he doesn't know what to do with himself, or you. His unease is endearing. It's not always that you get to see him this way. Unsteady, fumbling. He's usually unshakable. Moored. Armed with quick wit and a sharp tongue, sarcasm and dry humor. But now he's standing as though he's a little lost. Like he's crossing over a boundary that he hadn't properly prepared for and doesn't know how to navigate it.
It's sweet. How he came all this way just check on you, if not a little strange. He knows about your healing factor, it's something that he always keeps in mind when dispatching you for calls. It's the reason why you're frequently sent out to high-risk situations. If there are violent suspects, erratic emotions, armed and dangerous persons, you're probably going to be on the scene. It doesn't really make sense that he felt like he needed to see you when he could have just sent a text or waited until you both showed up at work in the morning.
"I'm fine," you respond. "Already all healed up, as good as new."
"That's good. I'm glad to hear that."
It sort of just hangs there then. You both just stand silently, staring as though you're both expecting something from each other. An explanation, a farewell, the promise to see each other at work tomorrow while you both goodbye wave and go on about your lives. None of that happens. And you don't want it to. You aren't completely stupid. There's no reason why he had to show up here himself to check on an injury that doesn't exist. That he knows doesn't exist. He's here with a purpose, whether or not he's second guessing that intended purpose is unknown to you, but one thing is for sure, you aren't letting him go that easily now that he's here.
"You want to come inside for a sec?" You lean on your feet a bit, shifting just enough so that he might be able to glance past your head and see inside your apartment. "Have a drink, if you want. I'm pretty sure that I have some of those canned cocktails that my friend brought over weeks ago — I've been meaning to get rid of them or finally drink them. Whichever comes first."
"Sure, I'd love to," he answers, hardly considering it. You donn't hide your smile as you move out of the way to let him pass, closing the door behind him with a click. He glances around the living room and adjoining kitchenette as he enters, surmising the space in perfunctory glimpse. "Nice place. It's no condo though."
"Shut up." You swat at his shoulder.
Roughly ten minutes later, you're both standing in your kitchen, each holding onto an open can. The filter inside the fish tank projects the calming trickle of water through the space, making the silence tranquil. The cocktail fizzles on your tongue as it goes down, fruit flavored, strawberry, you think. You didn't check before you popped it open.
It feels peaceful having him here. Like any other time you two have been alone with each other, casual, lacking expectations. Just people existing together. But that doesn't keep you from wondering. It won't keep your questions at bay. You hold them back in your mouth, heavy, uncomfortable. A bunch of stones that you long to spit out. The alcohol hasn't hit your system, you've only taken a few sips, a buzz having not even settled across your nerves yet, but you can't keep your inquiries trapped behind your teeth any longer.
"Soo . . ." you pluck absentmindedly at the tab on your can, making it sing in a metallic hum. "Not that it isn't cool to see you, but I have to ask: What are you really doing here?"
"What? Is it hard to believe that I would just come to visit without an ulterior motive?" He huffs out a laugh and fully leans his back fully against the counter before raising his drink up to take a sip.
"I mean, you've never visited before. Which is fine!" You tack the last bit on hastily. "It's just . . . why, I guess? I've been injured out on the field, that's nothing new. Sure, I haven't been shot in a while, but what made this so different?"
He doesn't answer you right away, and that almost scares you. He looks downward, maybe dissociating, staring at the floor like he might find the answer he needs in the scratch marks left behind from previous tenants. Distress prickles in your stomach, like you've swallowed static and you regret mentioning your ponderings at all. You don't even know what you were implying when you asked him that. Just what specifically you were rooting around for.
But now you're just lying to yourself. You know exactly what you were trying to hear. The truth that you're seeking. That after all of this time, he might actually like you. As more than a co-worker or a friend. And what if he doesn't? That's the thought that always manages to sneak in, permanently lurking around the fringes of your mind to haunt. Honestly, you don't know how you would handle that. You like to tell yourself that you wouldn't care, that the world would keep spinning and you would move on easily, like you always have. But would you, really? Yes, you would. You promise yourself that religiously, chant it internally like a mantra. You're an adult, you'd manage. You'd suck down the sting and the hurt and move on. Pretend that Robert didn't matter until he no longer did.
"I know you've taken worse damage." He breaks you out of your head, drawing your attention to him as though it's been magnetized and he was iron. "But it's the first time I've seen you take a hit like that. It . . . It gets easy to believe that you're invincible. That everyone on the team is. But when I saw you get shot, it reminded me that despite the superpowers, you are still human. You can get killed. It, well —" he scoffs, or maybe it was supposed to be a laugh. "It scared me."
He admits it like he has to be careful about it. With hesitation, as though he was having the realization in real time. He said it so softly, the rumble in his voice turned smoky with the light volume of it. It was vulnerable, but it strikes you like a sledgehammer.
"Oh," you answer intelligently. The fluttering that glides through you, inside your stomach, summery and flickering could make you nauseous if that pathetic little part of you that clung to Robert like a dog wasn't so happy. It's been a long time since you've met someone who genuinely cared, and you hadn't fully realized how starved you've been for it.
"Sorry. I hope I didn't make things weird."
"You didn't. It's nice, really, to know that I have someone in my corner."
"Yeah." He shifts on his feet, his fingers tight around the can, making the aluminum crinkle beneath the pressure. "There's actually something I wanted to talk to you about."
You hate the way your stomach sinks, but he sounds so serious suddenly. Speaking like there's something that he's been stewing over; hanging over him for weeks or months and he's unable to endure it any longer. Your mouth goes dry and you can only watch as he rotates around, angling his body so he's directly facing you and it makes it impossible to look anywhere else but his eyes. His expression is troubled, the space between his brows creasing, mouth twisting like he's repressing the urge to grimace.
"What about?" Your confidence sounds hollow when you speak, and you pray that he doesn't notice it.
He exhales like he's bracing himself, psyching himself up to deliver terrible news. You fear for the worst. Maybe he's cutting you from the team, though it doesn't make sense that he'd choose to do it here. That would happen at SDN, where you'd be surrounded by heroes who could keep you contained in case things got out of hand. It would be clinical, emotionless. Unless he's trying to give you a fighting chance. The opportunity to run before the authorities come swarming to take you in.
He sits the cocktail down on the counter, using the freedom of his hand to nervously grip at the nape of his neck. "Jesus, this is more nerve wracking than when I tried to ask Olivia Holten to prom, and I almost puked on my shoes."
"Robert, you're kind of freaking me out."
"I like you, okay?" he blurts. "I like you a lot, and I wasn't sure exactly how to say it, so I just . . . am. I've been thinking about you for weeks, and I know I probably shouldn't, but I do. I do it so much that I think I might be going crazy. I think about you at home, when I'm at work. I saw you in a pot of orchids at a flower shop because I remember you telling me how much you love them. I think of you when I'm standing in line at a checkout and see a pack of gum, or when I see your favorite color, or I hear a song you like playing on the radio. It's like you're everywhere I look, and I can't stop."
It's a lot to process. A million feelings well up in the passing of a single second, and you don't know what to do with it, so you don't do anything at all. You're just motionless. A statue in the middle of your kitchen. Unable to speak, tongue thick and heavy like cement. There's a few things you're able to catch in the chaos. Glimpses of relief, exultation, bewilderment, joy. It steals the air from your lungs and leaves you to stare, speechless and dumb while your brain flatlines and your pulse quickens, heart pumping so furiously that you think it might give up and seize.
It all just bulldozes over you. All of the emotions that you've been struggling to suppress or coexist with are surging up, a deluge rolling beneath the surface. It makes your chest feel as though it could split, like your ribs will just give from the mayhem of it all, and your guts will go spilling on the floor.
"Okay, now you're freaking me out. Can you please say something?" His hands flex at his sides, and he seems so awkward. Shoulders hunching like he wants to bolt.
"Can I kiss you?"
You want to slap yourself as soon as you register what you've said, but it just came tumbling out of your mouth, like your body and mind had fully turned against you, abandoned basic morals and boundaries under the influence of elation. You still can hardly blame it on the alcohol. You've only just started to feel that relaxing numbness of a buzz, the pale effects of it just beginning to settle over you. Faint, definitely not enough to make you lose a grip on yourself.
"I am so sorry," you apologize, shaking your head while you take in the surprise in his expression. "You just gave this really sweet confession, and I'm such an asshole — "
He's on you in a blink, moving with a speed that's pretty impressive. And then his lips are on yours, the shape of them soft, parting to move against your own. It doesn't take you long to shake free from the stupor he put you in, meeting the pace he's set, passionate, greedy. Like he was a starving man, and you were the only thing he has to satiate his hunger. His hands are on your face, thumbs caressing the length of your jaw as his fingers stretch to cup behind your ears, nails lightly scratching over the back of your head.
He's crowding you against the counter, closing you in with his body, and you let him. Your skull thumps on the cabinets above the sink, but the dull sting that throbs there goes unnoticed. Insignificant. You're barely cognizant enough to try and sit the can in your hand down, but you must miss the mark, because you're pretty sure that it goes teetering over the edge of the counter, landing near your feet with a metallic thump. The drink is probably pouring everywhere, but it's a mess you'll have to clean later, because as of now, you can't be bothered to care.
He nips lightly at your bottom lip, just enough to tease, but it has sparks lighting up down your spine. It has you pressing into him, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin bleed onto yours through your clothes, but then he's leaning away. Just enough for his lips to leave yours, but they still brush against you when he speaks.
"You can kiss me whenever you want." You've never heard his voice sound like this before. Throaty and low. Inflections layered and rough like you've turned him ragged just from a little kissing. You're tempted to tease him for it, but truthfully, you aren't faring any better.
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Robert." There isn't an ounce of fight in him when you grip his shoulders and rotate your positions, spinning him around to pin him against the fridge. You hear the contents inside rattle from the impact. He flattens against it with a grunt, but you can feel his smile sweeping over your own. He tilts his chin back when you trail your mouth down the ridge of his jawline, teeth scraping as you gently suck and bite.
He's freely offering his throat to you like you couldn't rip it out if you wanted. That half of you that always feels less than human, bordering on something other, preens in delight, satisfaction flaring within your brain as your taste buds light up with his flavor. Rich, unctuous, you can taste the blood rushing beneath his skin, honeyed and metallic. You want to burrow yourself in him, bask in his scent, drink him up like he's a wine, and he's clinging to you just as wantonly, hands roaming all over your body like he doesn't know where to grab. Like he wants to collect every last piece of you in his palms and keep them all for himself.
"Do you wanna keep this going?" Your tongue nearly slurs your words, but they're muffled regardless, stunted from how you haven't managed to part your mouth from him. Still peppering kisses across his given flesh like constellations. He arches into you when you sink the stamp of your teeth around him in a particularly harsh bite. You nearly apologize, jerk away for the slip up, but the heady groan that pierces the atmosphere snuffs out any worry you were beginning to feel. You make note of that little reaction, filing it away for later.
And then he's pulling your head away from his throat, hand as firm as steel around the nape of your neck to guide you to look at him. The shadows in the kitchen spill over his face, made heavy by the lack of a direct light source, dual glows casted only by the TV in the living room and the amber hue of the cooktop light pouring out from beneath the microwave. He looks pretty like this, painted in shades of black, and mellow gold, winks of silver reflecting in his eyes from the flat screen in the adjoining room. There's a tenderness in his stare as it darts over your face, pausing over your features like he's trying to memorize you.
His thumb is sweeping over your chin again, traveling up, scorching in its path as it glides over the shape of your bottom lip to press against the pronounced point of a single canine. Like he was contemplating poking himself with it, allowing it to dig past his skin and make blood well up. The prospect of it makes you shiver, has your head becoming a little floaty.
"Yeah? You want to keep going?" Now he's just teasing you. The question is genuine, you can tell that much, but its delivery is still entirely smug. There's a satisfaction in his gaze, the warm shade of them alive with it. Like he's got you exactly where he wants you.
"Oh, of course I do. I'm not letting you get away that easily." You don't give him any kind of warning when you lift your thigh up between his legs, grinding it directly on the hardness that's pressing against the khaki material of his work pants. You can feel the weight of him on your thigh, even through the cover of the fabric. He isn't insanely large, like something out of some tacky porno, but Visi, always the shit talker had definitely been lying when she said that he wasn't packing anything impressive. Either that, or she needs to get her eyes checked, because based off of what you can tell, he has plenty to work with.
His reaction was just as good as you hoped. He curls into you, head tilting to nudge against yours. His chest heaves, deep and heavy when a breath puffs out across your neck. "Fuck. That's —" his hips grind on your thigh, chasing after the sensations it creates, and you aren't sure if he's entirely aware he's doing it. "Something tells me you might really eat me alive."
"You say it like you don't want that." You're tugging him away from the fridge by the collar of his shirt before he can manage a response, and he follows easily, practically leaning into your grip as you guide him down the hallway. He's leaning into you again, dragging you into another kiss as you pull him through the dark, though now you're both flying a little blind now that you're caught back up in him. You have to rely on muscle memory to back yourself through the open threshold of your bedroom.
And then it spikes through the balmy air, familiar, intense. It bathes across your tongue, piquant and dark, sticking to the back of your throat like chocolate. Made strong by how he licks into your mouth. You taste him while your lungs draw in his scent, smothering you with him, but it's so good that you don't care about breathing.
It's something that you've picked up on him a thousand times before, hidden beneath the base of his regular scent. Titillating, but subtle. It used to drive you crazy trying to understand it, trying to deal with it. It isn't something that's always present on him. It would peek through his natural scent at random times, and you would ruminate over it longer than necessary, spending what seemed like hours at a time trying to understand it. If it was maybe a cologne, or something that would naturally attach to him while he went about his day-to-day errands, or if it was just an organic facet of his body's perfume.
But sometimes you wouldn't detect it at all. And then it would randomly spike. Always at the most inconvenient moments, during meetings and debriefings in crowded rooms, in crammed hallways when you were both arguing with each other, bickering over the aftermath of missions gone wrong. Voices raising and tensions climbing. Your disagreements never neared getting violent, you had a clear enough understanding of each other to keep that from happening. Your mutual respect would keep the arguments from escalating, confined within the fine circle of a simple dispute, but that didn't mean that you wouldn't occasionally get cross.
You would crowd close to each other (not without a snide comment from someone on the team, like, "If they start fucking right here on the table, I'm killing everyone in this room."), fueled by your verbal sparring, and you'd catch a glimpse of it, smoldering and enticing, like smoked honey. You thought maybe that you were imagining it, or perhaps your brain was playing tricks, making it smell so much more tempting than it actually was because of your attraction to him.
It would haunt you nearly every time you were around him. It would make your gums ache, heat throbbing between your thighs. And even more humiliating, you actually had to go commando in your suit once or twice because it had made you wet enough that you had to take your underwear off in the stall of the bathroom.
Worse than that, was how you wound up with your hand pressed to your cunt, the heel of your palm grinding against your clit while you pumped your fingers inside of yourself, muffling your moans behind the stiff grip of your hand. Trying furiously, to get yourself off before you had to get back out on the field just so you could fucking focus. Praying that no one would stumble in and figure out what you were doing to yourself. You did not need that HR nightmare. Or the public indecency charge.
You used to hate yourself for it. You'd spend the rest of your shift stewing, loathing your own body, internally degrading yourself for acting like some kind of pervert. Behaving like a complete and utter creep. But no. It's here, clear as day, and you know exactly what it is, what's been clinging to Robert this entire time, driving you up a wall.
Arousal smells different on everyone else. It's personal. There's probably a lot of biological factors you don't really know about that play into how those personal notes are created: health, diet, medication. Some people smell sweet, candied, others are almost savory and smooth. You even met a guy, who strangely, smelt sort of like Pine-Sol, evergreen and chemicals.
But Robert is almost buttery, caramelized smoke, full-bodied flavor bursting behind his normal fragrance. The realization makes you feel stupid, vindicated, and frustrated all at once. That means this entire time he —
You're hardly gentle when you turn him and shove him down on the bed. The springs creak with his impact, his weight sinks a divot into the mattress. You don't waste any time climbing over him, swinging your legs around his hips. His hands are eager, raising to grip you by the waist, holding on tight like he's wants to keep you there permanently. Holding you firmly to keep you pressed on the bulge straining against his pants.
"Someone's eager—"
"This whole time you've just been horny." You almost sound angry. You really aren't. Mostly irritated, but you think that's at yourself. For being so blind, so stupid to what's been in front of you this entire time.
"Well, yeah. You're literally sitting on my hard dick right now; I thought that was obvious," he deadpans.
"That's not what I'm talking about." You glide a hand over him, slipping it over his chest, feeling the shape of lithe muscles underneath your palm while it navigates its way up, allowing you to trail your fingertips along the column of his throat. "I could smell it all the time. While we're at work. All of those meetings and lunchbreaks. I thought I was losing my God damn mind, smelling things that weren't there. I thought maybe, it was like, your cologne or something. That I was the one acting like someone who deserves to be on a watch list. But you've been rock hard in those ugly khakis this entire time."
The discovery invigorates you a little. You can't resist to be a little mean, circling your hips in a slow grind, working yourself over his bulge. You can feel him through your respective clothes; the loose fabric of your sleep shorts does little to dull the sensations. They even magnify them, the thin seam on the inside brushes right over your clit, sparking a bright, syrupy heat up your nerves when you move.
"And I thought you were a good boy, Robert. Guess I was wrong."
He breaths deeply, a low whine slipping from his behind the wall of his chest. You can feel the air slip through his trachea, the dim shudder of it humming beneath your palm when you tense it around his throat. He chases after the drag of your hips, lifting his own to meet the lazy rhythm you've set. Teasing you, teasing himself. It doesn't stunt his typical dry delivery though. "Okay, okay. You found me out, alright. I've been violently horny this entire time. Always seconds away from just busting in my pants."
You lean yourself over him, not ceasing your movements, without removing your hand. You drag your nose alongside his, angling your head, contemplating kissing him, but you pull back before he can fill the distance. His head drops back down on the mattress with a muffled thump, a frustrated sigh escaping past his lips, eyes flickering to your lips when you speak. "So what's got you all worked up, huh?"
His mouth drops open a bit, preparing to talk, and that's when you chose to grind yourself down more firmly. The head of his cock drags right along your clit when you do it, and you just barely manage to keep the loud moan in your chest from shaking free. Robert isn't so lucky though, hissing through his teeth, spine bowing to lift himself into the brunt of the feeling.
"Not. Fair," he bites out stiffly. He looks like such a slut like this. The bedroom is dark, save for the bit of light from the streetlamps outside that manages to barely slip in through the window. But with your vision, you can see him clearly, the blush on his freckled cheeks, the lust burning in his glazed over stare, hair tussled and messy on your comforter. He's impossibly pretty; you wish you could keep him here, just like this, forever. "Do you have any idea — shit, that feels good — what it's like watching you walk around in that fucking leather suit all day. It's practically molded to you."
"Yeah, I've got an idea or two," you shrug, nodding your head in playful tilt.
"As if you're any better. Do you really think I haven't noticed all the times I've caught you staring at my ass."
Damn, you actually didn't think he had noticed that. So much for subtlety.
"What ass?"
"Haha. Very funny," he scoffs beneath you, making you shake with the motion of it. And then he's moving, and in a blur, you're the one under him. You don't resist, body turning pliant under the weight of him wedging between your thighs, slotting in to place like he belongs there. Your legs splay open, seemingly on their own volition to give him more room, your ankles hooking around the back of his knees to keep him there, locked to you.
When he kisses you this time, it's so much sweeter than the one you had shared back in the kitchen. This exchange is more explorative. No less passionate, but more leisurely. Like you both want nothing but to take your time with each other. Eagerly tasting the other, indulging in the brush of your lips on his, and he, yours. The tip of his tongue skims over the swell of your mouth, asking for entrance, which you give without hesitation, jaw parting open to let him tease his tongue with your own.
It throws you headfirst into a clouded head space, brain turning hazy from the press of his body pinning yours, the bite and lick of his mouth. The concept of time trickles far from your grasp, seconds and minutes turning murky when he grinds his hips down on you, taunting you with the heavy press of his cock, thick and throbbing, rocking over your clothed pussy. You're dripping now, wet and soaking your shorts, clit aching, and you moan into his mouth.
He swallows the sound greedily, drinking it down like wine. You two are hardly doing much, dry humping like a pair of horny college kids, but your brain is already breaking down into mush. Made muddled, thoughts turned brittle and falling apart by the delicious pressure already building at the base of your spine, molten inside the pit of your belly. Searing, slipping inside your bloodstream, coiling like a drug.
And now he's the one pulling away from you. Abrupt and terrible. You hardly have time to process it at all.
"What the hell Robert!" you snap indignantly, tucking your chin down to glare at him as he lifts himself, untangling the hook of your legs from around he's knees so he can freely sit back on his haunches. He's unfazed by your complaint, too busy roving his attention over your body. You don't miss how his eyes seem to pause over your heaving chest, staring unabashedly at the way your nipples are hard and poking beneath your T-shirt. You see the way his eyebrows seem to perk appreciatively.
And then his gaze is traveling down further, his hand is on one of your knees, gently tugging your legs open wider so he can stare between your legs. It makes you uncomfortably aware of how wet you are, of the visible patch that's probably soaked through the gusset of your shorts. He doesn't comment on it, but he looks smug. Eyes glittering with a satisfaction that seems to burn.
"Take your shirt off," he orders. And then he's hooking his fingers under the waistband of your shorts and pulling, hard enough that you almost get tugged with it. You have to grip onto the blankets to hold yourself in place. You move to obey, hands fumbling to reach for the hem of your shirt to ruck it up over your torso and past your head. Both articles of clothing get carelessly tossed, landing somewhere on the floor.
You can't look away from him. Your attention is trapped, seized onto him like he's the only thing that matters. Transfixed like a moth hypnotized by an exposed flame as he leans down, settling his stomach flat on the mattress, shoulders tucked within the open splay of your thighs. Suddenly, you feel like you can't breathe. Like if you do, you'll wake up and realize that this is just a cruel dream, forced to drink the bitter medicine of reality. But this is real. This is happening. You can feel the warm brush of his breath gliding over the exposed spread of your cunt, teasing in its glide.
"No panties?"
Any other time, you'd say something smart back. Taunt him a little back, toy with him. But now that he's actually here, cheeks and hair brushing over the skin near your knees, your voice and wit have all but abandoned you.
"What are you doing?" Nope. That's not what you had wanted to say at all. Now you look stupid, lips parted, eyes probably glassy.
He smirks, the corner of his mouth ticking up in his amusement. "I was planning on eating you out. Why? Do you want me to stop?"
"No." The word all but rips out of your throat, loud and demanding in its tone as you jerk up as you prop yourself up on your elbows to openly glare. But you can't find it in yourself to be embarrassed about how desperate you are. Not right now. "I will literally kill you if you do that."
He seems pleased with your answer, gaze dark. "Good."
There's no fanfare before he's all but burrowing his face into you, tongue splitting you open to lick a stripe over your cunt from hole to clit. It's a shock to your system, every atom in your body flares under the stimulation, muscles pulling taut. You're like a marionette on tight strings, all parts of you seizing, back bowing from the surprise of it, legs involuntarily clamping around Robert's head. He doesn't fight it, doesn't make any moves to pry your thighs away from his ears. He carries on, unbothered within their squeeze.
His hands loop under you, coming around to grab your hips when they squirm. But he isn't stopping you. He isn't trying to hold you down. It's like he aiding them, guiding them when they start to rock against his face, helping you find a smoother rhythm that makes you gasp. "There you go, baby," he murmurs in a velvet baritone in between lapping at your clit in tight little circles. The oxygen in your lungs vanishes. Snuffed out. "Just like that."
He almost sounds proud, pleased with the reactions that he's getting out of you, and it has your body burning so much hotter. And then he's sealing his lips around clit, sucking gently. Your hands fly down to take ahold of his head, fingers threading through the silky stands of his hair. Reaching for something to ground you down. To keep you contained inside reality.
He groans when you pull his hair, sending vibrations scattering across your cunt. Most of his face is obscured, smothered against your pussy, but you see how his brows furrow, face twisting with how much he liked it. Even more damning though, is his hips. The subtle lift of them before they grind back down, fucking himself on the mattress, seeking out friction.
Your jaw drops open, from your moans and pleased disbelief. You smile as best as you can when you look down at him, trying to focus through the waves of bliss ceaselessly drifting within your body. "Are you, are you — God, Robert, are you humping my bed?"
His eyes, which have slipped shut at some point, open lazily to meet your gaze, but he doesn't bother with speaking. All you get in response is a shameless "mmhmm." Smothered, slurred, like he can't be bothered to part himself from you. Maybe you should have anticipated that he would be like this. Zealous, indulgent, giving. He's eating you out like it's his job. Like he's doing it for himself just as much for your pleasure. As though he needs it to survive, the purpose of it.
A laugh hisses from your throat, just as disbelieving as it is excited. "Wow, you really are desper—"
You didn't notice that one of his hands had disappeared from your hip, until one of his fingers is prodding at you and slipping inside. The full length of it stretching you open in a single push, the insertion aided by how soaked you've become, wet across the inside of your thighs, his spit and your own arousal makes you slick. All it takes is a single finger to punch the air out of you. The suddenness of it, the width filling you up has your body squirming.
"I'm sorry. What was that?" He taunts, and meanly curls his finger, pumps it deep inside of you, seeking out that spot that'll have you going brainless.
" —An asshole," you choke out. "You're such an asshole."
"Well, this 'asshole' is about to make you cum, so I feel like I should be hearing less shit talking."
You're tempted to berate him. Maybe tell him to shut up, but the ability to speak goes lost on you as he goes back to licking on your clit. Thrusting his finger inside of you at the same time, and when he finds it, the edge of his finger sweeping over your g-spot with startling accuracy, the high-pitched moan it drives out of you is humiliating. You just barely hear the cocky "There it is" he murmurs over the blood roaring in your ears.
Your eyes roll, lashes fluttering when you fully drop your head back on the mattress, lifting your hips to chase after the dual sensations of his tongue and the pump of his finger. You're just beginning to adjust to it, body growing used to the stretch when he's slipping another in alongside it. Relentlessly stroking them over that spot inside of you that makes your thoughts dwindle into nothing. And you let it happen, giving up any kind of resistance or snark that you might have been clinging on to, allowing yourself to fully bask in the rapture of it all, and the ecstasy is almost harsh.
"I think you can be good for me when you don't act like a brat. Wanna try? You want to be good for me?"
It lashes through you. Electrical, sharp, brilliant. You find yourself nodding without little thought.
"Oh, c'mon. You know how to talk. Don't tell me you've gone all dumb on me already from a little finger fucking."
It should be mortifying how simply he's got you under his influence. How clearly he's been able to read you. Picked you apart, piece by meticulous piece and figured out all of your tells, what makes you tick. But all you feel is elation. The euphoria that comes with being understood.
"Yeah, I'll be good. I can be good, I promise."
"There we go," he purrs, too arrogant. Utterly happy with the state he's put you in, and he's determined to make you so much worse. To tear you apart and leave you as a pile of twitching, heaving parts.
"Robert, I'm —" your breaths snag, gasp hiccupping. "You're gonna make me, fuck."
"Go on, pretty girl." He urges, voice a throaty rasp. "You can have it any time."
And that's all it takes. The raw permission, the sloppy drag of his tongue gliding around your clit, the firm thrust of his fingers fucking into you. It all takes ahold of you mercilessly, wraps you up tight, and shoves you directly down into the throes of your orgasm. Your nails rake down his scalp, messily gripping at his hair in an effort to try and keep yourself sane while your back bows off of the mattress. He works you through it, lapping carefully at your clit, softening the pressure as the pleasure begins to tapper off, ebbing away in blissful aftershocks.
The moan you let out is drawn out, wispy. Your hips are still moving, lazily rocking while the rest of you has gone boneless, endorphins and contentment turning your muscles into jelly. You can feel him peppering kisses across your thighs, the sensation of it helping to draw you out of the pleasant haze you've been caught in.
You will yourself to look down, almost drunkenly tilting you head while you focus on composing yourself, sucking steady breaths. If you didn't know better, you could believe that Robert had been the one who just got off. His cheeks are still flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen and smeared the aftermath of your orgasm. He's panting, catching his breath while he nuzzles into your thigh.
"I'd say I did a decent enough job," he joked. "What do you think? At least a five out of ten, right?"
"Hmm. I'm not so sure yet. I think we need to gather more information before I can give it a proper rating."
He smiles with you, some kind of silent exchange happening. And then you're moving. Lifting yourself up on wobbling knees. He raises himself to meet you, leaning himself over to take your mouth in a brief kiss, letting you taste yourself on him, dimly sweet, natural. You both reach for his clothes, and you busy yourself with his belt and then his zipper, tugging his pants and boxers down his waist, and he works on the buttons of his shirt. But he gets frustrated halfway, annoyed with how his fingers keep slipping from his impatience, and he settles for ripping it off. Buttons go flying, clacking across the floorboards in the spray, but neither of you pay it any mind.
You're tugging him higher up on the bed as soon as he's naked. He pulls himself up after kicking his pants away and off his ankles, swapping his place with yours. You shove him down on the flat of his back, climbing astride his bare hips and his hands are already on you, groping, shifting, feeling all of you. Traveling up to take handfuls of your breasts, softly squeezing them within the textured skin of his palms. The callouses on his fingers and the undersides of his knuckles are delightfully rough against your nipples, and you arch into them, seeking out more.
You can't help but to admire all of him now that you have him bare and beneath you. It only takes a split second to come to a conclusion: he's stunning. Far better than anything you imagined while alone in this exact bed. It's surreal to have him here, splayed out and panting. Pale skin bordered in amber from the glow of the streetlamp down below, casting just bright enough for you to catch the freckles and scars dispersed across his body. Lithe muscles taking shape from the shadows projected over him, thin but athletic. Lean strength, made from dedication, hard work. The round tear in his ear, the scars are all evidence of commitment made from bruises and blood.
"Why do I feel like a piece of meat, right now. Are you thinking about eating me?" he jokes, observing you playfully. His thumbs sweep over your breasts, caressing around your nipples, making you grind down onto him. He's hot, throbbing, the thick width of him bare between the crux of your legs; head catching against the entrance of your pussy.
"That sounds like a good idea. Maybe later." He doesn't seem to mind the glimpse of your fangs. You can't smell any fear; your ears don't pick up a frightened spike it his heartrate. He's unbothered. Still incredibly hard beneath the weight of your cunt. Watching you like this is the only place in the world that he wants to be.
Your head angles to the side when you observe him, admiring him with an expression that you know must be terribly affectionate. Too loving for what this is. "You're pretty Robert."
"Pretty?" He looks like he doesn't quite believe you, eyebrows raising. "I don't think I've ever been called that before."
That admission makes your heart ache. The flippantness of it. The casualness of its delivery. As though it doesn't matter. Like he doesn't expect for anyone to regard him such a way. That maybe, he isn't deserving of it, the appreciation or praise. "I'll have to say it more then."
He truly looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself. Now the blush on his face isn't only from the lust burning through his veins, but also what must be mortification, self-consciousness, incredulity. As though he's been told he's been subpar, inadequate for so long that now he believes it. You want to convince him otherwise. You want to grab him by his shoulders and shake him until he's finally convinced that he's so much more than the lies he's been fed. That he's more than the suit or his family's legacy, or what other crushing insecurities might be hanging down on him. You know he hears it constantly, from the entire team, from other heroes. He's nothing without the suit. Just a man. Powerless. It follows him around into every room he steps inside, unforgiving and crippling.
You want to tell him that he's so much more than all of that, but you suppose that it would probably be pretty ill-timed considering that you're both completely naked. You'll have to save the therapy session for later. When you aren't trying to fuck each other.
He's soaked when you reach down where your bodies press together and take him into your hand, smeared with the precum that dribbles from the head of his cock. He hisses between the clench of his jaw when you grab him, sensitive no doubt, from how worked up he'd gotten from eating you out, from how he'd humped himself on your mattress. The evidence of it trickles from him in a messy, sluggish flow. He's so hard that it must be painful, head flushed an angry red.
When you trace your thumb down a vein, throbbing as it scrawls down the length of him, he jerks, hips flexing into the movement. You feel starved and ardent when you watch how his eyelashes flutter, the subtle swell of his lips glittering with his spit and your cum. He looks drunk. Dazed while he stares up at the ceiling before glancing down back at you. He swears when he sees you hovering over him, like you're something to be in awe of. You don't do it to be mean exactly, but when the weight of his eyes settles back on you, glazed over, pupils blown wide, almost reverent, it has you clenching around nothing. You need to take the edge off somehow, need to get a little bit of relief just so you think a little clearer.
It has you gripping him tighter, slipping your hold lower, aided by the smear of his arousal as you grab him around the base to hold him still when you grind your clit against the tip.
His hands fly around your waist, firm enough that it would leave bruises on anyone else. He gasps, face pinching while he stares, transfixed as you softly rock on the head of his cock.
"Okay, now you're just fucking teasing," he wheezes out. Something like realization slips into his expression, sober and bare. "Shit, you don't have any condoms here, do you? I wasn't exactly planning on this."
You immediately halt in your movements, pressing a palm down on his chest to prop yourself up, breathing through the shocks of pleasure still boiling inside of your stomach. "No, I don't have any," you say, disappointment pressing down behind your lungs. You couldn't blame if he doesn't want to keep going now, for being responsible. "Uh, I mean, I'm on the pill and I'm clean. So if you are, then . . . "
You let it settle there, the offer looming. Letting him contemplate your proposal on his own terms.
"Yeah, I'm clean," he replies. "Didn't really have too much time to sleep around being Mecha Man. And the last time I was in a relationship was an embarrassingly long time ago." It stretches between your bodies, an answer in its in own, and the stares you exchange only confirms it. His hands don't move to lift you off; they don't lighten to give you the ability to tear yourself from his grasp, either. You're both motionless, the shared decision felt in both of your bodies.
"Oh really? I figured you would have had, like a whole mob of fans frothing at the mouth to get a piece of you. Guess that makes more for me then," you shrug. You shift the angle of your hips, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance and then you sink down on him. It's abrupt. He chokes, and all the collective air held in your lungs is shoved out in a single gasp. Your bodies freeze, muscles going temporarily still like they don't know how to handle what they're experiencing.
He's not astoundingly long, about average, but for a guy as lithe as he is, he's decently thick. Enough that it has you holding your breath while you lower yourself down on him. An ache throbs from the girth of his cock stretching you open, a subtle sting that feels good as much as it hurts. Probably the only thing that helps in aiding you in fitting him inside so quickly is how soaked you both are, from how relaxed he'd gotten you with his mouth. You sink all the way down to the hilt, stopping only once the physical barrier of his thighs keeps you in place.
"Hold on. Don't move," he pleads in a thin rumble. He draws in a large gulp of oxygen, brows furrowed like he's concentrating. "This is literally every guys worst nightmare, and I don't want to admit it, but if you move, I'll probably come. I swear I'm not usually like this."
"That's what they all say," you chide with faux annoyance. It's not very convincing, your amusement is clear, a smile already nudging at your mouth.
"Well in my defense, I did just wake up from a coma. I'm a little out of practice."
You don't poke any more fun at him, you let him adjust, adapt to the feel of you around him. For a minute or two, you just stay like that. Quiet, joined together, listening to the other breathe, the occasional rumble of a car passing down the street outside, feeling the soothing warmth of each other's bodies. It's intimate in a way. Too gentle for what might just be a fling, for whatever this might turn out to be. A quick one-night stand in between coworkers, a temporary experiment. You don't want to think about the fact, that once this is over, he might not want anything more with you. And that's fair, isn't it?
Sure, he said that he likes you. But that doesn't mean that this is going to develop into anything more than mutual attraction and lust that's finally spilt over. Once this is done, and the mutual high has worn off and you've both satiated that want and curiosity, you'll both go back to your lives. You'll attend work tomorrow and pretend that you don't know what he taste like, how he sounds when he groans, how he feels under you. You'll see him in meetings, listen to his voice over comms, continue on with your lunchbreaks and convince yourself that don't want him anymore. That this didn't matter. You'll lie to yourself. Make it easy, because that's what you do. That's what has to be done.
But if you couldn't have this, him, then you'd at least make this a night to remember. Something to think back on fondly.
"You good?" you ask him after a few passing minutes. He looks visibly less tense, and the white-knuckled grip he had on your hips has slackened; his thumbs now sweep over the sore skin in apologetic caresses.
He answers in a nod, but when you raise your eyebrows in a silent bid for a better response, he successfully spits out a verbal reply. Quietly panting out a confirming "yes" along with another agreeing tilt of his head. It's only then that you lift yourself up in a steady rise only to drop back down again, rocking yourself in a steady motion that has your clit grinding against the swell of his pelvis bone, the dark thatch of hair above his cock catching on your clit. Coarse, dragging over you in a way that has pleasure sparking along your nerves, light and electric.
It makes you moan, a pitched, breathy sound, rising up right along the wet squelch of his cock repeatedly driving into you. Robert's focus keeps darting, like he can't decide where to look: at your face, fervently admiring how your mouth has dropped open, cheeks and forehead glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, or down where he splits you open, cock flushed, thick girth plunging deep inside of your pussy.
You circle your hips when you rise and fall, rotating them in a heavy rhythm that nearly makes your eyes turn in the back of your skull. It has your hands scrambling again for something to purchase, slipping up the expanse of his abdomen, the shape of his pectorals. The damaged ridges of his scars brush along your palms, raised and smooth feeling despite the old violence of that created them. His flesh is hot, damp with perspiration, the usual pale hue shifted a little red.
But when he sighs out in bliss, almost whimpering, he says your alias. The name you bore as a villain, and now as a hero. It shouldn't bother you. It never used to. Not with the flings you had in the past, where anonymity was crucial. But hearing him say it, now and like this, burrows into your ribs like a knife. It's clinical, detached. It doesn't have a place here, in a moment as vulnerable as this. You hardly process that you're speaking, that the name you utter between your lips is your real name, spoken out in confidence.
You see his confusion clearly, glittering in his eyes, presented vividly from the glow of the outside streetlamps.
"It's my name. My actual name," you clarify. "You can say it."
He repeats it. It's like he's taste testing it, and it sounds saccharine on his tongue. After years of only being Nosferata, to hear yourself addressed properly, it's like coming home again. Being allowed to cross through a familiar threshold after being shunned from it for so long. It invigorates you, shooting through your system like a shot of adrenaline, and you can't help but to grind a little deeper, squeezing the walls of your cunt to grip him a little tighter when you lift yourself.
It earns you a gasp of your name, a little desperate, as though he's been relieved by the feel of you, the heat and suction. You can practically feel the stress ebb from him. The tension vacating his body as you ride him, churning and bucking your hips to carry you both towards the ecstasy that looms ahead. A far drop that you know will have you both scrambling and struggling to hold on.
His shoulders draw back, pressing back into the mattress when he fucks himself back up into you, thrusting rapaciously to meet your pace.
"That's, that feels — " He doesn't get to finish his sentence, head lolling back, stretching out the pretty shape of his neck. You see how his Adam's apple bobs, throat working as he swallows another moan. If you focus just enough, sifting through the rise and fall of your shared breathing, the worn creak of the mattress' springs rasping each time you drop yourself back down on him, the wet smack of your skin meeting his, you can hear his pulse. Thundering under his skin. A recurrent thump, a brisk pattern that you swear you can almost taste in the air, weaving the already heady perfume of sex into something intoxicating.
"I really wish you could see yourself like this, Robert." You heave in another breath, your own spine arching when the head of his cock strikes a spot that makes your thoughts fizzle, turning as thick and sluggish as a batch of melted sugar. "You look so good baby, it's not fair."
You expect to hear his usual kind of sass thrown back at you. Maybe something sarcastic and self-depreciating, another deflection, but all you get is a rough groan, inarticulate and drawn out, like you've grazed something deep and wounded inside of him.
Oh, he liked that. You could feel it in how every part of him coils up tight, legs bending sharper to drive into you with deeper strokes. Some kind of compulsion. A physical impulse, like his body had decided to do it before his mind could completely recognize that it's chasing after the urge. Hungry for the praise, the desire to be wanted. Adored.
It's a complete 180 from how he'd been before. In control, directing you how he pleased, balancing between chiding and gentle. But this is the opposite. He's the one who's being influenced now; he's wordlessly handed you the reins and allowed you to take what you need from him, graciously accepting what you're willing to offer him. A chalice taking only what's been poured. And you're willing to give him anything, to fill him until he's overflowing.
You lean over him as best as you can without throwing off the pace you've built, supporting yourself with a hand on his chest while the other settles beside his head, fingers squeezing to clasp the blankets to keep you grounded. You lower your head, chin dipping to glide your nose along the shape of his cheekbone, and you have to smile at how he leans into you to graze his nose along yours. It's intimate. So intimate that you could suffocate on it like a poison, but you can't stop.
"You feel so good," you praise in a euphoric moan. "Robert, you're making me feel so full. God." That compliments that flow from you aren't fake. You aren't hamming it up like you have with past one-night stands, saying whatever you possibly can just so the guy will get off and make the experience end sooner, counting the seconds in the hope for it to be over.
But you typically aren't this vocal apart from the occasional moan, or a sporadic line of dirty talk scattered here and there. But right now, it all flows from you freely. Maybe it's only because you love to see the reactions it garners from him. You're subconscious craving more. More of those dainty, breathy whines and gasps that have begun to spill from him. Groans worked out from him each time you lift yourself up with your thighs, balancing your weight on the flat of your feet to drive yourself downward. It's hell on your muscles, a deep burn already zapping up the tendons, licking harshly across the meat of your thighs, but you'd be damned if you stopped now.
You aren't entirely sure that he's aware of the noises he's making now. You didn't think that he would lose his composure this fast, unbothered demeanor crumbling as delicately as a sandcastle giving beneath the barrage of an ocean's waves. He looks debauched, hair damp with sweat, eyes still dazed and fluttering, jaw dropped open. You wish you could keep him like this for eternity, spread out on your bed in a hedonistic display, chest heaving, atmosphere thick with the sounds of his pleasure and the prurient taste of his scent saturating your mouth and throat. Kept and cherished, drinking each other down until the sun goes supernova and consumes the world in a burst of fire and plasma.
He mutters something, a whisper of words, jammed and snagging in his mouth, tongue tripping uselessly against his teeth. Even with your sharp hearing, you aren't able to pick up what he said, syllables lost to the slurred mumble of his voice.
"Hmm? What was that?" You remove your hand up from where it was gripping the blankets, using it to cup the side of his face, directing him to focus his attention back on you from where it had drifted off.
For a split second, it seems like he's contemplating talking back. There's a flicker in his eyes, sharp and challenging, but it vanishes as swiftly as it had appeared, snuffed out as definitively as a coal being doused with a bucket of water, and all that remains is supple compliance. ". . . Don't stop. Please, don't stop."
You really wished you had the time to really indulge and take him apart piece by piece. To study him in the way that you truly want to. To prod and lick and touch, discovering what makes him weak. What gets under his skin and turns him boneless and desperate, but that sort of excess requires a long discussion, a conversation of boundaries. It would be pretty mistimed to try and bring that sort of thing up now, when you're both already in so deep, consumed and stupefied by lust. Too muddled and dazed to think clearly.
But having him like this is more than enough. You'll be thinking about this for weeks, months, hooked on him like a drug; candy stuck and caramelized between your teeth, sweet and tawny. Buttery gold on your enamel, sunlight caught inside of your mouth.
You would deny anyone else, taunt them, make them ask you again until you were satisfied, but you don't think you can resist him now. Not with you both so close, hurtling towards the fringes of a shared bliss. It's soaking up the foundation of your spine, rooting within the cradle of your hips, drenching your bone and viscera in melted fire. Honeyed rapture seeping between your vertebrae, sizzling there with zaps of lightning, coils of heat and smoke making your back bow taut as you chase after it.
"I won't stop," you assure. "You've been so good for me. Always so good, Robert."
And there it is again. He jolts, a full-bodied shiver twitching over him as though he's physically trying to seek out more praise. You swear you can feel him twitch inside of you, but it could just be a trick of your imagination. Though you're doubtful it is with how needily he drives his cock into you, causing the noisy echo of skin on skin to pitch around the room, the bed creaking repeatedly, the frantic movements of your bodies causing the headboard to thump against the wall.
You're probably going to get a noise complaint tomorrow, but it's definitely worth it.
"You close baby?" you ask, slipping your palm down from his face to feel his pulse battering throughout the junction of his jugular.
He nods frantically, a guttural groan vibrating behind his ribcage. You're both right there. Dangling at the edge, hurtling in the direction of a precipice that swells and expands in front of you, and you need it. You need it so bad that it hurts. A painful ache, like the gnawing of hunger. All it's going to take for either of you to reach it is a little push, and you're happy to deliver, to reach out and shove.
"I want to feel it. You're so close, Robert, I know you are." You're moaning now, and your thumb squeezes around the width of his throat, hooking just beneath the hinge of his jaw and he presses into it. (You're absolutely storing that away for later — if there is a later) "I want you to come inside. I need you to fill me up. C'mon, you deserve it."
That's all it takes. He goes off as though he's attached to a fuse that's been lit and eaten up by the sparks. He seizes up, reacting like a man being electrified, coiling up, wrought with tension that makes him spasm. "Oh fuck," he swears. A cork popping free from a bottle, a string of swears and curses rambling from him in a stimulated rush.
You keep bouncing on him, unrelenting in the cadence of your ride, determined to aid him through every possible pulse of pleasure, just as adamant to finish yourself off in the process. It's right there, dangling in front of you, licking up your back, lashing through your stomach. Before you can reach down to swirl a finger over your clit, he's doing it for you, settling the thick pad of his thumb over you in tight, debilitating figure eights that light you on fire. Between the brush of his thumb on you and the warm flow of his cum spurting inside of you, that's all it takes for you to tip over into your second orgasm of the night with a silent cry.
The urge to bite him lunges up. The animalistic instinct to claim him, to taste the blood that hares through his veins. A desire that's only invigorated by the scent of him, natural warmth, human, comforting in the traces of grease and metal that lurks beneath.
It takes every bit of self-restraint you have to lift your arm and to gag yourself with it, sinking the lethal points of your canines into your own flesh. It gives without protest, fangs sliding past the epidermis like it's butter. It doesn't inhibit the pleasure taking you over. It makes it all the more fatal. White-hot in its seize. The flavor of blood, metallic, bold, a nectar unlike anything else, only exacerbates the high of sex, and now you're the one convulsing from the brunt of your orgasm.
You keep going until you're both spent. Until the pleasure turns too sharp, overstimulating, and you're both twitching from the aftershocks. It's only then that you allow yourself to collapse. The sting in your hips and thighs makes you groan from the relief of finally stopping and you sag on top of him from the respite of it.
Your head drops on his chest, ear pressed where his heart thuds and pulses. You reluctantly pull your arms from your mouth, teeth parting with your skin, which immediately begins to heal from their absence. The smear of blood vanishing, cells pulling and returning to your body from the threshold of the wound, before the punctures can seal up. A pair of gnarled holes, and then they're gone entirely as though they had never been. But you can still taste the blood, the evidence of it across your palate.
You both pant, unmoving, Robert still buried inside of you, softening but heavy. You try to catch the oxygen you had lost and struggled to hold. You stay like that, basking in the afterglow. Lounging in the sounds of your breathing, the scent of sex, which has merged with his. It's pleasant. Peaceful. The kind of smell that you wish you could trap in a bottle and save for later. You hope the it sinks into the individual fibers of your blankets, joins into the walls so that the ghost of him will be housed here long after he's left. A haunting made especially for you.
You long to stay here, but you know that time won't slow down for you. Soon you'll both have to move. You'll have to get up from the bed and clean yourself up, take another shower, and Robert will have to go back home to Beef. This moment isn't infinite. The hands on the metaphorical clock are ticking down, and they can't wait for you to be ready for the inevitable. For the awkward conversation that awaits you. The shifty eyes and the promise to make sure that you'll both be professional, detached while at work.
"Ten out of ten," you blurt, trying to shake off the dread that's settled over you, as fitting as a second skin. "Ten out of ten, for sure."
He chuckles at the call back, and the fleeting trickle of levity is soothing. But it doesn't last. He falls silent, catching his breath while he absentmindedly traces shapes across your back and shoulders, sketching nonsensical patterns and marks. The sensation of it is more calming than your half-cocked attempt at humor. It helps you settle against him, going lax across the shape of his torso, your ribs trying to take shape to his own.
"You smell nice," you confess distractedly, placidly staring out the open window. Admiring the jumbled shapes of neighboring rooftops, the glow of the lights.
"I do try and bathe pretty regularly, so I'm glad it's paying off," he jokes. It lands better than your own, a sparse but delighted laugh bubbling from you.
"Not like that you dick." You turn your head just enough to playfully nip at his chest, earning a surprised 'ow' from him, but he quiets when you press a kiss to the sting. "Everyone has a scent — you know that much, obviously, but with my powers it's all magnified. So much more intense."
"What I smell like?" You hear his curiosity. It makes you wonder if he's staring up at the ceiling while he wonders, but you can't bother to lift your cheek up from where you settled it back down on his sternum. It's too warm. Too relaxing to pull away from.
"Warm. Alive. Vibrant."
"I'm not sure . . . If those are words that are usually to describe scents."
"They totally are. But I can try and dumb it down for you," you offer. You're sure he's rolling his eyes at you, and it makes you snicker. "It's difficult to describe sometimes. It's like I can smell your pulse. Your heartbeat. It's steady. Kind of comforting, like an old coat."
There's a tick of silence that passes by. "So I smell like an old coat. Got it."
"Ugh, no. You don't — nice! You smell nice, okay?"
"Sure, sure," he relents, impish dejection. There's no anger in it, no real hurt. It's all play, lighthearted. He's still holding you, arm wrapped around your waist, fingers playing over your back like he's plucking the invisible strings of a guitar. It all seems so real. It's the kind of gesture that doesn't belong between one-night stands. It's captivating, close, something shared between lovers. It has anxiety prickling at the back of your throat like you might be sick, turned ill from the uncertainty tossing in your stomach.
You should break the tension. Rip the band-aid off but you find your voice lost, caught within the chaotic webbing of your insecurities. Stuck on the fine threads and spun up like a stupid, struggling fly.
"I guess I should go ahead and ask: Was this a one-time thing? It's cool if it is, I understand. I just . . . want to make sure we're both on the same page. That there's no room for misunderstandings."
You question if you're hallucinating. If you had imagined him talking. But no. His voice is real, gruff and raw from how it had been used, but no less vulnerable. Uncertainty clinging to its edges. As though he's reluctant to ask. Afraid to hear what your answer is. While he's busy suffering in his trepidation, you're being freed of yours. The delight that breaks through you is shifting, coruscating with its hope.
"Do you want it to be a one-time thing?"
"No. No, I don't." His answer breaks over you like the dawn piercing through a long dark. Warmth cresting, a medley of hues splashing over the sky as though someone had spilt watercolors over a canvas. Life bursting through frozen earth.
"Then it isn't," you reply. Firm, doubtless.
His lips press against the crown of your head, a loving stamp of approval sealed on your skull. A mutual agreement signed in affection. A promise that hums between you with its own pulse, made living and determined. A future spanning out with promise.
It's definitely going to be worth all the paperwork HR is going to make you both sign tomorrow.
Summary: He hated you. He hated your job. But also he couldn’t stop thinking about you. It was deeply inconvenient.
Rating: Explicit (E)
Word Count: 12.2k
Tags/Warnings: banter, fighting, blackmail (but in a chill way), anti-rich people, smut, deaf!reader, ethics director reader, Jack is a little pathetic.
Author's Note: this story was sent from hell to kill me. I absolutely detest the last half of it but frankly, I wanted to be done with it.
P.S. I am not deaf/HoH and did a shit ton of research for this reader, but if something is amiss lmk, and I’ll fix ASAP.
-- -- --
The first time you both had crossed paths was at some all hospital budget meeting. He had been far too charmed by the way your surreptitiously removed your hearing aids and zoned out with a polite look on your face. He was sure he had never seen you before and he was intrigued immediately.
You weren’t dressed in scrubs but that didn’t mean you weren’t a doctor. He couldn’t help it if he watched for you from then on trying to figure out who you were. The two of you always seemed to cross paths in passing, never for long enough that Jack could strike up a conversation. But certainly long enough for him to study you. Study the way your expressive face reacted to the world around you.
It was months before he saw you again—this time by chance at the tiny dive bar he occasionally met his army buddies at.
You were sitting in a corner high top table near the speakers, your date had arrived before you, and based on the way your brows stayed furrowed the whole time--you couldn’t hear him for shit.
Jack watched as your date interpreted your staring at his lips as an invitation for him to kiss you. When you reared back, he said something unkind and while Jack doubted you could hear the actual words, he suspected you were able to intuit their meaning based on the way you flipped him off.
And so, a little impulsively, Jack followed you out of the bar. He used some of the sign language he had picked up over the past few months—he liked learning, no other reason—to ask you if you were all right.
“Do I know you?” You asked. Your voice rounded just enough that only someone looking for it would find evidence that you couldn’t fully hear.
“Jack Abbot, I work at PTMC. We briefly saw each other at that budget meeting a few months ago. I liked the way you subtly removed your hearing aids to drown out the dulcet tones of our chief financial officer,” Jack said.
You snorted but then winced. “Sorry, the bar was so loud. I’m getting feedback.”
“Well, if you don’t mind me fumbling my way through, I’m happy to practice some signs,” Jack told you.
“Really?” You asked, he got the impression you didn’t take him seriously.
Yes. He signed. You studied him for a moment and then slid your hearing aids out of your ears. The relief physical swept over you and Jack couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you were. The reflection of late night street lamps and neon bar lights reflected off of your skin in a mesmerizing way.
No longer pulled taut like a live wire, you smiled easier as Jack poorly worked his way through the few dozen or so signs he had managed over the past few months. He certainly would never admit to the joy of feeling your hands correct his formation of “hospital” or how you gave him a sign name. Every so often you would say something, seeming to modulate your words and volume by placing your hand at the base of your throat.
Throughout the awkwardly slow conversation, of which you seemed charmed by, the two of you kept inching closer and closer–drawn together by the overwhelming sound of the street despite the fact most of your conversation was completely silent. He pulled out his phone and typed into his notes app: How do you sign “kiss”?
You arched an eyebrow and he couldn’t help but hope you would pin that slightly unimpressed look on him again. It slithered, all hot and coiled, and settled in his gut. Still seemingly unimpressed, you pressed your fingertips to your thumbs and pressed both hands together, puckering your own lips.
Jack nodded, looking every bit of the interested student. He then slowly, and far more clumsy than he wished, managed to sign something he hoped communicated: can I kiss you?
The only signal that you weren’t absolutely turned off by his uncoordinated communication attempts was the slight uptick in the corner of your mouth as you grabbed his shirt and pushed him against the wall of the bar. He barely had a moment to realize what was happening before your lips were on his own.
Your kiss caught him so completely off guard that he almost forgot to close his eyes. For all his confidence in an emergency room, Jack was a disaster the second your mouth met his. At first, there was too much tongue, he tilted his head too far, and his hand hovered awkwardly at your waist before finally settling there. He kept trying to follow your lead but overcorrected every few seconds, bumping your nose once and murmuring a flustered apology against your mouth forgetting you couldn't even hear it.
And yet, despite every unskilled shift and startled inhale, he kissed you with a sincerity so earnest it tightened something warm and unexpected in your chest—like he was trying, with every maladroit brush of his lips to impress you. It was charming and gallant and more than anyone had done for you in far too long.
So Jack ended up in your bed.
He had long relied on his words to help his partners get off. That wasn’t an option with you. He had to be creative. If nothing else, and based on how he seemed to put his foot wrong at every step there might not be anything else, Jack loved a puzzle. He was clever and a problem solver at heart.
With each touch of his fingertips, press of his lips, and ghost of his breath on your skin he managed to make you fall apart. It was one of the great joys of being a human, watching such a beautiful connection crest. Also, he really liked to orgasm with a beautiful person (man, woman, neither, he wasn’t picky). Laying down next to you in bed, coming down from a remarkable orgasm you went through and taught him all of the dirty signs while giggling.
He now knew how to expertly sign he wanted to lick someone’s pussy but still struggled to fingerspell his own name. It is important to learn the signs you’ll need most, he supposed. Falling asleep next to you was fun and exciting; it felt like a sleepover he didn't want to end.
The next morning, your nervous system recovered from last night’s bar nightmare, you slid your hearing aids back in. You were a mess in the morning. Your hair was askew, your bleary eyes seemed to have difficulty focus, and Jack couldn't help but feel so deeply charmed.
“How much do they help?” Jack asked softly. He was still curled next to you in bed.
You debated on how much to share. Sometimes people got weird with the hearing loss, but then again, Jack himself was missing half a leg. He had joked that together you both made a single functioning human the night before. Of course, he had been buried deep inside you and you were barely reading his lips, so it was hard to guarantee that is what he was actually saying. You were only accurate about 50% of the time.
“A decent amount, especially in moments like this. There’s not a lot of extra noise, you’re close–it’s pretty clear. It gets hard in big meetings or loud places,” you told him. “I have a live captioning device, sometimes the hospital springs for an interpreter, often I have people were these microphones that go straight to my hearing aids.”
“Tinnitus?” he asked.
You snorted. “Ever the doctor.”
“You weren’t going to ask the same about the leg?” he laughed.
“I’m not a doctor,” you said. “Didn’t have the stomach for it.”
“What office are you in?”
“Compliance, lots of paperwork and lots of complaints to shift through. For awhile they had me only working on disability complaints, and I’m sure you can guess why I complained about that.”
“You mean you don’t want to be the spokesperson and guard for all disability access at our shit hospital?” he asked.
“Incredibly enough, no,” you laughed. He liked the sound of your laugh.
“What do I sound like to you?”
“Gravel-y, a nice bass note,” you said. “But I think part of that is I can feel your chest against my arm.”
“Have you always had partial loss?”
“Nah, lost it in college. My roommate was a Christian Scientist and got a freak version on meningitis I hadn’t been vaccinated against. After a few misdiagnoses, my fever got so bad it fried the little cells in my ear that hear.”
“Brutal,” Jack replied.
“Very much so. Losing your hearing at 19 is not something I would recommend. You do not get to be fun and drunk and slutty,” you sighed.
“Ah, so last night was making up for lost time?”
You snorted. “Last night was fucking the guy at work who keeps staring at me.”
“I thought you didn’t know who I was?” Jack grinned, wrapping his warm arm around you, pulling you close. He pressed a soft kiss against your lips and trailed them down your jaw and neck.
“Sometime around the time you had your hand up my shirt, I placed you. I had to admire the tenacity.”
“It wasn’t intentional,” he said in between sloppier kisses.
“I know.”
“I wasn’t stalking you,” he continued.
“I know, I got there after you,” you said.
“I just don’t want you to think I’m a creep.”
“Will you stop being a tease and kiss me?” you asked.
He popped his head back up, giving you a bashful little smile. “Yeah I can do that.”
After and equally expressive, but slightly more talkative second round, Jack said goodbye to you and went about his day. He had a night shift, but needed to go into work a little early.
Unfortunately, he had been pulled into another ethics-compliance retraining because Walsh had filed yet another complaint about his “process.” At least the guy who led these trainings seemed to go through them like a robotic pull toy–deeply uncaring if anyone in the room was paying attention. It allowed Jack to sit in the back and catch up on whatever dime-store novel he was working his way through. Right now he was on a bit of a mystery kick.
His book obsession was something that Ellis always gave him shit for, but it was nice to be able to escape into something that had nothing to do with medicine or real life. The less realistic the better. He loved mysteries, science fiction, and fantasy. Anything other than real life, he would read it.
Still, when he rolled up to the half too-hot and simultaneously half too-cold conference (it depending on a complex equation of season, time of day, interestingly enough–daylight savings time) he did not see the normal compliance trainer. Instead he was an imposing woman who looked like she would care if he sat in the back and read his book.
Instead he saw the same woman whose bed he had left a few hours before.
Instead he saw you.
Fuck.
Last night had been fun and free. The two of you had laughed and each brush of your hands against him made him feel like fireworks were being set off under his skin. But seeing you like this, polished and authoritative, made last night feel different. Like he suddenly had to reconcile the woman who kissed him against a brick wall with the one who now oversaw ethics violations for the entire hospital. Who was half the reason he was sitting in this too-hot, too-cold conference room.
Jack scanned the room, partially to see who else had fucked up and partially to give himself a distraction.
He saw Dr. Cynthia Gurathine near the front looking like the picture of attentive and well prepared. There was a legal pad (pink not the standard yellow), three colors of pens laid out next to her, and two different highlighters. It was astounding she didn’t have that level of preparedness when her patient complained of a headache and instead of running literally any test, she instead sent them home where they died of an aneurysm.
There was also Dr. Baki Erdem, a Turkish plastic surgeon. He was sanctioned for using expired saline implants in a patient. Dr. Bennette Chambers was the heart surgeon who had sneezed in the body cavity of his triple bypass.
Yet somehow, Jack was in this room for saving and not killing a patient. It was hard not to read his book to make a point.
He was going to kill Walsh.
They’d probably make him take the training again if he did.
“Hello everyone. Unfortunately, Patrick came down with the flu today,” you said. He could still hear the rounded notes of your voice.
He could also vividly remember exactly what you sounded like when you came.
Fuck.
“Today is going to be short and sweet. I know none of you want to be here anymore than I do.”
Your eyes moved over the audience. When your gaze landed on Jack, he knew exactly when you recognized him—your expression barely flickered, but the effort to keep it neutral was obvious. It was as if you were rapidly recalibrating, processing the fact that he was standing there. A flash of recognition, a split second of horror, and then your face settled back into a calm, professional mask. Only your fingers betrayed you, tapping fast against your pant leg. You cleared your throat and finished the introduction by giving your name.
“I am the Director of Legal and Ethical Compliance. You’ve probably dealt with me if you’ve had a case go to the ethics board,” you began.
Jack processed your title—Director of Legal and Ethical Compliance—and he felt his eyebrows lift before he could stop them. He had slept with the person in charge of half the bureaucratic red tape he’d complained about for years. Begged you to let him crawl into your bed, actually.
Despite how much he did not want to be here–how much he did not want you to be here with him–he had to admit you were a good presenter. You were well spoken, able to modulate your volume well (by feeling the bottom of your throat for vibrations, you had explained it to him this morning when you were both naked), and you had a decent sense of humor only he seemed to find amusing.
Eventually you opened it up to questions. Predictably, nobody asked a thing—until Cynthia Guarthine shot her hand up like she was back in middle school trying to prove herself in her first honors class.
“Dr. Guarthine?”
You glanced toward the interpreter near the side wall, then back to Cynthia, waiting for her to speak. Cynthia launched into her question at full speed: a rambling, self-pitying explanation of how she absolutely did nothing wrong and how it was insulting that she had to be here with “actual negligent people.”
Jack bristled reflexively. She’d made Ellis cry once during her intern year, and he’d been holding that grudge like a cherished heirloom; he nurtured it like Jesse did his sourdough starter.
Your response was measured and more kind than Cynthia deserved since she had been directly responsible for someone’s death. You harped on the importance of documentation, but Jack could read between the lines of professional legal speak. He suspected in a perfect world you would have fired Cynthia yourself. However, there was a doctor shortage and needs must, or at least that’s what the admin would say if anyone asked why Cynthia hadn’t been kicked out on her ass.
And it was your job to smooth over those rough edges that chafed between good medical practice, the hospital’s interests, and whatever lawsuit was knocking on the door. He hated how that was your job. He hated how your work felt like a barrier between him and the patients he needed to save. He also hated how attracted to you he still was.
After you dismissed the group, Jack lingered just long enough to watch Cynthia make a beeline toward you, launching into another high-speed monologue.
You squinted, leaning in, and finally said, polite but firm, “Can you slow down? I’m not catching everything. Or we can wait for my interpreter.”
“Your interpreter? But you speak English,” Cynthia said, baffled.
Jack snorted. Loudly.
“Fuck off, Abbot,” she snapped.
“Maybe pay better attention,” Jack said, standing and stretching. There was a satisfying pop in his lower back. His hip had been giving him a bit of trouble since the previous night's activities had been rather strenuous. “Our Director of Ethics and Compliance is hard of hearing.”
The angry flush rising up Cynthia’s neck was spectacular to witness. He wished he could take a photo for Ellis.
“Dr. Abbot,” you said sharply. Not angry—just direct, with a slight arch of your brow. It was the same expression you’d worn last night when you pinned him against the bar wall before kissing him senseless.
Jack cleared his throat. “My apologies.”
Cynthia muttered “Thank you,” as if it were meant for her.
Jack ignored that, gathered his things, and headed back toward the Pitt. He took his time, hoping to work out the stiffness in his hips, as well as give him some time to calm down. Being overly emotional in The Pitt was never a good idea. He took the long way around, cutting through a courtyard, through the medical library, and eventually through the ambulance bay doors.
Ellis greeted him with a grin when he stepped inside.
“Return of the prodigal son,” she said.
“I’m all fixed now,” he replied with a mock bow. “A reformed man.”
“You sure? Because if I’m not mistaken that is the Ethics and Compliance Director right now and she does not look happy,” Ellis said, pivoting away with an enviable speed. Smart woman.
Jack turned and saw you coming out of the elevator--the more direct route from the temperature confused conference room to the Pitt. He didn’t want to look at you again so soon, but he couldn’t help but let his eyes rove over your form–barely keeping himself from remembering what you felt like in his arms and looked like falling apart on his cock.
His arms crossed before he even registered the motion, a small, defensive motion–feeble against anything you could throw at him.
“Dr. Abbot?” you asked, quieter than he was expecting.
He didn’t soften. If anything, he straightened sharply, chin lifting.
“Director,” he drawled.
The wince you gave him did nothing to ease the sharp irritation sitting in his chest.
“I didn’t know you would be there and I didn’t know I would be there. Trust me, the last thing I want is to make you feel uncomfortable.”
His laugh was humorless, as he looked away. His fingers flexed once against his biceps before he dropped his arms entirely.
“Well, now that’s all cleared up,” he said, already stepping past you.
“That’s it?”
“Far as I’m concerned.”
Your confusion made him bristle more. Something red hot tightened across his shoulders, a slow wave rising under his skin.
“This is a very different energy than I was expecting,” you replied, simply. You looked genuinely thrown. He couldn’t believe you hadn’t put it together yet.
He turned on his heel so abruptly a nurse walking by had to sidestep him. His posture was rigid, anger barely contained behind the veneer of professional detachment.
“I was in that room because I saved someone’s life,” Jack said harshly, voice low but razor sharp. “And everyone else in there killed or seriously injured patients. I always have my patients’ best interests at heart and your office, under your purview, continually chastises me because nosy doctors can’t keep their opinions to themselves.”
You blinked once. Then twice. His anger barely fazed you, but it confused you—and something about that only irritated him further. He was used to getting a rise out of people, for people to match his energy; you seemed to calm even more.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “Well, I don’t make those decisions. No offense, I handle bigger fish than you. But I’m happy to institute a review if you want to make an official complaint.”
Jack scoffed, nostrils flaring. “And have this on record, left to the whims of someone who answers to the board? No thank you.”
He pivoted, a sharp, military-precise motion that betrayed his impulse to put distance between you. But you moved quickly, stepping into his path. He stopped short, not looking at you.
“I do answer to the board, Dr. Abbot,” you said. “But don’t mistake that for me being their puppet. I’ve left jobs over smaller missteps.”
“Lots of ethics director jobs hanging about nowadays?”
“No,” you said, unmoved by his derision, “but there sure are a lot of jobs for someone who has sued and won against multiple hospital systems for gross negligence and malpractice. I’ve won hundreds of millions, Jack. Why do you think they brought me in after you guys fired a slew of doctors for taking actual bribes?”
His jaw worked once, irritation pulsing through the lines of his neck. He didn’t like being reminded of that. He didn’t like administration. He didn’t like any of this.
He didn’t want to like you, but he couldn’t lie and say this new information didn’t make you more and more intriguing.
“I didn’t know they were connected. I do my best to know as little as possible about administration,” Jack said.
You gave a short, incredulous laugh. It was a laugh directed at him and his action; it was almost mean. For a split second, he wondered if this was the version of you that people faced down in a court room.
“Oh, brilliant idea. It’s one thing to hate the people in power. Not a bad idea all things considered. But not to know them? Irresponsible. You can’t win against a monster you don’t know.”
He stepped closer without meaning to. “And you know them?”
“I know how to do my job. And that job makes sure patients leave these walls on their own volition and not grievously maimed or in body bags. So sure, I do insist on tedious paperwork, but tedious paperwork is a lot more powerful than you give it credit for.”
Jack inhaled sharply through his nose, the muscle in his jaw jumping. He was irritated, stubborn, reluctantly impressed, and furious with himself for every single ounce of respect and admiration you squeezed out of him.
“Last night cannot happen again,” he said.
“You’re correct. If you ever come across my desk in any substantive way you can request I recuse myself,” you told him seriously.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And yet, somehow I know you’d still be fair even if you hated me.”
“I would certainly try.”
“You’re very impressive,” he begrudgingly admitted.
“It looked like saying that caused you actual pain. Are you that against anyone in hospital administration that you can’t even compliment the woman who sucked your dick last night?” you asked, lowering your voice.
“Christ,” he grumbled, frantically looking around to see if anyone was listening. Thankfully most people thought he was getting in trouble and were steering clear. “A little decorum, please.”
“Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot,” you told him with an amused glint in your eye. He was back to hating you now. “Have a good shift.”
“Make me,” he bitched under his breath. You didn’t hear him. He was almost disappointed.
-- -- --
Jack promised himself he would never end up in your bed again. Honestly, it wasn’t that hard of a promise to make. He rarely saw you; sometimes you passed each other in the hallways or were in the same meetings but oftentimes you were both too busy with your respective jobs for Jack to worry about falling under whatever spell you managed to put him under.
It doesn’t mean he stopped thinking about it though. He thought often of that night. He thought of the way you felt against him, the little gasps you emitted, the way your nails dug into his skin. And sure, like any warm blooded man he jerked off to the memories but it wasn’t like he was jerking off to the idea of you.
Or at least that’s what he told himself.
So when Robby went on sabbatical and left Jack with the interim Chief Attending title, Jack was not worried about the handful of meetings suddenly on his calendar to which you had also been added.
He was introduced to a whole new layer of hospital bureaucracy though. It made him sick. He knew that Gloria was counting the days for Robby to return, because while Robby gave her a headache, Jack was positive he shaved years off her life.
His first board meeting—a whole weekend affair he was only required to be at for a few hours, thank god—was the next time he saw you and had a chance to actually devote time to avoiding you. It was a catered dinner with the heads of departments, key administrators and board members.
The dinner was good, thankfully. The perk of all the rich people in the room. After dinner, there was networking and chatting and it made Jack want to die. At one point he glanced over at you, and you looked just as thrilled to be here as he did.
“Dr. Abbot!” Some man with an expensive watch and not-expensive-enough toupee called, a real shame since he’d seen one of those really fun internet videos about how far the style had come. Money cannot buy taste apparently.
“Sir,” Jack said tightly.
“We greatly miss Dr. Robby at this, but it’s great to meet another great leader in our great emergency department.”
Jack blinked at the number of times the man said the word “great” to him and frantically tried to think of a reply. He knew his face was stoic, and, while he didn’t care about coming off as personable, he wasn’t about to make an enemy of the board for no reason.
“Thank you, those are kind words,” he managed roughly.
“Gotta say, we were a bit worried about you stepping up,” he continued.
“Oh?”
“Well, there have been a handful of ethics worries on your part, yes? But the girl who does all that ethics and legal stuff reassured us that you wouldn’t bring down a lawsuit on our ass,” he laughed.
Jack ground his teeth and said, “I think the Director of Legal and Ethics Compliance has a name.”
“Ah,” he said, waving away the correction.
“Isn’t she important?” Jack asked.
“Between you and me, we only hired her to save face. She sued the ass off of Presby’s system a couple years ago and won over twenty million dollars for gross negligence. When Gloria discovered those young men boosting their pays—well, we didn’t want to be out twenty million. We’re a teaching hospital,” the man laughed.
Jack became disillusioned with the army far before he left. He struggled to reconcile how he was required to take lives and save them at the same time. Sitting in this room, next to this man he was not struggling with that reconciliation one bit.
“She’s been a good addition,” Jack managed, he hoped without sounding like he was one wrong move from taking this butter knife and shoving it in the rich man’s chest.
“Oh sure. Helps out or gender quota, too. Not to mention the diversity points. Deaf? Thank god, she probably wouldn’t appreciate the things we say about her ass,” he laughed.
“She is hard of hearing,” Jack corrected. “And can read lips. Not to mention, only being respectful when someone can hear you is a pretty poor choice.”
He knew men like this. Calling them sexist or assholes never did much. Implying, even with wordplay, their actions were “lower class” hit them much harder.
“Well, I wouldn’t say we’re disrespecting—” he began
Jack turned his full gaze at the man. “I don’t know if Robby tolerated this kind of chat, but I don’t. She is a remarkable lawyer and the only reason Dr. Guarathine and about half a dozen other people haven’t bankrupted the hospital. I would make sure your words don’t get back to her, is all I’m saying.”
“And you’re going to tattle on me?” He laughed, but Jack heard the stress in his voice.
“Nope,” Jack replied, standing up. Jack didn’t wait around to hear his response.
In a lot of ways, he suspected his ideal hospital would be run the same way that asshole wanted it run—and something about that gnawed at him uncomfortably.
He found you hidden away in a corner, typing on your phone. You looked up when you saw him approach. Pointing to both your ears you shook your head; you’d taken out your hearing aids. He was almost jealous of your ability to do that.
Despite the ending of his infatuation with you, and it definitely ended. He still continued to learn sign language. It had come in handy more than a few times in the ED, both to communicate with patients and with colleagues across the floor. Jack was still bad at it, but his attempts at communication were more clear this time around than a few months ago in a darkened alley behind a bar.
Hiding? He asked.
Hiding. Getting a headache from all the noise. Hard to hear people and determine what they’re saying. You said, rolling your eyes.
Want to sneak out with me?
I thought you didn’t like me anymore? You asked with narrowed eyes.
I like you far more than anyone else in the room. Jack admitted.
Even Dr. Willis from pediatrics?
Especially Dr. Willis. Too chipper for someone who works with dying kids. Jack said with a disgusted look on his face. Follow me, we can leave through the side.
Jack led you through the throng of people, rarely getting a passing glance from anyone. Eventually the two of you ended up by the entrance to the kitchen and together you both snuck through and into the cacophony of noises. It was weird to think only Jack could hear the clattering of plates and bowls.
Once through the kitchen, he led you to an empty hallway and near an elevator.
My own personal Magellan. You said. Thank you, I was going crazy.
Despite every logical part of his brain telling him to say no, he couldn’t help but ask: do you want to grab a drink? I know of a bar nearby with quiet outdoor seating.
You thought for a minute then nodded. That would be nice.
-- -- --
The bar was tucked halfway down a side street, the kind of place people walked past without realizing it even existed. The outdoor seating area was small—a few metal tables under a string of low, amber lights—but it was mercifully quiet. A few customers murmured at the far end of the patio by the thick wooden privacy fence and a row of potted juniper trees. The hum of traffic was distant, muffled by the angle of the alley, leaving the space surprisingly calm for a Friday night.
Jack chose the table closest to the corner. He held the chair out for you without thinking, and the moment you sat, he couldn’t help but notice the excited swoop in his stomach. You looked as ever composed, almost regal, in the way your spine stayed straight and your chin lifted slightly as you surveyed the patio. The soft light caught your cheekbones and the edge of your jaw, and the faint curve of amusement tugging at your mouth.
You slid your hearing aids back in and relaxed back into the metal chair. Jack watched as you gazed at him, he felt like he was being studied.
“Do you always go to board meetings?” He asked. It sounded like an awful chat up line.
“Every quarter,” you sighed. “They insist on metrics and updates.”
“And how’s it going?”
“How’s it going?” You repeated.
“The job? The bureaucratic red tape that keeps me from doing my job?”
You rolled your eyes and flagged down a waiter walking by.
“Can I get whatever lager is on tap?” You asked. Turning your attention back to Jack you said, “It’s going fine considering I’ve been at the job less than a year. Why would you care?”
“Because whatever board member has a terrible toupee does not like or respect you,” Jack said seriously.
You snorted. “I’m well aware.”
“I’m serious. Some of the things he said…well, I told him to knock it off.”
“Wait, seriously?” If Jack didn’t know better you almost sounded disappointed.
“Yeah of course I did. He was being gross.”
You groaned. “I can’t believe you.”
“I thought that was the ethical thing to do, my bad,” he defended.
You laughed humorlessly. “No, no you’re right. I just, I know what he says, Jack. I have an assistant, you know. Her name is Riley. She is amazing. She is also fully hearing. I’m not sure if Hazlet doesn’t think she is because I’m not or if just doesn’t think about assistants.”
“Probably both, he seems like a dick.”
“Oh, a tremendous asshole,” you laughed. “But he’s not exactly good about keeping his volume down. And perhaps I have a dozen or so recordings of the nasty things he’s said about me and just about any other woman who works for PTMC.”
“You’re going to expose him,” Jack said.
“Eventually, but first I’m going to leverage it so he supports my measure I’m introducing tomorrow.”
“I think that’s blackmail and it doesn’t sound very ethical,” Jack replied.
You smiled. “You seem to have this interesting notion of me in your head. That I’m some obsessive rule follower hell bent on ungreasing the wheels or something.”
“Are you not?”
“You’re the one that just accused me of blackmail. I’m not sure I can be both.”
Jack huffed and glared at the amused look on your face. He felt like he had been backed into a corner by a master tactician. It was tremendously irritating. On one hand he had heard rumors how strict you and your office were about documentation, refusing to manipulate rules to overcome some of the more tedious bureaucratic nonsense. On the other hand, you were manipulating a shitty man into being on your side for some kind of measure that needed to be voted on.
“What is your proposal?”
“Pinky swear you won’t say anything?”
“Pinky swear?”
“The most solemn of vows,” you said seriously, proffering up your pinky.
“Fine,” Jack sighed and locked his pinky with yours.
“I’m proposing stricter measures in the code of conduct regarding malpractice. Essentially, I want to make sure I can fire the next Cynthia Guarthine.”
Jack was…not actually opposed to that.
“And so you’re blackmailing toupee bastard—”
“Dean Hazlet, but sure.”
“—so he’ll vote for it?”
“Technically, but there are two big camps on the board. There’s Gloria’s camp and regardless of your views of her. She actually cares about the hospital and patients. And then there’s Hazlet who cares about reputation and income. Gloria and I came up with the new policy and she’s been politicking her way through Hazlet’s camp for months, but only managed one or two defectors. So, Riley and I got creative.”
“You’re blackmailing him to support your proposal and convince his friends to do the same,” Jack realized.
“I’d prefer to say making a deal, but sure,” you said.
“Isn’t it hypocritical? You're cracking down on doctors trying to finesse the system but you’re committing an actual crime?”
“Well, there’s no way to prove what I’m doing, I’m smarter than that. But insurance companies and lawyers play the detail game. They can and will spend hours upon hours shifting through paperwork and notes and niche memos to find one reason to save a buck, or sue you for it. So I am cracking down it.
“Boards aren’t like that. Most of these rich people have never had a job. They sit on these boards and make decisions and the only currency that matters to them is reputation. They don’t give a shit about paperwork. They care about the fact that my good friend from undergrad works at the Times and how Riley and I have weeks and months worth of harassing recordings of him.”
“The world you live in is…depressing as shit,” Jack said.
You shrugged. “Maybe, but look. I’m good at it and it means that patients have better outcomes. So, sometimes the ends justify the means.”
“Not very ethical,” he grumbled.
“I thought we’d already determined I’m a hypocrite,” you comment blandly sipping at the drink the waiter dropped off.
“I don’t know what you are but I’m not sure I like you.”
“Incredibly enough Dr. Abbot, I don’t care if you approve of my actions.”
“But you care so much about patients,” he said suddenly, like he was realizing there was a puzzle piece that didn’t fit neatly in his narrative.
“I do,” you replied.
“Why?”
“Because I lost my hearing when doctors ignored me. As much as the healthcare system is failing because of external factors, bad doctors are also responsible.”
“What do you mean ‘ignored you’?”
“I mean I went to the campus clinic at 19, my roommate had tested positive for meningitis, and I had all the classic symptoms. But they didn’t test me because I had been vaccinated. They told me to sleep it off.”
“It maybe wasn’t the smartest call, but it wasn’t malpractice,” Jack protested.
“Jack,” you said, looking down your nose at him.
He sighed, “Yeah, that’s fucked.”
“I care about patients because I was one. I know it’s annoying, but trust me when I say my goal is not to make your job harder.”
“You’re very convincing, you know that?”
To his delight, you threw your head back and laughed. It was bright and joyful. Jack wanted to hear it again and again.
“I’ve been told,” you said.
“I really hate some of your job,” he added.
“Me too.”
“I really don’t want to like you,” he continued.
“But I’ve won you over a little bit, haven’t I?”
Jack let out a soft snort and said, “I think I’ll keep that to myself.”
“So what’s the deal with you and Dr. Walsh?”
“She hates me,” Jack said.
“Mmm, maybe,” you replied, but you didn’t sound convinced.
“Why’d you say it like that?” He asked suspiciously.
“Well, she’s part of the reason I rallied for you to get the interim position.”
“What do you mean?”
“She said that no one cares about patients and doctors more than you and even though you hate it, you're pretty good at hierarchy,” you told him.
“When have you both talked about me?”
“We get brunch sometimes.”
“You get brunch sometimes,” he repeated.
“Yeah.”
“And you talk about me.”
“Not often, don’t get a big head about it.”
“But at least once where she said I would make a good interim chief attending?”
“Yes.”
“The world has become infinitely more weird since I’ve met you.”
“You say that like you didn’t badly flirt your way into my bed,” you laughed.
“I seem to remember you were not opposed.”
“Nope, I wasn’t. You were…” you paused and thought for a moment. “One of the only people who ever learned sign language for me.”
“You have be joking,” Jack said.
“No. I’ve either dated people who already knew or they didn’t bother.”
“Didn’t bother?”
Jack could hear the sharp edge in his own voice and had the fleeting awareness that he might be overreacting. He leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, watching your face carefully. The amber light caught in your eyes as you looked past him for a moment, like you were searching for a memory and deciding how much of it to share.
“They’d say all the right things,” you said finally. “Stuff about how it didn’t matter, how it made me ‘unique,’ whatever that means. But when it came down to actually changing anything—speaking a bit slower, facing me when they talked, learning a few basic signs—it was always too much effort. They liked the idea of dating someone different. They didn’t like having to do anything about it. Because the fact of the matter is, my disability does matter. It impacts everything about me. Every choice I make.”
The waiter dropped Jack’s drink off and he barely spared it a glance. He was too busy trying to keep from flying off the handle. “So they just expected you to work around them.”
You shrugged, lips tilting in a wry little half-smile. “Most people do. It’s not personal. It’s just how the world runs. The majority sets the default and everyone else adjusts. I’m not special in that.”
“You are,” he said before he could stop himself.
Your gaze landed back on his face, and for a second he wondered if he’d said it louder than he meant to. You blinked once, slowly, and he watched you track his lips like you were double-checking you’d gotten it right. You seemed flustered by his comment and took a sip of your beer to disguise it.
“Anyway,” you said, setting the glass down and deliberately shifting the subject. “Point being, you trying to sign in an alley behind a shitty bar was memorable.”
“Memorable,” he repeated. “That is generous. I remember a lot of flailing.”
“You were really terrible,” you confirmed, utterly unapologetic. “But you were trying. And, it was really sweet.”
It shouldn’t have impacted him the way it did. He had medals in a box somewhere, commendations stuffed in a drawer, patients’ families who had written him letters. None of that had ever settled under his skin the way your quiet compliment did now. He took a long drink of his beer and looked away, over your shoulder, annoyed at himself for how warm his chest felt.
“You realize I’m still terrible at it,” he muttered.
“And yet you keep learning,” you pointed out. “You used more tonight than last time.”
“It’s useful for patients.”
“And were patients the reasons you defended me against a board member who could make your life hell?” You asked idly, tapping a nail on the side of your glass.
“His policies already suck. You were just a bonus round.”
You huffed a laugh, the corners of your mouth softening. “A bonus, huh?”
He glared at you, but it was half-hearted. “Don’t make me regret telling you that.”
“You regretted sleeping with me, remember?” you said lightly. “This is just keeping the trend consistent.”
He winced, because that was uncomfortably close to the truth he’d been clinging to. He had told himself that sleeping with you had been a lapse in judgment, a one-time thing. He had told himself that you were a walking embodiment of everything he hated about administration, just wrapped in a very tempting package. It had been easier to file you under “mistake” and move on.
Except you weren’t behaving like a mistake. You were sitting in front of him, calm and amused and explaining how you used blackmail to protect future patients from malpractice, and somehow that made you make more sense in his head. Not less.
“I didn’t regret sleeping with you,” he said slowly, surprising himself as much as you. “I regretted that you were…you.”
Your brows climbed. “Thanks?”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I mean you’re the Director of Ethics and Legal Compliance. You’re the person whose emails I avoid. You’re the reason I get dragged into terribly boring ethics refreshers. Then I find out you’re funny and smart and willing to break rules for the right reasons, and it’s deeply inconvenient.”
You smiled into your glass, clearly entertained. “So what you’re saying is, you wanted me to be simpler.”
“Yes,” he said bluntly. “I wanted you to be an annoying bureaucrat I could ignore. I did not want you to be…” He gestured vaguely at you. “…this.”
“This?” you echoed, clearly prodding him on purpose.
“You know what I mean,” he grumbled. “You’re…complicated.”
“Everyone is complicated, Jack.”
“Sure,” he said. “But you’re complicated in a way that keeps colliding with my job and my life and the way I’ve decided to be angry about things. It’s very rude.”
Your laugh rang out again, bright and genuine, and he felt it reach somewhere low in his chest. You tilted your head, studying him, eyes crinkling in a way he recognized from your bedroom and the conference room alike—a kind of quiet delight at having successfully needled him.
“You know you don’t have to like me,” you said. “We could go back to you glaring at my emails and me threatening to pull your privileges if you don’t write better notes.”
He imagined that for half a second and found, to his irritation, that he hated it. The idea of going back to pretending you were just an inbox nuisance instead of a person who laughed like that and carried recordings of board members in her back pocket made something twist uncomfortably inside him.
“Too late,” he said.
You blinked. “Too late?”
He met your eyes and didn’t look away. “You’re in my head now. It’s annoying.”
A slow, pleased smile curved your mouth. You didn’t gloat, exactly, but he could see the spark of satisfaction there. You sat back, crossing one leg over the other, the movement smooth and unhurried. For a moment, you looked like you were at a deposition rather than a bar—poised, unruffled, confident in your position. Except your eyes were warm, and the way you watched him felt anything but detached.
“And what are you going to do about that?” you asked, voice mild.
He should have said nothing. He should have made some dry comment about boundaries and professionalism and how their relationship needed to stay firmly in the lane of “annoying but necessary colleague.”
Instead, he thought about the way you had laughed tonight, the casual way you had described fighting for stricter malpractice rules, the offhand mention of losing your hearing because someone decided not to take you seriously at nineteen.
He thought about last time, about his hands in your hair and your body pressed against his, about how clumsy he’d been and how patient you’d been with his fumbling. He thought about how easy it had been to fall asleep next to you, and how hard it had been to shake the memory afterward.
Jack took another drink, buying himself a few seconds. The beer was cold and crisp and did nothing to drown out the awareness humming under his skin. He set the glass down a little harder than he meant to.
“I should take you home,” he muttered.
Your eyes widened just enough for him to catch it. “Should you?”
“No,” he admitted. “I absolutely should not. It’s a terrible idea.”
“But?” you prompted, clearly hearing the unspoken continuation.
“But I want to,” he said, irritation threading every word. “And I am increasingly annoyed at how much I want to.”
You sat very still for a moment, the only movement the steady tap of your thumb against the condensation on your glass. Then you leaned in slightly, elbows resting on the table, your expression softer now, the amusement tempered with something more thoughtful.
“You know what happens if you do,” you said. “You know what happens if this keeps going.”
“HR gets involved,” he said dryly. “The only office worse than yours.”
“You compromise me if you ever end up in front of my board again,” you corrected. “And you complicate your already tenuous relationship with administration. And if it goes badly, I still have to see you in meetings for the next however many years you stay at PTMC.”
“Trust me, I have thought about all of that,” Jack said. “Repeatedly. Usually around two in the morning.”
“And yet here we are,” you said quietly. “At a bar, alone, after you snuck me out of a terrible board dinner.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Here we are.”
For a few beats, neither of you spoke. The patio hummed with distant conversation and the clink of glassware, muted by the fence and the night air. Above you, the string lights shimmered faintly, casting everything in a soft, forgiving glow.
He watched you watch him, taking in every micro-expression, every shift of your shoulders, every small movement of your mouth. You were so different from him it was almost comical. You lived in definitional words, contracts, and clever leverage; he lived in adrenaline, gut instincts, and ever present reminder of death.
And yet, somehow, you both ended up at the same hospital fighting for the same patients in completely different arenas. He didn’t know what to do with that. It bothered him. He kind of wanted to argue with you for another three hours just to see what else would fall out of your mouth.
“So?” you asked, breaking the silence. “What’s the verdict, Dr. Abbot? Keep me at arm’s length and go back to hating my emails and policies? Or risk terrible life choices and a potential HR nightmare?”
He gave a short, exasperated laugh. “You really know how to make a sales pitch.”
“I’m a lawyer,” you said. “I like clear options. Pros and cons.”
Jack exhaled slowly, fingers drumming once against the table before he stilled them. He looked at you—really looked—and admitted something to himself that he’d been dodging since the alley behind that first bar.
He was not done with you. Not even close. His brain might have decided you were a bad idea, but his body and whatever stubborn, reckless part of him that signed up for war and emergency medicine had other plans.
“Finish your beer,” he said at last. “If, after that, you still want to make a terrible life choice, I’ll call us a car.”
Your lips parted, surprise flickering there before it softened into a slow, pleased smile. You lifted your glass, clinking it lightly against his.
“To terrible life choices?” you asked.
He gave you a flat look that didn’t quite hide the warmth in his eyes. “To complex, hypocritical, very annoying ethics directors,” he said. “Who I apparently can’t stop thinking about.”
You took a long sip, eyes never leaving his, and he felt his stomach drop in that familiar, infuriating way. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small, disciplined voice reminded him that this was going to complicate everything.
He ignored it and took you home.
The first time he hooked up with you, he went to your place. Once the car he called dropped you both back at the hospital, Jack drove you back to his place and he worried at the state he left it in when he went to the meeting that morning. As he eased into the driveway, you turned to look at him and said,
“You can change your mind, you know.”
“Isn’t that my line?”
“Arachic and sexist,” you replied. “You’re the one with the hang up about my job.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
You shrugged. “I have my own feelings about it. I won’t be at this job forever, trust me.”
“You’re going to quit?” Jack asked surprised.
“Not anytime soon. But I made way more money as an attorney and I miss it. My old firm would take me back,” you said.
“Well, the board is scared of you,” Jack told you. Your grin turned a little feral.
“Good.”
“I am a little scared of you,” Jack added.
“Yeah? Why so?”
“Because you push me more than I want to be pushed,” he grumbled.
The moonlight shone through the windshield and you grabbed Jack’s hand, tracing your pointer finger along the tendons and muscles. He couldn’t help but follow the movement mesmerized by the fearless way you touched him. Once people learned about his leg, they touched and held him differently. They recalibrated, and with his closest friends, it didn’t take long. But there was no hesitation in how you treated him. You knew what it was like to be underestimated and you didn’t deign to do the same to anyone else.
“I can only apologize for such an egregious affront,” you snorted.
“Good, although I can think of way for you to make it up to me,” Jack replied coyly.
“Yeah? And what is that?”
“You could kiss me.”
“I think I can do that,” you said, unbuckling your seatbelt and turning slightly to reach over the console, gently pressing your lips against his. “Like that?”
He could hear the smile in your voice. “I need more convincing.”
You laughed and cupped his jaw with both hands, leaning in again—slowly and deliberately. Jack met you halfway, lips brushing once, twice, before you deepened the kiss with a soft, confident pressure that made his pulse kick.
He felt the cool fall air drift in through the cracked window, contrasting sharply with the warmth radiating off your body as you angled closer. Your knee bumped his thigh; the console pressed into your hip; it was awkward and cramped. Still the awkwardness and cramped reality of making out with someone in his car was made a lot more fun knowing it was you.
Jack tipped his head, chasing the taste of you. You seemed to respond to him before he could even have the thoughts himself. When your tongue brushed a particularly sensitive spot, you doubled down seconds after he reacted. You seemed to kiss based on how he reacted against you instead of noises or other indicators. It made him wonder what it was like to navigate intimacy without relying on the tiny noises he’d always used as cues. Every quiet exhale and muted hum you made were precious, but he knew you weren’t listening for them. You were listening to the movement of his body, the way he leaned in, the way he softened.
He felt your breath on his cheek as you dragged your mouth to the corner of his lips, then along his jaw. Your fingers slipped down the side of his throat, finding the steady pulse there, and Jack’s whole body tightened with a longing so immediate it felt like instinct.
“Jesus,” he muttered, voice low and rough.
You paused just long enough to murmur, lips brushing his skin, “Too much?”
“Not even close.”
You smiled against his jaw. He felt it—a tiny, warm curve that made his stomach pull tight. When you kissed him again, deeper this time, he felt your fingertips skimming beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the part of his thigh where his skin met the suction of his prosthetic, and the sensation shocked him.
People always changed when they learned about his leg. They didn’t mean to, but they did—pulling back, overcompensating, touching him with a carefulness that felt more clinical than tender. Your palm cupped the side of his thigh, fingers digging slightly, and Jack nearly groaned.
He dragged you closer by the back of your neck, the space between you was too much. Your breath stuttered—just barely—and the tiny sound, soft as it was, was something he planned on memorizing.
You shifted, climbing over the console to settle partially on his lap, one hand braced on the headrest behind him. The car dipped with your weight. His hands slid to your waist—warm, firm, grounding—as you kissed him again, slower now, as though savoring him.
“Jack…” you whispered, voice low, slightly rounded at the edges. Your thumb swept the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah?” he breathed.
“I really like kissing you.”
He smirked weakly, tugging you a fraction closer. “Makes two of us.”
Your smile softened, and you kissed him once more—sweet, slow, a little devastating—before resting your forehead against his. He knew that you both should get out of the car. That there was a perfectly good bed waiting for you inside, but right now, with you seated on his lap in the cramped car, he couldn’t imagine anything better.
“We should probably go inside,” he said, mouthing at your neck.
“Probably,” you agreed, arching your neck to give him more room. His mouth made it down to the hollow of your throat and he gave you a tiny lick that made you giggle.
“I think I could do this all night.”
“Probably not good for my knees or your leg,” you laughed.
“No, I guess not,” he sighed. “Any idea how we get out of this tangle.”
“Not a clue, getting on your lap was deeply impulsive, and I’m not sure how to leave.”
Jack hugged you tighter laughing. He wanted you to hear his laugh, sure, but more importantly, he wanted you to feel it. You unlocked his door and opened it. With unbridled amusement, he watched as you nearly fell out of the car. He followed and led you up to the front of his home.
“Don’t judge the mess. I cannot remember how I left it this morning,” he replied.
“Grim sounding,” you said.
He opened his front door and was relieved that everything seemed relatively clean. He was sure that there was a pile of scrubs laying around somewhere, but it seemed unimportant the moment he shut the door and you had him pressed up against the wall again. It would be an understatement to say he enjoyed the feeling of you pushed up against him.
Jack was a sturdy man. He was frequently seen as the toughest person in a room (if his leg wasn’t visible). But he became putty in your hands the moment you exerted even a minor amount of force.
“God you’re so hot,” you mumbled against his neck. It was mesmerizing to be the single-minded focus of your attention. It felt like you had trained your whole like to dissolve him into putty against his own front door.
“There is a really nice bed about fifteen steps away,” he said. Even he heard how strangled he sounded.
You pulled back and your lips were a little swollen and red. God, he thought you were perfect.
When he finally pulled you into the bedroom, he managed to get an upper hand long enough, to begin to unzip your dress and pull it off your shoulders. You shucked it off your hips and went to pull at his shirt and pants. You were in your underwear and bra while he pulled off his pants. They managed to get stuck on his leg and he gracelessly hopped around until he fell back on the bed. Your joyful laugh followed and he watched you gingerly pull his pants off his fake leg.
“Can I?” you asked gesturing to his prosthetic.
“Yes,” he nodded.
Almostly reverently, you gently released the suction from his socket and pulled his socket off of the liner. Once it was placed against the side the bed, you began to roll off the liner. Once you had rolled it off, gently placed it on the bedside table and then crawled on the bed over him. Jack was staring at you gobsmacked. No one had treated him so gently in years.
It blew him away that the same woman who was feared by half the hospital was the same person who was currently staring down at him with the hungriest and softest look on her face.
“What?” you asked.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you,” Jack replied. It was probably too honest but the bashful look on your face more than made up for the vulnerability.
“Good, I’d hate to have competition,” you said. Jack snorted. You were on all fours leaning over him; he ran a hand up your arm and enjoyed the way you leaned into his touch.
“Thoughts on sitting on my face?” he asked.
“No preamble? Just point blank requesting?” You asked, grinning.
“I’m a man who knows what he wants,” Jack said. With one hand tracing up and down your arm, the other danced along your thigh before toying with the band of your underwear.
“And you want me to sit on your face?”
“Desperately.”
“Why?”
Jack looked at you puzzled. “Why do any of us like anything? I enjoy giving oral and feeling my partner on top of me, especially when they are as free with their body as you are.”
You had never considered yourself free with your body and it made you wonder how Jack saw you. Most of the time you felt like you were cosplaying a competent adult but he seemed to believe you were some goddess. It made you almost believe you were one yourself.
“Okay, tell me what to do,” you said.
“I’m going to reposition,” he replied. You kneeled to the side and watched him clamber up the bed and position a pillow just under his head.
He had you knees above his shoulders—and oh my god his arms and shoulders—tucked his head in between your thighs. His strong arm wrapped around your thighs and pulled you against his mouth.
Without warning he began licking and sucking at your clit and sensitive skin around it. At first it felt weird, like your body was trying to decipher and puzzle together the feeling of his thighs at your legs and his mouth at your core making obscene noises.
With a particularly strong suck, you couldn’t help but grasp the hair on top of his head. And based on his corresponding groan, it seemed like he was a fan. At first his hands stayed still against your legs, but as you got more worked up—as your hips began to meet his mouth in tandem—he ran his fingers across all the skin he could touch. Like he was trying to memorize how you felt.
He tapped out a few times allowing him to catch his breath. Each break had you heaving against him before he yanked you back down attempting to pull an orgasm out of you.
With one hand woven through his soft hair, your other held on, dug in really, to the arm that was snaking up your front. Jack seemed to know before you did that you were about to orgasm, because he gripped your hips tightly and held on while you rode out a delicious orgasm against his mouth.
Sometimes a climax was sudden and powerful, but this one felt slow and inevitable, like warming in front of a fire. You could feel the sensation crawl up to your chest and fall all the way down to your toes. And throughout the soft cresting, Jack didn’t let up until you were twitching above him.
Somehow you managed to roll off of him and stared at the ceiling in bliss.
“Good?”
So good. You signed, briefly forgetting how to talk.
While your body calmed, Jack kissed softly at your skin. It felt comforting and intimate just as much as it felt erotic. You had ditched your bra at some point while sitting on Jack’s face and now Jack light caressed your chest while you ran your hands up and down his back.
You pulled him closer so you could nip and suck against his chest and neck. If you focused you could hear his moans, but you felt the vibrations against your lips as his chest and vocal chords rumbled with movement.
When you wrapped your lips around his nipple, he arched into you and you couldn’t help but grin. Having your hands on this man was as close to a perfect day as you could get. Needling him was fun, but curling against him and making him feel good with nothing but your hands and mouth was nothing short of a joy.
His chest was hairier than you were expecting and he was far more sensitive to your nails raking down his back than either of you suspected. It meant that before you had even touched his dick, he was hard and straining against his boxers.
“Take them off,” you managed in between contact with his skin.
“Yes ma’am,” he replied breathlessly.
It was an awkward shimmy, but eventually you had him in your hand. Licking your palm, you were able to get everything wet enough that the slide of your palm felt good instead of too much friction.
“Christ,” you heard him.
Slowly, you jerked him off while toying with his nipples. He keened, a sharper sound that you could hear but felt fundamentally different coming from his chest. His hands were all over you, but he was your focus now.
“Would you…” he panted. You looked up at him. “Would you be willing to suck me off a bit. Don’t let me cum though. I have a shit refractory period.”
He felt excited and a little nervous by your responding grin.
You kneeled between his legs and spent some seconds lightly raking your nails up and down his side. Your mouth, meanwhile, was kissing up and down his legs, ignoring his painfully straining dick.
“Please,” he whined, flexing his hips.
The moment your lips wrapped around the tip of his dick, Jack was pretty certain he saw god. One hand was massaging up and down his shaft while the other caressed his balls. There wasn’t a piece of him that was unstimulated.
His hands buried themselves in your hair and grip made you smile against him, sucking harder. One of your hearing aids had dislodged just enough that you couldn’t quite hear from your left ear but the punched out and loud groan was more than enough for the right aid to pick up.
It was rare that you were sad about losing your hearing anymore. Most of your twenties had been spent grieving that loss. But there was a twinge of sadness at not quite being able to hear the beautiful noises you were sure Jack was making.
Instead you focused on how his hips flexed, how his grip guided exactly where he wanted you to focus your hands and mouth, and how his legs shook beside you.
Far too early in your opinion, Jack pulled you off and you pouted.
You’re going to kill me. He signed
“Good,” you said, happily reinserting your hearing aid. “Condom?”
“Side table,” he said gesturing. You rummaged until finding the package.
“What’s more comfortable for you,” you asked. You had briefly had this conversation last time but the previous encounter was frantic and passionate. This was slow and attentive, but just as fun.
“Is it cheesy if I say missionary?”
“Nope. Is it cheesy if I say I want to feel every inch of you against me?”
“No,” Jack replied breathlessly.
After sliding the condom on, Jack settled between your bent legs. With a slow and intent focus, he watched as he disappeared into your folds. The warmth and tightness was immaculate. It was second nature for him to fall forward against you.
Fully sheathed inside of you, he kissed you gently pressing his torso against your own. With the wrong partner this position could feel claustrophobic and overwhelming. With Jack it felt warm and almost cozy. The first thrust of his hips had your legs wrapping around him.
His forehead pressed against yours as he stared into your eyes. Every emotion and thought passed through his eyes as he continued to thrust against you.
“You’re going to kill me,” he groaned.
“A shame,” you gasped against him. “This feels so good. You feel so good.”
“I want to live in this moment forever,” he mumbled against your lips before kissing you.
You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close as he kissed you deeply while pounding into you. The sheer sensuality of the moment made you feel like the most powerful person in the world, but also like any movement against your clit would send you over the edge.
You slipped one of your hands between your bodies and bowed against him when you began to rub yourself in earnest. Before long you were arching against him, caught in the white hot embrace of your own orgasm. Jack followed shortly after, and while you couldn’t hear it, you felt his groan when he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
For a moment you both laid there and then after some cajoling on your part went into the bathroom to clean up. Once you were both back in his bed, you were pillowed on his chest slowly drawing patters on his skin. Jack couldn’t find the energy to be irritated with contradiction he was dealing with now.
You were in his arms, his heart rate was at a ten year low, and each brush of your finger on his skin made him wish he could freeze this moment and live in it forever. Nothing really turned off his mind; his brain was his worst enemy and it was always on guard. But for a few brief minutes, it slowed and quieted with you drawing what felt like a snowman on his chest.
“What are you thinking?” Jack asked.
“Seriously?” You laughed.
“C’mon, we’ve had a relational break through tonight. What’s going on in your head?”
“Honestly? I’m running through my to do list for tomorrow,” you answered.
“Nope, not allowed,” Jack stated,
“Not allowed?”
“You just had, what appeared to be, a mind blowing orgasm. You cannot be thinking about what you’re doing tomorrow.”
You huffed and pulled out of his arms to settle next to him on the pillow. He looked relaxed and happy.
“Okay what are you thinking about then?”
“That you have a very niche ability to silence my brain for a few minutes.”
“Damn, that’s romantic, too,” you grumbled.
Jack laughed and pressed a small kiss to your lips. Wrapping and arm around you to hold you closer. You threw your leg over his hip and something about the extra point of contact allowed him to relax even more.
You stayed like that for a long moment, your leg hooked over his hip, your fingers tracing idle, shapeless patterns along his sternum. Jack hadn’t meant to say anything soft tonight—he’d spent so much energy insisting he didn’t like you, insisting you were trouble, insisting he had better things to do with his life than be tangled up in someone as complicated as you.
And yet here he was, holding you like you were the softest thing he’d had in his arms in months.
He could feel the slow sweep of your thigh against the place where his leg ended. He could feel you still thinking about tomorrow so he sighed and asked,
“Okay, out with it. Tell me your to do list.”
Grinning you cuddled into this grumpy man’s arms talking about the things you had to accomplish tomorrow including tell him about your new advisory committee that needed board approval.
“Advisory committee?” Jack asked.
“As much as I hate not being right, you had a point that there’s some real archaic rules. So I’m starting a rules advisory committee that is just doctors to give me feedback on the rules that aren’t working,” you told him.
You had been able to convince Jack about the necessity of pedantic rules and regulations he had to follow but you had still listened to him bitch about what was wrong. And you did something about it.
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he growled, peppering you with kisses.
“Even though I’m kind of blackmailing someone tomorrow?”
“Especially because of that, if I’m honest.”
The rest of the evening was spent free from work talk and the next morning Jack made you cum on his fingers before sending you back to the hospital. He couldn’t help but grin and think about how the woman he had in his bed was about to fuck over the dickheads on the board.
Sure, you cared about paperwork in a way that would make a 1950s secretary look tame, but you also connived your way into making sure things improved. Jack wasn’t sure he could argue with that.
summary: You're a simple Brooklyn florist when Bucky Barnes enters your shop and changes your life forever.
word count: 34.1k+
pairing: mafia!bucky barnes x fem!reader
notes: DON'T ASK HOW IT'S 34K WORDS I DON'T KNOW HOW THAT HAPPENEDDDDD
this is technically the prologue to he was chaos, he was revelry, but you do not have to read that to understand this! i merely liked that short fic i wrote and wanted to write more of them
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, mafia au, sweetheart!reader, shy!reader, bucky is the mafia boss and rich, fluff, slow burn - once again i am who i am you can pry slow burn out of my cold dead hands, reader may be shy be she is not someone who bucky can just control or claim as his, mentions of blood but no violence, bucky is soft only for you, possessive!bucky, yearning!bucky, so much fluff
The bell above the shop door chimed, the sound bright and ordinary against the quiet hum of the rain outside. You glanced up from the counter, half-expecting to see one of your regulars—Mrs. Kowalski with her weekly lilies, or the young man who always bought roses on Thursdays.
But instead, a stranger stepped inside. He didn’t look like he belonged here. The small, cozy flower shop was all pastel blooms and the faint scent of lavender soap, but the man at the door was sharp black and steel. Broad shoulders filled out a tailored suit, dark hair slicked back from a face that looked carved from stone. One gloved hand tugged the door shut behind him, the other slipped casually into his coat pocket.
His eyes swept the shop once, quick and assessing, before they landed on you. You froze under the weight of his stare. He wasn’t handsome in the way movie stars were handsome. He was… something heavier. Older. His presence pressed at the air like thunder waiting to break.
“Hi,” you managed, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “Welcome.”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just watched you from across the shop with those sharp blue eyes, as if you were the only thing in the room worth noticing. Then, slowly, he stepped forward. The sound of his boots against the wood floor was too loud, even over the rain.
You forced yourself to smile, tucking your hands against your apron. “Looking for anything in particular?”
His gaze flicked to the flowers around him—the rows of tulips, daisies, carnations—but came back to you almost instantly. “No.” His voice was low, rough-edged. “Just looking.”
Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. You nodded quickly, reaching for the small bouquet you’d put together that morning—bright daisies and sprigs of baby’s breath, wrapped in soft brown paper. You always kept a few by the counter, little gestures for the shy customers. “Here,” you offered, holding it out. “On the house. For the rain.”
He stared at the bouquet like it was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Then at you. The silence stretched until your hand began to tremble, and you almost pulled it back—when he finally reached out. A black leather glove brushed your fingers as he took the flowers from you, and you had to bite down on a startled gasp. “Thank you,” he said, the words careful, deliberate. He pulled a roll of bills from his coat pocket and slid one across the counter. A hundred-dollar bill for a five-dollar bouquet.
“Oh, no—you don’t have to—”
His gaze cut into yours again, silencing you. Not cruel, not harsh. Just… final. “Take it.”
Your throat tightened, and you nodded, tucking the bill away quickly. “Alright. Thank you.”
He didn’t move for a moment. Just stood there, flowers in hand, watching you like he was committing every detail to memory—the tilt of your head, the nervous twitch of your fingers, the way you couldn’t hold his gaze for long. Finally, he gave a small nod, turned, and left. The bell chimed again, the rain swallowing him whole. You stood frozen for a long time, the shop suddenly too quiet, the hundred-dollar bill burning in your apron pocket. You thought it was a one-time thing. Just a stranger passing through on a rainy afternoon.
---
The bell chimed again the next morning, bright against the quiet rustle of petals you were arranging on the counter. You looked up—and nearly dropped the stems in your hands.
It was him.
The man from yesterday. The one who’d filled the shop with his thunderstorm presence, left with daisies and a hundred-dollar bill. He stepped inside like he owned the space, though he said nothing at first. His suit was different today—charcoal instead of black—but the gloves were the same. His eyes swept the shop in that same quick, assessing way before settling on you. You found yourself smiling automatically, though your voice wobbled. “Hello again.”
He nodded once, moving closer. “Morning.”
You fiddled with the ribbon in your hands. “Back for more flowers?”
His mouth twitched, just barely, like the question amused him. “Something like that.”
The air felt charged. You cleared your throat and reached for a bouquet of tulips. “These are fresh today. Spring colors. They’re lovely.”
He didn’t even glance at them. His eyes stayed on you, steady and unreadable. “I’ll take them,” he said.
You wrapped them quickly, fingers fumbling with the paper under the weight of his stare. He laid another bill on the counter—another hundred—for a bouquet worth maybe fifteen.
Your cheeks burned. “Sir, this is too much—”
“Keep it.” His voice left no room for argument.
You tucked the bill away, heartbeat quickening, and slid the bouquet toward him. “Alright. Thank you.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just stood there, flowers in hand, gaze lingering on you. It was different from yesterday—less curious, more deliberate. As if he’d come here with a purpose, and the tulips were only an excuse. Finally, he asked, “what’s your favorite?”
You blinked. “Favorite?”
“Flower.”
“Oh. Um…” You glanced around the shop, suddenly flustered. “Gardenias, I think. They’re… simple, but beautiful.”
He nodded once, filed it away. You could see it in the set of his jaw. Then he turned and left, the bell chiming in his wake. You stared after him, unsettled but oddly warm. The next morning, there was a box of white gardenias sitting on the shop counter when you arrived, no note. But you already knew who had left them.
---
The gardenias weren’t the end. They were the beginning. The next time he came in, he didn’t go straight for the counter. He lingered. Walked slow between the rows of flowers, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting something delicate.
You pretended to be busy, fussing with the stems in a vase, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. He didn’t look like anyone else who came through here—too sharp, too dangerous, too… magnetic. He stopped at the counter at last, resting one gloved hand on the polished wood. “You like gardenias.”
You startled a little. “I do.”
“They suit you.”
Your cheeks warmed. “They’re… simple.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he didn’t agree with the word. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned in just a little, his presence heavy and steady. “What else do you like?”
You blinked. “What else?”
“Food. Music. Where you go when you’re not here.”
Your stomach flipped. The questions weren’t casual, not the way he asked them. His voice was too low, too intent, as though he planned on remembering every answer. You swallowed. “Um… I like reading. I usually just go home after work. I’m… not very exciting.”
Something flickered in his eyes then—something sharp, almost dangerous. “Good.”
You frowned softly. “Good?”
“Means you’re not wasting your time on people who don’t deserve it.” He pushed a bouquet of pale roses toward you. “These. Wrap them.” You obeyed, fingers fumbling with the paper, conscious of his eyes on you the entire time. He paid, again far too much, and lingered a second longer before he finally said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And he did. The days bled into weeks. He became part of your routine, though you never said it out loud. You’d unlock the shop in the morning, set out the displays, and brace yourself for the moment that bell chimed and he walked in.
Sometimes he bought flowers. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just stood there, leaning against the counter, asking you quiet questions about your day. And slowly, the questions became instructions.
“Don’t walk home alone tonight.”
“Eat more than just a muffin for lunch.”
“Don’t talk to the men who loiter outside.”
You told yourself he was just being kind. Just looking out for you. But when you spotted his black car parked across the street one night, headlights off, and realized he was watching—waiting until you got safely into your apartment—your chest tightened with something you didn’t want to name. The scariest part wasn’t that he was watching. It was how safe you felt knowing he was there.
---
The office smelled like you. Not you exactly—he wasn’t that lucky—but the flowers you touched every day, the ones you told him you loved. Gardenias, roses, tulips, bundles of wild lavender tied up in neat twine. They crowded the corners of his office, spilling over in vases and pitchers, climbing along windowsills that used to be bare.
It was ridiculous. He knew it. The head of the Barnes Syndicate didn’t decorate with flowers. His men were already whispering, smirking behind their hands when they came in for orders and found the place looking more like a garden than a war room.
But he didn’t care. Every stem reminded him of your hands. The way you handled them so gently, trimming, arranging, never rushing. He’d caught himself staring more than once, smiling faintly as if the flowers were your private secret. He wanted to burn the image into his skull.
“Boss?” Bucky glanced up from the papers on his desk. Natasha stood in the doorway, sunglasses hooked on her shirt, one brow raised. Her eyes flicked over the room—the gardenias on the shelf, the tulips by the window, the roses near his chair. “You planning on opening your own shop?” she asked dryly.
“Shut up.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple with his metal hand.
Natasha smirked, stepping inside and dropping a file on his desk. “You’re getting soft. All this for a girl who sells daisies.”
His jaw tightened. “Careful, Romanoff.”
“I’m not saying it’s bad,” she countered, folding her arms. “I’m saying you’re obvious. Half the crew knows you’ve got a flower girl now.”
He stilled. The words hit something sharp in his chest. “She’s not—” He stopped. His voice dropped low, darker. “She’s mine.”
Natasha tilted her head. “Does she know that?”
His eyes narrowed, blue hard as ice. “She will.” The room went quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside.
Bucky reached over, plucked one of the gardenias from the vase, and turned it slowly in his fingers. He remembered the way your face lit up when you told him they were your favorite. That soft smile. The little stammer in your voice when he leaned too close.
The world was chaos, betrayal, blood. He’d spent his whole life building walls of steel and shadow. But you—your shop, your quiet, your kindness—were untouched by it. And he wasn’t about to let anyone, anything, change that.
“Make sure the shop’s covered,” he said finally, voice flat with command. “No one bothers her. Not a single soul.”
Natasha studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Understood.”
When she left, Bucky leaned back in his chair, the flower still turning in his hand. He should’ve felt stupid, surrounded by petals and stems. But all he felt was calmer, steadier, knowing some piece of you was in his world now. He wanted more. He’d take more.
---
The bell chimed, right on time. You were bent over the counter trimming stems when his shadow crossed the shop. You didn’t even need to look up anymore—you knew the weight of his presence, the way the air seemed to shift when he walked in. “Morning,” you said softly, glancing up with a small smile.
His eyes warmed just enough for only you to notice. “Morning, doll.” The nickname slipped out as if it had been waiting on his tongue. You blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t correct him. That alone sent something hot curling in his chest.
He moved toward the display of carnations but didn’t so much as glance at them. He was looking at you—always you. The flowers were a thin excuse by now, and you both knew it. “What’d you eat for breakfast?” he asked suddenly, voice low, casual only on the surface.
You hesitated, trimming another stem. “Just… coffee.”
He frowned, a line cutting between his brows. “That’s not breakfast.”
“It’s fine—”
“No.” His voice had that edge again, quiet steel that brooked no argument. He leaned on the counter, closer than before. “You need more than that.”
You bit your lip, looking down at the stems. “I wasn’t really hungry.”
His jaw flexed. He straightened, pulling out his phone. “What do you like? Pastries? Eggs?”
“Bucky, you don’t have to—”
“I asked what you like.” His tone softened, but it was no less insistent.
You murmured something about croissants before you could stop yourself, and he was already typing. Ten minutes later, a man you’d never seen before slipped inside, dropped off a white bag with a bakery logo, and left without a word. Bucky nudged it toward you. “Eat.”
You blinked. “You… you just had someone bring this—?”
“Of course I did.” His eyes softened again, watching you like you might vanish if he looked away. “You think I’m gonna let you starve?”
Your cheeks burned. You opened the bag and pulled out a still-warm croissant. His gaze followed every movement as you took a shy bite. “Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, but you heard it, and the rest of the day, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Later, in his office, Natasha raised an unimpressed brow when another delivery came in—this time boxes of delicate pastries stacked beside the flowers. “You feeding her now too?” she asked, smirking.
Bucky didn’t look up from his paperwork. “She doesn’t eat right.”
“You checked?”
“I asked.” His pen stilled. He glanced at the gardenias on the windowsill, the new croissant bag on his desk. His voice dropped, quiet, certain. “She’s mine to take care of.”
Natasha leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching. “You sure it’s not the other way around?”
But Bucky didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his phone again, thumb hovering over your number he hadn’t even asked for—but had anyway.
---
The bell had barely gone silent when you heard it: the click of heavy footsteps against the wet sidewalk. You turned the shop’s sign to closed and reached for your keys, glancing out through the window. He was leaning against a lamppost across the street, hands in his coat pockets, suit jacket darkened slightly at the shoulders from the drizzle. Your breath caught. Bucky didn’t wave. He didn’t call out. He just waited. The way a mountain waits—immovable, unbothered by the storm.
You stepped outside hesitantly, locking the door behind you. “Are you… waiting for someone?”
“For you,” he said simply, pushing off the lamppost.
Your fingers tightened around your keys. “Bucky, you don’t have to—”
“Doll,” he interrupted, falling into step beside you before you could finish. “It’s dark. You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but the weight of his presence swallowed the words. He wasn’t touching you, but somehow he filled the space around you completely. The streets were quiet, rain slicking the pavement. You tried to ignore the way his stride matched yours, the way his eyes scanned every shadowed alley and passing car like they were threats only he could see. “Do you do this often?” you asked softly.
“Do what?”
“Walk women home.”
His jaw tightened. “No. Just you.”
Your heart skipped a beat. At your building, you fumbled with the keys, aware of his eyes on the back of your neck. When you finally got the door open, you turned to him. “Thank you. But really… you don’t need to go out of your way.”
He leaned one hand against the doorframe, caging you in without touching. His gaze held yours, steady and unyielding. “This is my way,” he said quietly. “You’re not out here without me again. Understand?” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t even harsh. But there was no mistaking them for anything but a command. You swallowed hard, nodding before you could think better of it. His eyes softened then, the steel melting to something warmer. He dipped his head, brushing his lips against your temple, a ghost of a kiss. “Good girl.”
And just like that, he stepped back into the rain, leaving you breathless in the doorway, your heart pounding too hard to ignore.
It became a ritual. You didn’t even question it anymore—when the bell above your shop chimed closed for the night, he would be there. Always. A dark figure leaning against the lamppost, waiting to fall into step beside you. He didn’t ask if you wanted the company, and you didn’t ask why he bothered. The silence between you was enough.
That night, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and glowing under the yellow streetlights. You walked side by side, the only sound the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement.
You tried not to look at him too often, but it was impossible not to notice the way his hand would occasionally flex at his side—as if itching to touch you but holding back.
As you passed a small boutique on the corner, something in the window caught your eye. You slowed without meaning to, gaze snagged by the display: a delicate glass lamp, its shade painted with tiny pressed flowers. Soft light glowed inside, warm and golden, spilling petals and stems across the glass like a garden frozen in time.
It was beautiful. For half a second, you let yourself imagine it on your nightstand. The way the light would spill across your room, soft and comforting. The way you could fall asleep beside it, safe. But the thought made your chest ache. You dropped your gaze quickly and kept walking, quickening your pace until you matched him again. He said nothing, just glanced once at the boutique window before his eyes slid back to you.
At your building, he stopped as always, waited until you were safely inside. You whispered a soft “goodnight,” and he lingered a moment longer before vanishing back into the shadows.
You thought nothing more of it. The next morning, when you opened your shop, the lamp was waiting on the counter. The exact same one. You froze in the doorway, keys clutched in your hand. There was no note, no explanation. Just the lamp, plugged in and glowing faintly in the early light, casting warm petals across the shop walls.
Your breath caught, throat tight. The bell chimed, and he walked in. Calm. Steady. Like he hadn’t done anything at all. Your eyes snapped to him. “Bucky… did you—”
He set a paper bag on the counter. You caught the smell before you even peeked inside—croissants, still warm. He leaned one hand on the wood, watching your face. “You liked it,” he said simply. Not a question. A fact.
Your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” His eyes softened, but there was steel in them too—an unwavering certainty that made your heart stutter. “You want something, doll, you get it. That’s how this works.”
You swallowed hard, glancing at the lamp again. Its soft light seemed to fill the whole shop with a kind of warmth you didn’t know how to accept. “I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can.” His voice lowered, a command wrapped in velvet. He reached across the counter, brushing his fingers against yours just long enough to make your pulse trip. “Don’t hide from me. If you want something, I’ll know.”
He left you standing there, the lamp glowing at your side, the croissants still warm in the bag, your heart pounding too loud for the quiet shop. And you realized something terrifying and undeniable, he was watching. Always watching.
---
The lamp glowed soft and golden on the counter, petals painted across its glass shade, when you finally found the courage to speak. He was there again, leaning his weight into the wood as if the whole shop belonged to him. His gloves were off this time, thick hands resting easily against the surface, blue eyes pinned to you in that steady, unblinking way that always left you a little breathless.
But today, the warmth in your chest twisted into something sharper. “You can’t keep doing this.”
His head tilted just slightly. “Doing what, doll?”
“This.” You gestured to the lamp, to the bag of pastries he’d brought without asking. “Showing up every day. Buying things I didn’t ask for. Acting like…” Your voice wavered, but you forced it out. “Like you own me.” Silence dropped between you, heavy and sudden.
No one ever told him no. No one ever raised their voice to him, not his men, not the people who feared his name. He could see your fingers trembling where they gripped the counter, but you still held his stare. The corner of his mouth twitched—something between amusement and disbelief. “Own you?”
“Yes.” Your throat felt tight, but you pushed on. “You don’t ask me out. You don’t… talk to me like a normal person would. You just decide things. You decide to walk me home. You decide I don’t eat enough. You decide I want a lamp. And I—” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t agree to any of it.”
For the first time since he’d stepped into your life, he looked caught off guard. Just for a flicker of a second, his eyes widened, like the ground beneath him had shifted. Then the surprise hardened into something else. His voice dropped, low and even. “You think I don’t know how to ask? You think I don’t know how to take a girl to dinner, buy her flowers, wait for her to say yes?”
You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, leaning closer, his gaze like ice and fire all at once. “I don’t do that with you because I don’t want to give you the option to say no. I don’t want you to walk away. I couldn’t stand it if you did.”
Your breath hitched. He exhaled slowly, raking a hand back through his hair. For a moment, he looked almost… raw. “You don’t get it. You’re already mine. Always were, the second you looked at me with those soft eyes and handed me daisies like I wasn’t a monster.” His gloved hand brushed the lamp, a subtle reminder. “You think I do all this because I don’t know how to court you? I do it because I can’t stand the thought of you needing something and not having it. Because I want to see you safe. Fed. Smiling.” His voice broke on that last word, just barely.
Your heart pounded so hard you swore he could hear it. You should’ve been terrified. And maybe you were. But under the steel in his voice was something else—something aching and desperate. Still, you held your ground, even if your voice shook. “Then ask me. Like a person. Not like… this.”
The room went still again. He studied you for a long, tense beat, and you could see the war in his eyes—control versus obsession, command versus care. Finally, his lips curved into something softer, almost rueful. He leaned in close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. “Fine, doll. I’ll ask.” His voice was rough, but there was a flicker of something new in it. “Dinner. Tonight. With me.”
The way he said it still didn’t sound like a question, but for the first time, you knew he was trying. And that unsettled you more than anything else.
---
Dinner with Bucky wasn’t what you expected. He came to the shop just before closing, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair combed back, his usual gloves on. He didn’t wait for you to lock up—he did it himself, sliding the key from your fingers with a quiet, “I’ll take care of it.”
The car waiting outside wasn’t the same sleek black one you’d seen lurking near your building before. This one was even darker, windows tinted, the kind of vehicle that made people cross the street when it pulled up. He opened the door for you, and his hand lingered on your lower back as you climbed inside.
The restaurant was one of those places you’d only seen in magazines—low lights, white tablecloths, the quiet murmur of money in every corner. The maître d’ didn’t even ask for a name; he bowed and led you straight to a private table at the back.
You shifted uncomfortably as you sat, smoothing the fabric of your dress. You hadn’t had time to change, still in the simple sundress you wore to work. Compared to the glittering couples around you, you felt out of place. But Bucky leaned back in his chair, eyes on you like there was no one else in the room. “You look perfect.”
Your cheeks warmed. “You didn’t even let me change.”
His mouth curved in that faint, dangerous smile. “Didn’t want to give you the chance to run.”
You frowned, half-playful, half-serious. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.” He poured you a glass of wine himself, ignoring the hovering waiter. “If I let you walk away, you’d start thinking too much. You’d talk yourself out of me. And I can’t have that.”
You looked at him, really looked. The way his metal fingers tapped lightly against the stem of his glass. The way his eyes stayed fixed on you, hungry and unblinking. “Bucky…” you whispered. “You don’t even know me.”
His jaw tightened. “I know enough.”
“That’s not the same.”
He leaned forward then, voice dropping. “I know you hate crowds but love little kids buying flowers for their moms. I know you hum to yourself when you sweep up the petals at night. I know you wear that same sundress every Wednesday because it makes you feel put-together.”
You blinked, startled. “You—”
“I pay attention.” His gaze softened, but the edge in his voice stayed. “More than anyone else ever has. Tell me I’m wrong.” You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your pulse raced under your skin. He reached across the table, taking your hand gently but firmly in his, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “I might not have asked the right way before. But I’m asking now. Let me have this. Let me have you.”
Your breath caught once again. The waiter appeared with menus, but Bucky didn’t even look at his. His eyes stayed on you, unwavering, as if the answer was the only thing that mattered. “Order something,” he said, tone clipped, smooth, the way he probably gave orders to his men.
You blinked, lowering your gaze to the menu. “You could say please, you know.”
His brows furrowed slightly. “I just did.”
“No, you told me,” you said quietly, the edge of a shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Telling isn’t asking.” That made him still. His head tilted, studying you as if you’d just spoken in another language. No one corrected him. No one pushed back. Certainly no one teased him. You turned a page in the menu, forcing your shoulders to stay loose, though your pulse hammered. “If you want me to do something, maybe try asking. Like a normal person.”
For a long beat, his eyes stayed locked on you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. You thought you’d pushed too far—until the corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Normal, huh?” His voice dropped low, velvet-dark. He leaned across the table just slightly, one hand resting near yours. “Alright, doll. What would please you tonight? Salmon? Steak? Or do you want me to ask sweeter?”
Your cheeks heated instantly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Sure it is.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles, light but deliberate. “You want me to say the words. ‘Please, sweetheart, pick something so I can watch you enjoy it.’ That what you want?”
You swallowed hard, caught between flustered and indignant. “It wouldn’t kill you to try it.”
For a long moment, he just watched you, silent, eyes burning into yours. Then, softly, deliberately,
“please, doll. Order something. For me.”
Your lips parted in surprise. The weight of the words, the fact that he’d said them—not barked, not commanded—hit you harder than it should have. You ducked your head quickly, hiding your flush in the menu. “Okay,” you murmured, finally pointing to something on the page.
His grin widened, wolfish, triumphant. He sat back in his chair, content now, as if coaxing that small concession from you meant more than anything else on the table. But you caught the way his eyes lingered, sharp and possessive, even when his voice had softened. Like no matter how politely he phrased it, he still thought the end result was the same: you, bending to him. And part of you wondered if you minded as much as you should.
The dinner stretched on in a haze of soft light and low voices. The waiter came and went, but Bucky barely acknowledged him—every ounce of his attention stayed fixed on you. He did try, though. You could see it in the way he caught himself before giving another clipped order, the way he reshaped his words into something that almost sounded like a request. “Try the wine, doll,” he started to say, then stopped himself. His eyes softened, a little sheepish for once. “Would you… please try the wine?”
You bit your lip to hide a smile, lifting the glass to your lips. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
He chuckled low in his chest, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it.”
But he kept doing it. Through dinner, through dessert, through the awkward-lovely rhythm of you teasing and him adjusting. He was clumsy at it, but he tried—for you. When the plates were cleared and the check was slipped onto the table, and ignored by him, you expected him to take you straight home. Instead, he offered his hand as you slid from your chair, steady and warm at the small of your back as he guided you out into the cool night. The city hummed around you—cars hissing down wet streets, neon signs buzzing faintly in the dark. You walked together in silence for a while, his stride matching yours, his hand never quite leaving your back.
Finally, you glanced up at him. “You really don’t ask for things, do you?”
He looked down at you, brow furrowing slightly. “I do now.”
“You tell me what I’m eating, what I’m wearing, when I should go home—”
“Because you don’t look after yourself the way you should,” he cut in, voice steady, but softer than usual.
“That’s not the same as asking,” you insisted, your tone gentle but firm. “You keep saying I’m yours. But you never asked me if I wanted to be.”
That stopped him cold. His steps slowed, then stilled entirely. He turned to face you fully, the glow of a nearby streetlamp carving hard shadows across his jaw. No one ever pushed him like this. Not his men. Not his enemies. And yet here you were, standing there in your simple dress, looking at him with those soft eyes that had undone him from the start—and daring to tell him no.
For a moment, he didn’t speak. His jaw worked, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand. His voice was low, rough-edged, but stripped of command. “Do you?”
You blinked. “Do I what?”
“Want to be mine.”
The words were plain. Honest. Asked, not ordered. Your heart lurched, caught between fear and something warmer, heavier. You didn’t answer right away, and you saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip on your hand tightened as if bracing for rejection. But you didn’t pull away. You held on. “I don’t know yet,” you admitted softly. “But if you keep asking instead of telling… maybe I’ll figure it out.”
The silence between you stretched, charged and alive. Then, for the first time in longer than he could remember, Bucky let out a breath that wasn’t weighted with control or calculation. He brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles once, reverent. “Then I’ll ask,” he murmured. “As many times as it takes.” And when he walked you home that night, he didn’t touch your back, didn’t cage you in with his presence. He just walked beside you, his hand holding yours, as though that was enough.
The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual. His hand stayed in yours, heavy, grounding, but he didn’t say anything more after that promise. The city’s neon glow flickered across the wet pavement, painting the silence in color. At your building, you stopped at the door, fingers brushing the keys in your pocket. He didn’t reach for them this time, didn’t lean against the frame and cage you in. He just stood there, watching you. You hesitated, then looked up at him. “Are you… coming in?”
His jaw worked once. You saw the war in his eyes—possession urging him to say yes, control telling him to wait. For the first time, he looked almost… uncertain. “I want to,” he admitted, voice low, rough. “But I’ll ask. Do you want me to?”
Your chest tightened. The way he said it—like the words were foreign, dragged out of him against instinct—made something inside you ache. You shook your head gently. “Not tonight.”
For a flicker of a second, you thought he’d argue. That steel-blue stare locked on yours, intense enough to burn. But then he nodded once, sharp and deliberate, like it cost him something. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Not tonight.”
You slipped inside, heart pounding, and leaned against the door after you closed it. His shadow lingered on the other side, unmoving, until you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.
The next morning, the bell chimed right on time. You looked up from the counter and there he was again—sharp suit, gloves, eyes only for you. But there was something different about him. The usual possessive certainty was still there, but now it was tempered, measured. He set a small bundle on the counter—gardenias again, perfectly fresh. But this time, he didn’t say take them. Instead, he watched you closely, voice low. “Do you want them?”
Your lips parted. You blinked, then smiled softly, shy but certain. “Yes.”
His shoulders eased, just barely. He nodded once, satisfied, though the glint in his eyes still promised he’d never stop wanting to give you more than you asked for. And as you placed the gardenias in a vase by the window, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He was still the storm hovering over your quiet life—but now he was learning how to ask before he struck.
---
The bell chimed when you left the shop that Sunday morning, keys tucked into your pocket and your bag over your shoulder. The sun was out for once, the kind of warm golden light that made the city feel softer, less sharp around the edges. You’d planned on wandering down to the farmer’s market, picking up fresh bread and maybe some fruit for the week.
You weren’t surprised when you felt him before you saw him. Bucky fell into step beside you like he always did, hands in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the street. He didn’t say he’d been waiting, but he didn’t have to. “Going somewhere?” he asked, voice low and even.
“The farmer’s market,” you said. “Do you… want to come?”
It slipped out before you could stop it. You weren’t sure why you offered—maybe because it felt strange to keep pretending you didn’t see him watching you. Maybe because part of you wanted to see what he was like outside your shop, outside dim restaurants and shadowed sidewalks. His lips twitched, just slightly. “Yeah. I’ll come.”
The market was buzzing with people—kids tugging at their parents’ hands, couples wandering between stalls, vendors calling out prices. The air smelled of warm bread and herbs, the kind of scent that made you feel like the city wasn’t so heavy after all. Bucky stuck close, but not in the looming, possessive way he usually did. Today he just walked beside you, his broad frame making space for you in the crowd. He looked… normal. Or as normal as a man like him could look.
You stopped at a bakery stall, eyeing the fresh loaves stacked high. “These are always gone by the afternoon,” you explained, pulling a bill from your bag. Before you could hand it over, Bucky passed cash to the vendor instead, his gloved hand steady.
“Bucky—”
“Don’t argue,” he said softly, almost smiling. “Consider it me asking.”
You rolled your eyes but accepted the bread, and his smile deepened like he’d won something. At the flower stall—of course there was a flower stall—you noticed his gaze linger on you as you inspected the bouquets. For once, you didn’t feel self-conscious. You just let yourself enjoy it. Then you spotted a row of little jars at another table a few stalls away—local honey, the labels hand-painted with tiny bees. Without thinking, you grabbed his arm, tugging him along. “Come on, look at these—”
You let go as soon as you reached the stall, too focused on the honey jars to notice the way he froze for half a second when your hand touched him. His gaze dropped to where your fingers had been, his jaw tightening. He didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. But the weight of that touch lingered in his chest, hot and heavy, long after you’d pulled away. You picked out a jar, holding it up with a little smile. “Isn’t this cute?”
He nodded slowly, but his eyes weren’t on the honey. They were still on you, watching the way your face lit up in the sunlight, the way you smiled without thinking. And for once, he didn’t feel like the man everyone feared. He just felt like a man walking through a market with a girl who made him want things he’d forgotten he could have.
The market felt different with him beside you. Normally, you drifted through the stalls without much notice—just another face in the crowd—but with Bucky there, people stepped out of the way. Vendors straightened. Conversations dipped quiet for a moment before picking up again. You pretended not to notice, but you did. And so did he. His hand brushed the small of your back once or twice, subtle but guiding, as though keeping you in his orbit. At a food stall, the scent of frying dough pulled you in. You lingered over the handwritten sign—fresh fritters dusted in sugar—and before you could even reach for your bag, Bucky was already paying. “You don’t have to keep buying everything,” you said, exasperated but a little amused.
He handed you the warm paper bag, eyes steady. “I know. I want to.”
You bit into a fritter, the crunch giving way to soft, sweet warmth. A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. Bucky’s eyes softened. He didn’t take one for himself—he just watched you, like the sight of your smile was enough. You found a bench near the edge of the market, shaded by a tree. Sitting side by side, you let the crowd blur into background noise. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then you glanced at him, curious. “So… what do you do?”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Why?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve been… spending time together. You know a lot about me, but I don’t know much about you.”
His jaw tightened, as if weighing how much to say. Finally, he leaned back against the bench, gaze fixed on the crowd instead of you. “I run things. Businesses. Keep people in line.”
“That’s… vague,” you said carefully.
He huffed a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah. Vague’s safer.”
You studied him for a moment, the sharp set of his shoulders, the way he scanned the people moving through the market like he was cataloging threats. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… something. Something real.”
His eyes flicked back to you then, and for a beat, the weight of his stare pinned you in place. “Something real?”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a long time, then finally said, “I don’t sleep much. When I do, I keep the lights on. Always have.”
You blinked, surprised at the intimacy of the admission. He hadn’t given you facts about his work, but he’d given you something raw instead. Something closer to the truth. You nodded softly. “That’s… real.”
His shoulders eased, just slightly. The silence stretched again, but it felt different this time—warmer, less guarded. You shifted, brushing sugar from your fingers, and without thinking, offered him the last fritter from the bag. He didn’t take it right away. He just looked at you, eyes flicking down to your hand, then back to your face. Finally, he reached for it, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. “Thank you.” The words were simple, but they carried weight.
As you sat there together, sharing sugared dough in the sunlight, you realized this felt almost like a normal second date. Almost. And though you didn’t notice it, he did—the way your shoulders leaned just slightly toward him, the way your knee brushed his. To anyone else, it was nothing. But to Bucky, it was everything.
The walk back from the market felt easier than you expected. Maybe it was the sunlight softening the edges of the city, maybe it was the paper bag of warm bread under your arm, or maybe it was simply that Bucky wasn’t looming as much as usual.
He carried most of the weight without asking—jars of honey, bundles of herbs, a carton of fresh eggs balanced in one hand. He hadn’t made a show of it; the moment you’d started to juggle too many things, he’d quietly relieved you of them. “You don’t have to carry everything,” you said, hugging the bread close to your chest.
“I want to,” he answered simply. Then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, “besides, you’re terrible at hiding how heavy it is.”
You ducked your head, a little embarrassed, but the teasing softened the moment instead of sharpening it. The streets thinned as you left the crowded stalls behind. For once, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop to admire the painted mural on a corner building, the stray cat curled in a sunbeam on the stoop. His gaze followed everything you touched with your eyes, memorizing it silently. “You seem… different today,” you said after a while, glancing at him.
“How so?”
“Less…” You searched for the word. “Commanding. More like…” You gestured at the bags in his hands. “This. Normal.”
He was quiet for a beat, then let out a low breath. “Maybe I just wanted to see what it feels like. Doing this with you.”
You blinked. “Feels like what?”
“Like I’m not who I am,” he said, eyes straight ahead. “Like I could just… be a man walking home from the market with his girl.”
Your steps faltered. He noticed immediately, his head turning, sharp blue eyes locking onto you. But he didn’t backtrack. He let the words hang there, bare and heavy. You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t. Instead, you shifted the bread under your arm and kept walking. As you reached your building, you touched the edge of his sleeve lightly, without thinking, to slow him. “Thank you,” you said softly.
“For what?”
“For coming with me. For trying.”
His gaze softened, more than you’d ever seen. He leaned down just slightly, his voice quiet, meant for you alone. “I’d try for you, doll. Always.”
He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t push. He just pressed the bags into your hands and waited until you were inside, standing guard in the shadow of your building until the door closed. And though you couldn’t see him, he stayed there for a long time, staring at the place where your fingers had brushed his arm, replaying it like a man clutching his first breath after drowning.
---
The weeks passed quietly, the rhythm of your little flower shop unchanged in all the familiar ways and altered in one very specific one. The bell still chimed at odd intervals, children still pressed coins into your palm for bouquets for their mothers, and old women still lingered at the counter to gossip. But now, James “Bucky” Barnes was a fixture.
He came every day. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes at closing, sometimes both. At first, he’d only bought flowers. Now, more often than not, he was simply there—watching, asking you questions in that low voice of his, or taking up a quiet corner of the shop where his looming presence managed to make the whole space feel smaller.
What surprised you most was how quickly he adapted to your routines. One evening, as you were dragging a heavy bucket of water toward the back room, you heard a faint scrape. When you looked up, Bucky was already carrying it with one hand, like it weighed nothing. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he said when you frowned at him.
“I’ve been doing this for years,” you reminded him.
“Not anymore,” he replied, setting the bucket down and fixing you with that firm stare that made arguments slip off your tongue.
After that, he just started doing things. Sweeping up petals after closing. Refilling water vases. Straightening displays. The strangest sight of all was him in his immaculate suit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully trimming stems with the clumsy concentration of a man who had never held shears before. You caught yourself smiling one evening when he leaned too hard on the broom and nearly knocked over a pail of carnations. “What’s funny?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you.
“You’re… bad at this,” you admitted, covering your mouth with your hand.
His lips twitched as though fighting a grin. “Maybe. But I don’t mind being bad at something if it’s for you.”
That made your chest tighten. Later, when he tried to lock up the shop himself, you shook your head. “You can’t just decide things, Bucky. You have to ask.”
He paused with the key in his hand, blue eyes sharp on yours. “Ask?”
“Yes. Like a normal person.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, silent. Then, with the barest hint of a smile, “may I lock up for you, doll?”
You blinked, heat rising in your cheeks, before nodding slowly. “Yes.”
He turned the key with a satisfied twist, and though he said nothing more, the look in his eyes told you he was storing that moment away, filing it under things he would never forget.
And that became the new pattern. The man everyone else feared—the man you still didn’t fully understand—swept floors and carried buckets in your flower shop. Not because you asked him to, but because he wanted to. Because it meant being near you, being part of your world, even if it meant stumbling through tasks that had nothing to do with his.
---
The idea came to you while restocking vases one quiet afternoon. Bucky had settled himself on the stool by the counter, jacket draped over the backrest, sleeves rolled up as he trimmed stems with more concentration than skill. It was still strange seeing him like that—this man who radiated danger, carefully adjusting the angle of scissors to keep a daisy neat. “You’re free tomorrow, right?” you asked, keeping your tone casual.
His head lifted, blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”
You hesitated, fingers brushing water from your palms. “There’s an exhibit at the museum. I thought… maybe you’d like to go with me.”
Silence. You felt suddenly foolish. Of course a man like him wouldn’t want to wander through quiet halls, looking at paintings. You opened your mouth to take it back, but he spoke first. “When?”
You blinked. “Noon?”
He nodded once, decisive. “I’ll pick you up.”
The museum was quieter than the farmer’s market, but no less alive. Families moved from gallery to gallery, tourists snapped photos, students sat on the floor sketching. You bought tickets at the front desk, and when you glanced over, Bucky was already scanning the lobby like it was a threat he had to neutralize. “You don’t have to look so suspicious,” you teased gently.
“I don’t like crowds,” he admitted, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Too many hands. Too many eyes.”
You offered him a small smile. “Then just look at me instead.”
Something flickered across his face at that—something raw and unguarded—before his expression smoothed again. He followed you into the first gallery without a word. The space was filled with soft light and framed canvases, oil paintings that stretched from floor to ceiling. You paused before one, studying the brushstrokes, and realized after a moment that he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was watching you. “You’re supposed to look at the art,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.
“I am,” he replied.
Heat crept up your neck, and you busied yourself reading the plaque beside the painting. As you moved from gallery to gallery, he stayed close, his hand brushing your back whenever the crowd grew too thick. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it surprised you. He had opinions—sharp, quiet observations about color, about shadow, about how one painting seemed “lonely” while another looked like “noise trapped in a frame.” His voice was low, thoughtful, nothing like the clipped commands he usually gave.
You stole glances at him while he studied the paintings. He didn’t fidget, didn’t check his watch or his phone. He looked, really looked, the same way he looked at you in the shop—like he was memorizing every detail.
At one point, you wandered ahead into a side gallery where a massive sculpture stood under a skylight. You stopped, tilting your head, trying to make sense of the twisting stone form. A moment later, his shadow fell across yours. Without thinking, you reached back and caught his hand, tugging him closer. “What do you think this is supposed to be?”
His hand stayed in yours, warm and steady. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tease. He just let you hold him, his gaze dropping briefly to where your fingers curled against his before answering. “Doesn’t matter what it’s supposed to be,” he said quietly. “Matters what you see in it.”
You didn’t even realize you were still holding his hand until you let go to gesture at the sculpture, your cheeks heating. He didn’t comment, though his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than necessary. By the time you stepped back into the sunlight outside, the afternoon was waning. He carried the museum’s little pamphlet in one hand, folded neatly, like it was something precious. “Thank you,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself. “For coming.”
He studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “You ask, I’ll come.” And though his voice was steady, you couldn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his side—like he was resisting the urge to reach for yours again.
The walk home after the museum felt different than any other evening you’d shared with him. Maybe it was the soft glow of the setting sun bouncing off the buildings, or maybe it was the quiet between you—comfortable, not weighted the way it usually was.
You carried a little bag from the gift shop, a postcard print of your favorite painting tucked inside. He’d insisted on buying it when you lingered too long at the rack, ignoring your protests. Now it swung lightly from your fingers as the two of you turned down your street. He stayed close, as always, scanning shadows and corners. But he wasn’t tense. Not like usual. His shoulders looked looser, his jaw softer, as if he’d finally let himself breathe for once. At your building, you stopped at the door. He reached for the key the way he always did, but this time you didn’t hand it over. Instead, you turned it yourself, then hesitated. When you looked up at him, he was watching you, waiting. “Do you…” You bit your lip, suddenly nervous. “Do you want to come in?”
For a flicker of a moment, something raw crossed his face—surprise, then hunger, then something softer. His eyes searched yours as though trying to find a trick hidden there. “You sure?” His voice was low, almost rough. He was asking, not telling.
You nodded, stepping inside and holding the door open. He followed, quiet as a shadow, and the door clicked shut behind him. Your apartment wasn’t much—small, cozy, smelling faintly of lavender and bread. A few books stacked on the coffee table, a blanket draped over the couch, a vase of flowers by the window. His eyes swept the space once, but not with the sharp calculation you were used to. This time it looked like he was… curious. Taking in the pieces of your life he hadn’t been able to reach until now. You slipped off your shoes and gestured awkwardly. “It’s not much, but… it’s home.”
He stepped further in, silent for a moment, before his gaze found the vase by the window. White gardenias, still fresh, but starting to droop a little. “You kept them,” he murmured.
“Of course,” you said softly.
Something shifted in his expression then, subtle but undeniable. His shoulders eased even more, and when he finally sat down on the couch—careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb anything—he looked almost human. Almost ordinary. You brought him a glass of water, and he accepted it with a quiet, “thank you,” fingers brushing yours deliberately. The lamp he’d given you glowed faintly in the corner, casting its warm petals of light across the room. He noticed, of course. His eyes lingered on it for a long moment before he turned back to you. “Feels like you,” he said.
You tilted your head. “What does?”
“This place. The light. The quiet. All of it.” He leaned back into the couch, watching you with that same intensity he always did, but softer now. “I like it.”
Bucky didn’t sit like a guest. He sat like he belonged there, broad shoulders sinking carefully into your couch, his hand resting heavy on his knee. The lamplight painted him in soft gold, blunting the sharpness of his jaw, but nothing could dull the intensity of his eyes. They tracked you as you moved—setting the bread on the counter, tidying the little bag from the museum gift shop, fussing with nothing at all just to give your hands something to do.
You finally settled across from him, tucking your legs under yourself. He was too large for your space, all dark edges against your quiet home, and yet… he didn’t look out of place. Not anymore. “You’re quiet,” you said softly.
“I like it here,” he answered simply. His gaze flicked around the room again—the flowers on the sill, the stack of books on your table, the blanket folded neatly over the back of a chair. “Feels like you.”
Your lips curved, though you tried to hide it. “That’s because it is me. It’s my space.”
He studied you then, blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You let me in.”
The weight of those words settled heavy between you. He didn’t sound surprised. More like he was… marveling at it. Testing the shape of the truth on his tongue. “I trust you,” you admitted before you could stop yourself.
His jaw tightened. His hand flexed once on his knee. “You shouldn’t,” he said, voice low, raw. “Not with me.”
The honesty in his tone chilled you, but it also pulled at something deeper. You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees. “Then tell me why.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, like he was deciding whether or not to let you see past the walls he kept so carefully built. Then he shifted, elbows on his thighs, leaning closer. “Because I don’t stop. Once I want something—once I want you—I don’t let go.”
Your breath caught, heat rising to your cheeks. But instead of recoiling, you held his gaze. “Then maybe you should ask me if I mind.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you?”
You hesitated, heart pounding, before whispering, “no.”
The silence that followed was thick, humming with unspoken things. He leaned back slowly, the tension in his body still coiled tight, but his expression softened—just barely. “Good,” he murmured.
You didn’t know what possessed you then, but you rose and crossed to the kitchen, pouring him another glass of water, setting it down beside him like it was the most natural thing. He accepted it without breaking eye contact, his metal fingers brushing yours deliberately.
The night stretched longer, the city outside dimming into quiet. At some point, you found yourself curled in the chair across from him, head resting against your hand, listening as he told you little things—not about business, never that, but about the food he liked, the places he couldn’t stand, the way he hated the sound of clocks ticking. Small truths, but truths nonetheless.
When he finally stood to leave, it was later than you realized. He lingered at the door, one hand braced against the frame. “Next time,” he said softly, “I’ll stay.”
You didn’t argue. When the door closed behind him, your apartment still felt full. Heavy with his presence. And when you went to bed, the lamp he’d given you cast its warm glow across the room, reminding you that letting him in once meant you’d never be rid of him again.
The next night, he didn’t wait on the street. You closed up shop, locked the door, and there he was—already leaning against the brick wall, arms folded across his chest. The way he looked at you made the air feel heavy, like he’d been waiting for this moment all day. “Come on,” he said quietly, falling into step beside you.
The walk to your apartment was silent, but not tense. His hand brushed yours once or twice, and though he didn’t take it, you felt the weight of restraint in every step he took. When you unlocked your door and pushed it open, you hesitated. He didn’t ask this time. He didn’t have to. The question was in his eyes, and the answer was already in yours. “Stay,” you said softly.
Something uncoiled in him at that word, something he’d been holding too tightly. He stepped inside without hesitation, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of your chair like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Your apartment filled with him—his size, his presence, the faint spice of his cologne. You made tea because it gave your hands something to do, and when you handed him a mug, his fingers brushed yours deliberately, lingering just long enough to make your pulse trip. He sat beside you, close enough that your knees touched. He drank the tea like he wasn’t used to it, sipping carefully, his eyes never leaving you. “Feels different,” he murmured after a while.
“What does?”
“This. Here. With you.” His gaze flicked around the apartment, then back to you. “It’s quiet. No one watching. No one waiting on me. Just… you.”
Your chest tightened. “Is that what you want?”
His jaw flexed. He set the mug down, metal fingers tapping once against the porcelain. “Yeah. More than I should.”
The silence stretched. You shifted under his stare, then finally leaned back against the couch, letting your shoulder brush his. He stilled at the contact, then eased, as if the world had just given him permission to breathe. The hours slipped by. You talked about nothing—books, music, the weather—and sometimes you didn’t talk at all. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, warm, almost domestic. When the clock ticked past midnight, you stifled a yawn. His head turned instantly, eyes narrowing. “You’re tired.”
“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice was drowsy.
He stood, towering over you, then offered his hand. “Bed,” he said.
You arched a brow, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Excuse me?”
His mouth curved faintly. “To sleep, doll. I’ll take the couch.”
You hesitated, then nodded, leading him toward the small bedroom. He didn’t linger, didn’t push. He just pulled the blanket up to your chin once you were settled, his hand brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your throat ache. “Sleep,” he murmured.
You closed your eyes, the glow of the lamp warm against the walls, and the last thing you felt was the weight of his presence just outside the door—silent, steady, keeping watch.
The smell of coffee pulled you awake before the sunlight did. For a moment, you thought you were dreaming—the rich, dark aroma, the soft clink of ceramic from your kitchen—but when you sat up, the lamp still glowed faintly on your nightstand, and the blanket tucked under your chin smelled faintly of his cologne.
You padded quietly to the doorway, pausing when you saw him. Bucky stood at the counter, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he poured steaming coffee into your favorite mug. His jacket was still draped over the back of the chair from last night, his sleeves rolled up again. On the counter beside him was a loaf of bread you’d bought at the market, neatly sliced into even pieces, and butter softening in a small dish. It looked… domestic. Almost ordinary. And it made your chest ache in a way you weren’t prepared for. “You don’t have to do that,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe.
He looked up instantly, sharp as always, but his expression softened when he saw you. “Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Figured I’d make myself useful.”
You smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You’re really bad at pretending this is normal.”
“Maybe,” he said, setting the mug in front of you. His voice lowered. “But I like pretending with you.”
The warmth of the cup seeped into your palms. You took a sip, humming at the taste—it was stronger than you usually made it, but good. He watched your reaction like it mattered more than anything else. “See?” he said, almost smug. “Better than what you usually drink.”
You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “You think you can just take over my kitchen now?”
His grin widened, wolfish but soft around the edges. “If you let me.” For a long moment, you stood there, sipping your coffee while he leaned against the counter, watching you like the morning belonged to the two of you alone. When you finally set the mug down, he reached past you, brushing your wrist deliberately as he moved the butter closer to the bread. “Eat something,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes but picked up a slice anyway. “You know, most people say ‘please’ when they want something.”
He chuckled low, the sound warm and rough. “Please, doll. Eat something for me.”
You laughed then, quiet but real, and he looked at you like he’d just won a war without firing a single shot. And as you sat at your tiny kitchen table, him across from you with his coffee, you realized you weren’t just letting him into your apartment. You were letting him into your mornings, your routines, your life. He seemed to realize it too. Because when you reached for another slice of bread, he leaned back in his chair, eyes soft and possessive all at once, and said quietly, “get used to this. I’m not going anywhere.”
You thought he’d leave after breakfast—slip out the way he usually did, shadow heavy but fleeting. Instead, he stayed, long after the last crumb of bread was gone and your coffee had cooled. He didn’t hover, not exactly. He followed you with his eyes as you moved around your apartment, tidying plates, straightening cushions, feeding the little plant on your windowsill. Every small domestic motion seemed to hold his full attention, as if he were cataloging it all for later.
When you bent to pick up a book that had slipped under the table, he was suddenly there, crouched beside you. His metal fingers brushed the spine before yours could reach it. “Got it,” he murmured, handing it over. His eyes lingered on the cover—an old paperback, spine worn soft. “You like this one?”
“It’s a favorite,” you admitted, hugging it to your chest. “I’ve read it more times than I can count.”
He nodded slowly, eyes sharp, as though he were etching the title into his memory. You retreated to the couch, curling into the corner, and he sat at the other end—close enough that your knees brushed when you shifted. He leaned back, stretching an arm along the top of the couch, watching you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “You’re different here,” you said quietly.
“How?”
“Quieter. Softer.” You hesitated. “Like you’re not carrying the whole world on your shoulders.”
For a moment, something flickered across his face—something raw, almost vulnerable. “Maybe it’s because I’m with you.”
Your cheeks warmed. You turned your gaze toward the window, pretending to fuss with the flowers on the sill. “You say things like that too easily.”
“I don’t say anything easily,” he said, voice low, firm. “Not unless I mean it.”
The air grew heavier, thick with unspoken things. To break it, you stood and gathered the empty mugs. “I should wash these.”
“I’ll do it.”
Before you could protest, he was already in your tiny kitchen, sleeves pushed up, broad frame bent over your sink. The sight of him there—dangerous and untouchable to the rest of the city, carefully rinsing soap suds from your favorite mug—sent a strange ache through you. “You really don’t know how to act normal,” you teased gently, leaning against the counter.
He glanced at you, lips curving faintly. “This is normal. For me. If you let it be.”
You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how easily he was weaving himself into your space, your life. When the mugs were clean and drying on the rack, he returned to the couch, looking far too at ease in your home. As though the line between visitor and resident had already blurred. And when you finally told him, half-awkward, that you needed to open the shop soon, he only nodded, standing slowly. His eyes swept the room one last time before settling on you. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, not as a command but as a promise.
And when the door clicked shut behind him, your apartment still felt full.
The second time he stayed, it felt less like a choice and more like inevitability. He didn’t even ask if it was alright—he simply slipped off his jacket, folded it neatly over the arm of your couch, and stretched his long frame across it like it was a habit he’d been keeping for years.
You went to bed with the lamplight still spilling warm gold into the hallway, the faint hum of the city outside, and the comforting knowledge that he was only a few steps away. It was deep into the night when you woke. Thirst pulled you from sleep, groggy and heavy-limbed. Padding into the living room, you found him still on the couch, blanket pushed low around his waist, one arm draped over the edge.
For a moment, you thought he was sleeping peacefully. His chest rose and fell, steady. But then you noticed the twitch of his fingers, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the low, almost inaudible sounds escaping his throat—half-formed words, broken whispers.
You froze. A nightmare. Your first instinct was to leave him be, let him fight his shadows alone. But something in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his breath hitched, made your chest ache. “Bucky,” you whispered, stepping closer. “It’s alright. You’re safe.” You reached out, intending only to brush your fingers across his shoulder, to anchor him in the present. But the instant your skin touched his, his metal arm snapped up, lightning fast, clamping around your wrist.
The pressure was startling, firm enough to hurt, and you gasped softly. His eyes flew open—wild, unmoored, glassy with panic. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t here with you. He was somewhere else. Then recognition hit. His grip loosened instantly, his chest heaving. “God—doll—” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
You sank down onto the edge of the couch, cradling his arm with your free hand, your voice low and steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You didn’t mean to.”
But he was already shaking his head, his flesh hand scrubbing hard over his face. “Shouldn’t—shouldn’t touch you. Not when I don’t know where I am. Could’ve hurt you. Could’ve—”
You caught his wrist before he could pull further away. “You didn’t. You didn’t hurt me.”
His metal fingers trembled against your skin, so different from the usual deliberate steadiness you knew. He kept repeating it, almost under his breath, like a mantra breaking apart. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” you whispered, sliding closer, resting your other hand lightly against his chest. His heart thundered beneath your palm. “Look at me.” It took a moment, but his eyes finally lifted to yours—blue and raw, stripped of every layer of command and control. “You’re here,” you said softly. “With me. You’re safe.”
The tension in his arm eased by degrees, until his grip was nothing more than a loose circle around your wrist. He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven. “You shouldn’t have to… deal with this.”
“I don’t mind,” you whispered. And you didn’t. Not when it was him.
For a long time, you just sat there, your hand still against his chest, his breath slowly steadying under your touch. When his grip finally fell away completely, it wasn’t because he pushed you—it was because he let go, trusting you not to move. You didn’t. You stayed.
And when he drifted back into sleep, your wrist still tingled from the weight of his arm, but it wasn’t fear that lingered. It was the way his voice had broken on your name, the way he’d clung to your presence like it was the only thing anchoring him in the world.
By the time the apartment grew quiet again, you hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You’d sat there with him, your hand still resting over his chest, listening as his breath evened out beneath your palm. You told yourself you’d move once you were sure he was settled.
But your eyes grew heavy. The couch was warm beneath you, his body warmer still, and before you knew it, you were sliding sideways, cheek pressed against his shirt. His heart was a steady thrum beneath your ear, his arm—flesh, not metal—loosely draped over your back as though even in sleep he couldn’t help but hold you close.
The couch was small, too small for the both of you, but you didn’t notice. Not with the weight of him grounding you, not with the lamp’s glow painting soft gold across the room.
When you woke, morning light was spilling through the curtains, pale and thin. It took a moment to realize where you were—why your pillow was too firm, why your blanket smelled faintly of his cologne. You shifted, groggy, and felt his chest move beneath you. He was awake. His breathing was shallow, controlled, the way he sounded when he was trying not to disturb you. “Morning,” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.
His chest rumbled under your cheek with a low, uncertain sound. “You shouldn’t… have stayed here.”
You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were sharp, but not cold. There was guilt there, deep and quiet. “Why not?”
“I could’ve hurt you,” he said. His metal hand flexed once against the blanket, as though the memory of gripping your arm was still burning through him. “I did hurt you.”
You shook your head, propping yourself on your elbow. “You didn’t. You scared me for a second, but… you didn’t hurt me.” His jaw worked, but he said nothing. You studied him for a moment—his hair mussed from sleep, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he looked so much younger like this, stripped of the armor he wore in daylight. “Bucky,” you said softly, “I wouldn’t have fallen asleep here if I didn’t feel safe with you.”
That silenced him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes flicking away for a moment as though he couldn’t bear the weight of what you’d just given him. Slowly, carefully, he brushed his knuckles across your cheek, his touch light, reverent. “You shouldn’t trust me that much.”
“Maybe not,” you whispered, leaning into his hand. “But I do.”
For the first time in longer than he could probably remember, his mouth curved into something almost fragile, almost grateful. You stayed like that for a long moment, the morning wrapping around you both like a secret. The couch was still too small, your neck was already sore, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Because for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were comforting him, or if he was comforting you.
---
The bell chimed as usual when he stepped into your shop, but today felt heavier somehow. Maybe it was the memory of the night before, of waking up in his arms on your too-small couch. Maybe it was the image of his wide, haunted eyes as he whispered apology after apology, and the way your chest had ached to soothe him.
You’d been thinking about that all morning. About how much he gave you—his presence, his protection, his steadiness—even if he never admitted it aloud. And for once, you wanted to give him something back. So you’d worked quietly before he arrived, hands steady even as your heart raced, trimming stems and tying ribbon. Now, as he approached the counter, you wiped your palms on your apron and brought the bouquet out from behind you.
It wasn’t like the ones you usually sold. This one was deliberate, personal. Deep blue delphiniums, soft cornflowers, pale forget-me-nots woven together in layers, all tied with a silver-gray ribbon. The colors matched his eyes perfectly—sharp and striking at the center, softer and gentler around the edges. You held it out shyly. “For you.”
He froze. For a man who seemed to always know what to do, what to say, he looked completely undone in that moment. His eyes flicked from the flowers to your face and back again, as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing. “You made this… for me?” His voice was rough, low.
You nodded, your fingers twisting the edge of your apron. “You’ve brought me so much. I just thought—maybe you’d like to have something, too.”
He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and took the bouquet from your hands. His metal fingers brushed the ribbon with surprising gentleness, as though afraid he might crush the delicate stems. For a long moment, he just stared at it. Then his jaw worked, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “No one’s ever…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “No one’s ever given me flowers before.”
Your heart clenched. “Then I’ll just have to make sure it’s not the last time.”
His eyes snapped back to yours, something raw burning in them. He set the bouquet carefully on the counter, then reached across with his flesh hand, curling his fingers around yours. “Thank you, doll,” he said, voice unsteady. “You don’t know what this means to me.” But from the way he held your hand, from the way his thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles like he was memorizing the feel of you, you thought maybe you did.
Bucky carried the bouquet back with him, cradled more carefully than the files his men handed him daily. When he entered his penthouse, the first thing Natasha noticed wasn’t the flowers themselves—it was the way he set them down gently on his desk, like they were priceless.
She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Boss, if you keep this up, you’re gonna need a bigger office. Between the vases and bouquets, it’s starting to look more like a conservatory than a headquarters.”
He shot her a sharp look, but it lacked real heat. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the bouquet, fingers brushing over the ribbon like he still couldn’t believe it was real. “You got a problem with flowers, Romanoff?” he asked, voice low.
Natasha’s smirk softened into something almost approving. “Not with flowers. Just with you hiding in here behind them.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m not hiding.”
“You’ve skipped the last three meetings,” she countered, stepping further into the room. “You can’t keep pushing them off. People are starting to notice. And this next one—you can’t get out of it.”
His eyes darkened, steel sliding back into his expression. “When?”
“Tomorrow night.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Seven o’clock. You’ll be there, and you’ll sit through it, whether you like it or not.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. His metal fingers tapped once against the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Then he let out a slow breath, eyes flicking back to the blue bouquet. “Fine,” he said. “Tomorrow night.”
Natasha tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve got her making bouquets just for you now?”
His lips curved faintly—dangerous, but softer than usual. “Yeah. She did.”
Natasha’s brows lifted. “And you’re going to tell her where you’re going tomorrow?”
His gaze sharpened again, voice dropping low. “No.”
“Bucky—”
“She doesn’t need to know.” His eyes lingered on the flowers, something fierce burning beneath the calm. “Not yet.”
Natasha studied him for a long beat before finally sighing. “One of these days, Barnes, you’re gonna realize she’s not just another thing you can keep in the dark.”
But he didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the bouquet again, his hand steady, his mind already far from the meeting Natasha had chained him to.
The following evening, Bucky was restless. He’d shown up at your shop like he always did, the bell chiming as he stepped in, but his presence felt heavier than usual. He leaned against the counter, silent, eyes fixed on you while you arranged fresh stems in a vase. His gloves were still on—he hadn’t even rolled his sleeves the way he sometimes did when he helped close up. “Long day?” you asked, glancing up.
His jaw flexed once. “Not finished yet.”
Something in his tone told you not to press. But you noticed the way his gaze lingered on you a little too long, as though he were memorizing everything about you—the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your hands as you tied ribbon.
When you locked up for the night, he was there as usual, walking you home. His stride was slower, though, deliberate. Like he didn’t want the walk to end. At your door, instead of leaving with his usual “goodnight,” he lingered. His eyes traced your face with an intensity that made your heart race. “You’ll stay in tonight,” he said softly.
You blinked. “I was planning to, yes. Why?”
He exhaled, the faintest flicker of relief passing across his features. “Good. I need…” He hesitated, words sticking like they were foreign in his mouth. “I need to be somewhere. But I don’t want you worrying.”
Your brows furrowed. “Where?”
His eyes softened, but the steel never left them. “Not a place you need to know about.” It stung, a little, but before you could respond, his flesh hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin. His touch was warm, but his grip was firm, almost desperate. “Promise me you’ll stay here tonight,” he murmured. “Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
You swallowed hard. “Bucky—”
“Promise me.” His voice was low, commanding, but under it was something raw. Fear.
Your heart twisted. “I promise.”
Only then did his shoulders ease, just slightly. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple, lingering there longer than usual. When he pulled back, his eyes burned with something unspoken. “I’ll be back,” he said simply. And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the city.
You stood in your doorway long after he’d disappeared, the bouquet you’d given him still fresh in your memory. Whatever world he was going back to tonight, it wasn’t one you were part of—not yet. But the way he’d looked at you before he left made you wonder how long he could keep the walls up.
It was late when the knock came—so late the city outside had gone quiet, even the hum of traffic muted. You woke with a start, heart pounding, blinking against the faint glow of the lamp in your bedroom.
For a moment, you thought you’d dreamed it. Then it came again, firmer this time. Three heavy knocks that rattled the wood. You slipped from bed, pulling a sweater over your shoulders, bare feet whispering across the floor. When you peered through the peephole, your stomach dropped. Bucky. He stood close to the door, shoulders squared, hair mussed, suit rumpled. His jaw was tight, his eyes burning with something fierce and unsteady. And his knuckles—flesh and metal both—were streaked with blood.
You unlocked the door quickly and pulled it open. “Bucky.” He exhaled your name like a prayer, his chest rising and falling hard. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, filling your small apartment with his presence, the door shutting behind him with a dull thud. You reached for his hand automatically, the blood stark against your skin. “What happened?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said roughly, pulling back just enough to keep the mess off you. “It’s done.”
“Bucky—”
“I didn’t want you to see me like this.” His voice cracked low, raw, like he’d used up every ounce of steel at that meeting and had nothing left to shield himself with now.
You guided him toward the couch anyway, ignoring his protest. “Sit.” He hesitated, then obeyed, sinking down heavily. His shoulders were still tight, coiled with tension, his fists flexing and unflexing as though he hadn’t yet come down from whatever storm he’d just walked out of. You fetched a cloth and warm water from the bathroom, kneeling in front of him. He tried to take the rag from your hand, but you shook your head. “Let me,” you said softly.
For once, he didn’t argue. He let you cradle his hand, your smaller fingers working gently over the bloodstains. His skin was rough under your touch, his palm scarred, but you treated it like something fragile, as if the violence hadn’t seeped into the lines of his hand at all. He watched you in silence, blue eyes intent, following every stroke of the cloth. “You shouldn’t…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “You shouldn’t want to do this for me.”
“Maybe I want to anyway,” you whispered.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark. “You’re gonna ruin yourself, doll. Being close to me.”
You wrung out the cloth, wiping gently at his other hand, this one colder, harder. His metal fingers twitched under your touch, then stilled. “Maybe you don’t get to decide that,” you murmured.
His chest rose sharply, his eyes snapping to yours. The intensity there was almost unbearable—possessive, desperate, aching. “I came here,” he admitted finally, voice hoarse. “Because after it was over, all I wanted was you. Just… you.”
You finished cleaning the last smear of blood from his knuckles, then set the cloth aside. Without thinking, you reached up and pressed your hand against his jaw, tilting his face toward you. “I’m here,” you said simply.
And for the first time that night, his shoulders dropped, the fight bleeding out of him. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing, as though your palm was the only anchor he had left.
You didn’t let go of him right away. Even when his shoulders eased, when the fury and tension in him finally started to drain, you kept your hand at his jaw, kept your body close enough that he could feel your steadiness. When you finally shifted to stand, he caught your wrist—not tight, not desperate, but firm enough to stop you. His eyes opened, and there it was again: that raw, unguarded fear. Fear of you walking away. “Stay,” he murmured.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly. “But you need to rest. You can’t keep carrying all of this on your own.” You tugged gently until he let you go, then stood and gestured toward your bedroom. “Come on. You take the bed tonight.”
His eyes narrowed immediately. “No.”
“Bucky—”
“I’m not putting you on the couch in your own home,” he said sharply, rising to his feet. “I’ll take it. Always.”
The finality in his tone made you hesitate, but then you stepped closer, meeting his intensity with your own. “You came here for comfort, didn’t you? Then let me give it to you. Please.”
The word hung between you. You almost never asked him for anything. His jaw worked. He glanced at the bedroom door, then back at you, his expression caught between resistance and something almost… longing. Finally, he exhaled slowly. “Fine. But only if you stay too.”
Your breath caught. “Bucky—”
“I won’t sleep otherwise,” he admitted, voice low, hoarse. “Not without you.”
The ache in your chest deepened. You nodded once, quietly, and guided him into the bedroom. He moved carefully, stripping off his bloodstained shirt and leaving it folded on the chair before slipping under the covers in just his undershirt and slacks. He looked out of place in your small bed, too large, too coiled with silent tension.
You slid in beside him, the lamp’s glow soft across both of you. At first, he kept to his side, stiff and deliberate, as though terrified of crowding you. But when you reached out—just the lightest brush of your fingers over his wrist—he shifted closer, inch by inch, until his forehead rested against yours. “Sorry,” he whispered again, the word barely audible. “For last night. For tonight. For all of it.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” you whispered back, eyes closing. “Not with me.”
His breath stuttered against your cheek, and then his arm—warm, heavy, trembling slightly—wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest. It was a long time before his breathing evened out, before the tension bled from his body completely. But when it did, he slept deeper than he had in years, anchored by your presence.
And you stayed there with him, awake for a long while, listening to the steady thrum of his heart and wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was learning how to let someone share the weight he carried.
---
You woke to the sensation of warmth. Not the sunlight—though that was spilling pale and soft through the curtains—but the solid weight of the man beside you. His arm was still around you, heavy and steady, his chest pressed to your back. For a moment you stayed perfectly still, afraid that moving would shatter the fragile quiet that had settled over him in the night.
Eventually, you stirred, stretching carefully. His arm slipped away immediately, as if he’d been awake already, holding himself too tightly so as not to trap you. “Morning,” you murmured, rolling to face him. He was lying on his side, head propped on his hand, blue eyes fixed on you. His hair was a little mussed, his undershirt wrinkled. But his gaze was sharp, searching, as though he were trying to read the truth in your expression. “You slept,” you said softly, surprised by how certain you were.
“Because of you,” he admitted.
Something in your chest squeezed. You brushed your thumb lightly across the back of his hand. “I’m glad.”
But he didn’t relax. His eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw flexing. “You don’t regret this? Letting me stay?”
You blinked, caught off guard. “No. Why would I?”
“Because you saw me last night.” His voice was rough, low, like he hated the words even as he forced them out. “Bloody. Angry. A mess. That’s who I am, doll. That’s what I do when I leave you here. And I don’t…” He trailed off, eyes flicking away for a moment. “I don’t want you to look at me different because of it.”
You pushed yourself up on your elbow, leaning closer, catching his gaze. “Bucky. I saw you. And I still asked you to stay.”
His throat bobbed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You shouldn’t have to comfort me.”
“Maybe I want to,” you whispered, echoing the words you’d spoken when you cleaned his bloodied hands.
The silence stretched, heavy but not unbearable. His hand lifted, brushing lightly over your head, fingers catching gently at the nape of your neck. “You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You shook your head. “Not even a little.”
His eyes closed briefly, as though the weight of that truth was too much to hold. When he opened them again, they burned with something softer than you’d ever seen in him, something dangerously close to hope. And though he didn’t say the words, you could feel them in the way he held your gaze, in the way his fingers lingered against your skin.
For once, he wasn’t just the man who haunted your shop, who walked you home, who carried storms in his chest. For once, he was just Bucky.
---
The day had been quiet, the steady hum of your little shop wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. You were working at the counter, arranging fresh lilies into a tall glass vase, humming softly under your breath. Bucky had slipped into the back earlier, muttering something about moving crates that were too heavy for you, though you hadn’t asked him to.
You balanced the vase carefully in your hands—just a little too tall, a little too slick with condensation—and then it happened. The glass slipped. You gasped, a sharp sound breaking the quiet as the vase hit the floor and shattered. Water splashed across your shoes, stems splayed in every direction, and shards of glass glittered in a jagged circle around your feet.
“Doll?” His voice was immediate, sharp, and then he was there, bursting from the back with all the force of a man expecting the worst. His eyes swept the scene in an instant—the water, the flowers, the glinting glass around your shoes—and then locked onto you.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, holding your hands up like surrender. “I just—”
“Don’t move,” he snapped, the command biting. But his eyes softened a heartbeat later, voice lowering. “Please. Don’t move.” You froze, biting your lip. Shards glittered dangerously close to your ankles, one sliver already catching at your sock. Bucky’s chest rose hard with a deep breath. Then he stepped closer, gaze flicking up to yours. “Do you trust me?”
The question startled you—so direct, so weighted. But your answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”
In one smooth motion, his hands found your waist, strong and steady, and he lifted you up out of the circle of broken glass. You startled, legs instinctively tightening around him as he held you against his chest, the strength in his arms effortless and certain.
Your heart hammered, breath catching as the world tilted. You could feel the hard lines of him through his shirt, the steady thrum of his heartbeat pressed to your chest. For a moment, you were frozen, caught in the intensity of his eyes as he looked at you—so close, so intent, like you were the only thing in the world. Then, before you could stop yourself, a quiet giggle slipped out. You ducked your head against his shoulder, cheeks warm. “You’re… really strong.”
The corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous, but softer than you’d ever seen it. His grip tightened just slightly at your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how easily he held you. “Damn right I am,” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “Strong enough to carry you as long as it takes.”
Your breath caught, the teasing words laced with something heavier, deeper. You clung to him just a little tighter, not because of the glass scattered on the floor, but because of the way he said it—as though he meant more than just this moment.
And when he finally set you down on the counter, out of harm’s way, his hands lingered at your waist, eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. His hands lingered at your waist even after he’d set you safely on the counter, his eyes locked on yours like he was trying to convince himself you were unharmed. Only when you shifted slightly—cheeks warm, fingers fiddling with the hem of your apron—did he finally step back. “Stay there,” he ordered softly. It wasn’t harsh, but it brooked no argument.
You opened your mouth to protest, then caught the flash in his eyes, the steel under the softness. You nodded instead, watching as he crouched to gather the scattered stems first, setting them aside with almost comical care before he tackled the glass.
He worked in silence, broad shoulders bent, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he swept every shard into a neat pile with practiced efficiency. He didn’t let you come near—every time you shifted on the counter as if to hop down, his gaze snapped to you, sharp as a warning. “You’re acting like I nearly lost a limb,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.
“You could’ve cut yourself,” he muttered, scooping the last of the glass into the dustpan. “Slipped, fallen—”
“Bucky, it was a vase.”
He dumped the shards into the bin and straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t matter. Anything that touches you—anything that could hurt you—it matters to me.”
The words hung in the air, heavy, possessive. Your heart thudded in your chest. When he finally crossed back to you, he brushed his hands down, metal glinting faintly in the shop’s light. Then, to your surprise, he reached out and gently lifted your ankle, checking your sock, then the other. His touch was careful, almost reverent, like he needed proof with his own eyes that you were unscathed. “I told you I was fine,” you whispered, heat curling in your chest.
“I had to see for myself,” he murmured. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing lightly against the bone, before he finally let go.
You giggled then, nervous and shy, but unable to hold it back. “You really are strong, you know. Picking me up like that…”
His lips curved into something sharp and slow, a smile that was equal parts dangerous and softened just for you. “You liked that?”
You ducked your head, embarrassed, but nodded faintly. “Maybe.”
His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped closer, caging you gently where you sat on the counter. “Good. Because I’m not done showing you how strong I am.”
The words made your breath hitch, your pulse skittering wildly. And though he didn’t touch you again, though he only lingered there in your space, the promise in his voice wrapped around you like a second heartbeat.
The shop closed later than usual that evening—the broken vase had set you behind, and you insisted on mopping every last drop of water yourself while Bucky loomed nearby, pretending to help while really just watching you like a hawk.
By the time you stepped out into the cooling night, the streets were already washed in shadow. He fell into step beside you, as always, but tonight felt different. The air between you was warmer, charged, still echoing with the memory of his hands lifting you clear of the glass, your legs around his waist, your breathless little laugh against his shoulder.
You stole a glance at him as you walked. His jaw was set, his gaze sharp on the street ahead, but there was something softer in the curve of his mouth, something unspoken simmering in his eyes when they flicked toward you. “Thank you,” you said quietly, breaking the silence.
He turned his head slightly. “For what?”
“For earlier. For making sure I didn’t… get hurt.” You smiled faintly, shy. “And for carrying me. Even if it was just across a puddle of glass.”
The corner of his lips curved, slow and wolfish. “I’d carry you farther than that, doll. Anywhere you wanted.”
Your heart thudded, and you ducked your gaze to the pavement. When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly reluctant to let the night end. He stood close, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin, close enough that the city noise faded into nothing. He studied you for a long moment, blue eyes intent, then lifted his hand. His knuckles brushed along your cheek, light as a whisper, before he leaned down. The kiss wasn’t on your lips. It was at the corner of your mouth, feather-light, lingering just long enough to steal your breath. When he pulled back, his gaze was burning, fierce and possessive but softened in a way you’d never seen before. “Goodnight,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
You managed a quiet, flustered, “goodnight,” before slipping inside, leaning against the door once it clicked shut. Your pulse was still racing. The ghost of his touch still lingered on your cheek. And you knew, with startling clarity, that something between you had shifted again—deeper, closer, and far harder to resist.
---
The last customer had barely left when you flipped the little sign on the door to closed. The shop was quiet, petals scattered on the counter, the air still thick with the mingled perfume of roses and lilies. Bucky was already there, leaning against the wall near the register, sleeves rolled up, watching you sweep the last of the day’s mess into a neat pile.
It was almost habit now—him staying until you locked up, walking you home like a shadow no one could shake. But tonight, as you tied off the trash bag and wiped your hands on your apron, you found yourself blurting something out before you could second-guess it. “Do you… want to come grocery shopping with me?”
His head lifted, eyes narrowing as though you’d just offered him something strange and dangerous. “Grocery shopping?”
You nodded, a little shy. “Yeah. Just the corner store, nothing big.”
For a moment, he just studied you, unreadable. Then his mouth curved, the faintest tug at the corner of his lips. “You’re asking me on a date to a grocery store?”
Your cheeks warmed. “Not a date. Just… normal. Something normal.”
That seemed to strike something in him. The teasing faded, replaced with that sharp, focused look he always gave you when he was paying too much attention. Finally, he pushed off the wall, slipping into his jacket. “Alright. Let’s go.”
The store was half-empty when you arrived, aisles humming faintly under fluorescent lights. You grabbed a basket, but before you could even step forward, Bucky plucked it from your hands, carrying it himself without comment. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he said, same as he always did when you tried to argue.
You shook your head with a smile and wandered down the first aisle. The ordinary act of choosing bread, fruit, milk felt almost surreal with him beside you. People glanced your way—some because of his presence, some because of his sheer size—but he ignored them, his attention fixed entirely on you. You paused at the shelf of pasta, biting your lip as you compared prices. He frowned. “What’re you doing?”
“Deciding which one to get.”
“Just grab both,” he said flatly.
You laughed under your breath. “That’s not how grocery shopping works.”
He arched a brow. “When I’m here, it does.” And before you could protest, both boxes were dropped into the basket.
A few aisles later, you spotted a display of apples, glossy and red under the lights. You reached for one, but he plucked the apple from your hand. “Too bruised,” he muttered, discarding it for another. Then another. Until finally he chose one and handed it to you, his expression deadly serious.
You bit back a giggle, putting it into the basket. “You’re very picky.”
“I don’t want you eating anything that isn’t good enough for you,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Your heart gave a little squeeze.
At the checkout, the clerk gave you both a curious look, eyes flicking from the man built like a soldier to the flowers still faintly clinging to your apron. Bucky ignored it, pulling out a roll of bills before you could reach for your own wallet. “Bucky—”
“Don’t,” he warned softly, sliding the cash across the counter.
You sighed, but your lips curved despite yourself. When you stepped back into the night, bags in hand, he shifted most of them to his own arms, leaving you only one light sack to carry. As you walked back toward your apartment, you realized your chest felt strangely full—like the simple act of buying apples and bread with him meant more than any extravagant gift could. And when you glanced up at him, his eyes already on you, you wondered if he felt the same.
The bags rustled quietly between you as you and Bucky made your way back to your apartment. He carried almost all of them, his broad frame cutting through the dim streetlight glow like a shield. Every so often, you’d catch him glancing down at you, his gaze lingering on your smaller bag as if he were annoyed you had any weight at all to carry.
By the time you reached your door, he was already fishing the key from your pocket—something he’d made a habit of, though tonight he looked at you first, waiting. You smiled faintly and gave him a nod. He unlocked the door, nudging it open with his shoulder, and followed you inside.
The apartment felt warmer with him in it, crowded but not in a way that unsettled you. He set the bags on the counter, already rolling up his sleeves like this was second nature. “You don’t have to help put everything away,” you said, slipping off your shoes.
“Not letting you do this alone,” he countered, already unpacking a bag.
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re terrible at letting me do anything.”
“Only because you deserve better than doing it by yourself.”
The simple certainty in his tone made your chest flutter. You busied yourself with the pantry shelves while he stacked cans and jars, his movements precise, almost military. Every so often, he paused to ask where something went—not in his usual commanding tone, but softer, quieter, like he wanted to get it right. When you turned to find him awkwardly holding up a carton of milk, brows furrowed, you giggled. “That goes in the fridge, Bucky.”
He smirked, shaking his head as he set it inside. “Not my strong suit, doll.”
You tilted your head, teasing. “And here I thought you were strong at everything.”
His eyes flicked to yours, sharp and knowing, but softened quickly. “I am. Especially when it comes to you.” Heat crept up your neck. You ducked back toward the pantry, pretending to fuss with the bags.
When the last of the groceries were tucked away, he leaned against the counter, watching you tie the bags into a neat bundle. His presence filled the small kitchen, his eyes steady and unreadable. “This is…” He paused, exhaling. “Nice.”
You glanced at him, smiling softly. “It is.”
“I could get used to this,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, you brushed past him on your way to the sink, your arm grazing his, a tiny, wordless acknowledgment. The evening stretched out lazily, the two of you lingering on the couch after the groceries were tucked away. You’d made tea, steam curling faintly between you, and at some point your head had drifted to the back cushion, eyelids drooping while Bucky sat beside you, quiet and watchful. “You’re falling asleep on me,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and almost amused.
“M’not,” you mumbled, even as your head tilted a little to the side, threatening to nod off completely.
His lips curved, subtle but there. “Doll, go to bed.”
You groaned softly, rubbing your eyes, and gave a small pout. “Don’t wanna move. It’s too far.”
The faintest laugh rumbled from his chest. “Too far? It’s ten steps.”
You cracked one eye open, playful despite your exhaustion. “Then carry me.” You hadn’t expected him to take you seriously. But before you could blink, his hands were at your sides, sliding under you with practiced ease. You let out a startled little gasp as the world tilted, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. He gathered you up without effort, cradled securely against his chest in a full bridal carry. Your breath caught, a laugh bubbling out as your cheek pressed against his shoulder. “Bucky—”
“Don’t pout at me if you don’t mean it,” he murmured, his voice quiet but edged with satisfaction.
He carried you through the small apartment like you weighed nothing, each step steady and sure. You didn’t protest—you couldn’t, not with the warmth of him surrounding you, not with the way he held you like you were something precious. By the time he set you down gently on the bed, pulling the blanket up over you, your heart was racing too fast for sleep. He lingered at your side for a moment, his eyes soft in a way they rarely were. “Better?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, cheeks warm, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Much.”
He exhaled slowly, almost like relief, before straightening. “Sleep, doll. I’ll be right outside.” And as you drifted off, you could still feel the phantom weight of his arms around you, carrying you like you were the only thing in the world worth holding onto.
---
It started with a lightbulb. You were balancing on the edge of a chair, stretching on tiptoe to reach the fixture above your counter when Bucky walked in. He froze in the doorway, eyes narrowing like he’d caught you dangling off a cliff. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Changing a bulb,” you answered, squinting up at the socket. “It burnt out last night.”
He stalked forward, plucking the box from your hand. “Get down.”
You turned your head, giving him a pointed look. “It’s just a lightbulb, Bucky.”
“Get down,” he repeated, voice soft but firm, like the sound of a lock clicking shut.
You sighed dramatically but stepped down, brushing dust off your apron. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless,” he shot back, climbing onto the chair himself. It creaked under his weight, but he made quick work of the fixture, replacing the bulb in seconds before hopping down. He set the empty box on the counter like he’d just conquered something monumental. “See? No problem,” he said, smug.
You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched. “You act like you saved me from falling off a building.”
His gaze softened as he brushed a speck of dust from your shoulder. “Doesn’t matter how small it is, doll. I don’t like seeing you in danger.”
The habit stuck after that. A loose hinge on your cabinet? Bucky fixed it before you even realized it needed repairing. A crack in the paint near your window? He brought in supplies and patched it one evening, sleeves rolled and shirt clinging to his back while you tried not to stare too obviously. And it wasn’t just repairs. One night you came home with groceries, and before you could even set the bags down, he was unloading them, stacking cans with soldier-like precision. He held up a carton of tea, frowning. “You drink this?”
“Yes?” you said slowly, tilting your head.
He dropped it into the cupboard. “Not anymore. I’ll bring you something better.”
You crossed your arms, trying to look stern. “You can’t just replace my tea without asking.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Then I’ll ask. May I replace your tea with something that won’t taste like dishwater?”
You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. “Fine. You win.”
But the moment that stayed with you came later, when you offered something back. You’d picked up a box of his favorite pastries—something you’d noticed he always lingered over when you passed a certain bakery. When you handed it to him shyly at the shop, his expression faltered. He blinked down at the package, then at you, as if the gesture didn’t compute. “For me?” he asked, voice quiet.
“Of course,” you said, suddenly nervous. “You’re always helping me. I thought… you might like them.”
He opened the box, stared at the neat row of pastries, then at you again. His jaw worked, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. “No one does this for me.”
You reached out, brushing your fingers over his wrist. “They should.” His eyes darkened, burning with something fierce, something hungry—but instead of pulling you closer like you half-expected, he only nodded, as if committing the moment to memory.
---
It happened on an ordinary night, the kind where the city felt half-asleep and the shop was already dark behind you. Bucky walked you home as usual, his hand brushing lightly at your back whenever the sidewalk narrowed. The streets were quiet, the glow of the lamps stretching long shadows across the pavement.
You were telling him about a customer who’d come in earlier, half-laughing at their confusion between carnations and camellias, when your foot caught on an uneven crack in the sidewalk. You stumbled, breath catching as your balance tipped forward.
Before you could even react, his arm was around your waist. It wasn’t just a steadying touch—it was a full, protective pull, yanking you against his chest so hard your breath whooshed out. His other hand splayed across your shoulder, holding you there, shielding you as if the cracked pavement had been a bullet. “Careful,” he rasped, voice rough, too sharp for the small stumble.
Your heart raced, half from the fall, half from the intensity in his eyes when you looked up. He wasn’t just steadying you. He was possessing you, holding you so tightly you couldn’t have slipped away if you tried. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice wavered.
He didn’t let go right away. His grip stayed firm, the muscle in his jaw ticking as though he was fighting some deeper instinct. Finally, slowly, his fingers loosened, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering even as you stood straight again. “You scared me,” he admitted, voice low. The honesty in it startled you more than the stumble.
You swallowed hard, shy under his gaze. “It was just a crack in the sidewalk.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, the words sharp but weighted with something else—something you couldn’t quite name. “Anything that could hurt you… I won’t let it.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretched, heavy and electric, until you finally let out a small laugh to ease it. “Bucky,” you teased softly, “you act like you’re my personal bodyguard.”
His lips curved faintly, but his eyes never softened. “Maybe I am.” You didn’t argue. Not when your heart was still racing from the feel of his arms around you, not when the memory of his grip lingered like fire on your skin. And for the rest of the walk, his hand stayed at your waist, steady and sure, as if he didn’t trust the world not to trip you again.
---
It was late when you noticed it. The soft scrape of the couch, the low creak of springs shifting—quiet, but not quiet enough. You blinked awake in your bed, the faint glow from the lamp spilling into the hall. For a moment, you thought maybe you’d dreamed it. But then you heard the sound again, the unmistakable weight of someone moving restlessly.
You padded out into the living room, bare feet whispering on the floor. Bucky sat on the couch, shoulders hunched, elbows braced against his knees. His hands were clasped together so tightly the tendons stood out, and his jaw worked as though he was chewing back words. The blanket you’d given him earlier was pushed aside, rumpled like he’d tried to settle under it and failed. He looked up sharply when he heard you. His eyes softened, but only a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” you whispered. You took a step closer, watching him carefully. “Nightmare?”
His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer, but the silence was loud enough. Your chest ached. You crossed the small space and lowered yourself beside him. For a long moment, you just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the quiet settle. Then, slowly, you leaned into him, resting your head against his arm. He went very still. You could feel the tension thrumming through him, the way his breath hitched, the careful restraint in the way he didn’t move. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you murmured.
He exhaled, a shudder slipping out despite himself. His arm shifted—hesitant at first—then wrapped around your shoulders, drawing you closer. You let him, curling instinctively against his side, your body fitting against his with surprising ease. The silence stretched. His breathing steadied, slow and deep, but you could still feel the echoes of the storm lingering in him. So you stayed, quiet and warm, letting your presence do what words couldn’t.
At some point, your eyes grew heavy again. The steady rhythm of his chest beneath your cheek, the weight of his arm holding you—it was too much comfort to resist. Sleep pulled at you until you gave in, drifting off curled against him.
When you stirred again, it was to the strange awareness of being shifted. His arms were around you, lifting you easily. Your head lolled against his shoulder, and you blinked blearily up at him. “You should be in bed,” he murmured, voice low and rough, though his eyes softened when he saw you awake.
“M’fine here,” you mumbled, not fully conscious of the words.
His lips curved faintly, but he didn’t set you down. Instead, he lowered himself back onto the couch, letting you settle against him, your cheek pressed to his chest this time. His hand brushed down your arm, steady and grounding. You drifted again, half-asleep, your last hazy thought the realization that he was calmer now—his heartbeat steady, his breathing even—as though holding you was the only anchor he needed.
---
The first thing you noticed when you woke was warmth. Not the blanket—you realized quickly it had slipped down in the night—but the steady heat of a chest under your cheek, the quiet rise and fall of someone breathing. It took only a blink to remember where you were, who you were on top of.
The early light from the window cut across the room, spilling soft gold on his face. His head was tipped back against the couch, lashes low, jaw unshaven and rough. He looked younger like this, stripped of the sharp edges he carried in daylight. Vulnerable.
You shifted slightly, the motion enough to stir him. His arm—still heavy across your waist—tightened instinctively, pulling you back before you could move away. His eyes cracked open, blue and still hazy from sleep, but the moment he realized where you were, they sharpened. “Morning,” you whispered, your voice catching at how close you still were.
His gaze searched yours, careful, guarded. “You’re still here.”
You smiled faintly. “Of course I am.”
He swallowed, his throat working, but he didn’t release you. His fingers brushed lightly along your side, almost tentative, as if waiting for you to flinch. “You don’t… mind this?”
Your heart skipped. You shook your head, whispering, “No.” The silence that followed was thick with things neither of you were saying. You could feel his pulse against your palm where it rested on his chest, steady but a little too quick. He was waiting—waiting for a crack, a sign that you’d regret what happened. Instead, you curled closer, nestling against him. “You slept,” you murmured, half teasing. “Didn’t even wake me this time.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “That’s ‘cause you were here.”
The words landed heavy, unpolished and raw, and for a moment neither of you breathed.
You didn’t say anything, didn’t break it. You just stayed there, your cheek against his chest, his arm secure around you, until the sounds of the waking city crept through the window and the day forced you to move. But even then, when you finally pushed yourself up, he let his hand linger at your wrist, reluctant to let go.
The morning moved slowly, like it didn’t want to let go of the quiet night before. You padded into the kitchen first, hair mussed, blanket still slung around your shoulders. Bucky followed a moment later, barefoot, his undershirt clinging faintly to his chest. He looked out of place and yet so settled, as if he’d been here a hundred mornings before.
You went for the kettle, but his hand slid past yours, already reaching for it. “Sit,” he said simply. You gave him a look, but he was already filling it with water, movements efficient, deliberate. You sank into a chair at the table, hiding a smile as you watched him. His broad shoulders bent under your too-small cupboards, his frown of concentration as he searched through your cabinets until he found the tea. He set it down with a grunt, muttering under his breath about “organizing this better next time.”
By the time he brought you a mug, he’d also sliced a piece of the bread you’d bought together, setting it on a plate with a seriousness that made you bite back a laugh. “You don’t have to take care of me every second,” you teased, wrapping your hands around the warm mug.
“Yes, I do,” he answered without hesitation, pulling out the chair opposite you.
You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks. “That’s not very normal, you know.”
His gaze sharpened, then softened again, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t want normal. I want you safe. I want…” He trailed off, jaw tight. “…I want mornings like this.”
The honesty in his voice stilled you. Your throat felt tight, but you smiled anyway, shy and warm. “Then I guess I’ll let you keep making tea.”
For a long while, you just sat together in the small kitchen—the hum of the kettle, the creak of the chair under his weight, the soft sound of his breathing across the table. Ordinary, but not. Intimate in ways that left your chest aching. When you finally stood to rinse your mug, he was there instantly, taking it from your hands. “I said sit,” he reminded, his mouth curving faintly.
You rolled your eyes but went back to the table. Watching him wash the single mug at your sink, sleeves rolled, shoulders filling the space, you thought that maybe—just maybe—this was what he meant when he said he wanted mornings like this. And you thought, maybe, you did too.
--
It was one of those nights where the air felt restless, heavy with the promise of rain. The shop had closed hours ago, but Bucky lingered like always, walking at your side while the streets shimmered under the faint orange glow of the lamps. The first drop landed on your cheek just as you rounded the corner to your street. You brushed it away, glancing up at the dark sky. “Looks like we’re about to get drenched.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked upward, then back to you. “We’ll be fine. It’s not far.”
But by the time you reached the halfway mark, the drizzle had turned steady, cool drops soaking through your clothes. You let out a startled laugh, clutching the bag you carried tighter to your chest. “So much for fine.”
He caught the sound—the way you laughed, bright and unbothered—and something softened in his face. “You think this is funny?”
“A little,” you admitted, tilting your head back to the rain. “Feels kind of… freeing.” He watched you for a long moment, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense. The city blurred around you, people darting for cover, but he stayed rooted, unmoving, his eyes fixed only on you. “Bucky?” you asked, blinking the rain from your lashes.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until his hand lifted—hesitant, almost reverent—and cupped your cheek. The rain beaded across his glove, slid down his wrist, but his palm was warm, steady. You froze, heart hammering. “I shouldn’t…” His voice was low, strained, like he was fighting himself. “But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want this.”
Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding. It was slow, careful, almost cautious, as though he was giving you every chance to pull away. His lips were warm against yours, tasting faintly of rain and something darker, something entirely him.
For a moment, you were too stunned to move. Then you melted into him, your hand curling lightly into his shirt, your body leaning closer without thought. His thumb brushed along your jaw, grounding, steady, while his other arm slipped around your waist, drawing you nearer.
The world narrowed to the rhythm of the rain and the steady thrum of your pulse, the rest of the city fading away. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged, eyes burning through the thin veil of water between you. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll,” he murmured, voice rough and reverent all at once.
Your lips curved, trembling but sure. “Maybe I do.” He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, brushing another kiss—softer, fleeting—against your lips before tucking you firmly against his chest. The rain poured harder, but you barely noticed. Not with his arms around you, not with the weight of that kiss still lingering between you.
The walk back to your apartment was quieter than usual, but it wasn’t the silence of strangers or awkwardness. It was charged, heavy with something unspoken—like every step still echoed with the kiss you’d just shared.
Bucky kept you tucked firmly against his side, his arm secure around your waist as though the rain or the night itself might try to take you from him. His head bent closer than usual, his hair damp and curling at the edges, his jaw tight with something you couldn’t quite read.
You caught him looking at you more than once. Not in the way he always did—observant, calculating—but softer. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, that you’d kissed him back, that you hadn’t pulled away.
By the time you reached your door, the rain had soaked through your clothes, dripping onto the floor as you fumbled with the lock. His hand covered yours, steadying, guiding the key into place. When the door clicked open, you stepped inside, turning back to him.
For the first time since you’d met him, he hesitated on the threshold. His shoulders were squared, his expression composed, but his eyes betrayed him—something raw flickering there. “You should get dry,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse.
“So should you,” you countered softly. “Come in.” For a beat, he didn’t move. Then he stepped inside, the door shutting behind him with a soft finality.
Inside, the apartment felt smaller than ever, the air thick with rain and warmth and the weight of what had just happened. You peeled off your damp sweater, tossing it over the back of a chair, and glanced up to find him watching you, his own jacket hanging heavy in his hand. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Finally, you whispered, “Bucky…”
He crossed the space in two strides, his hand lifting again to your cheek. You froze, heart hammering, as his thumb brushed a drop of rain from your skin. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he murmured, though his voice betrayed no regret.
You tilted your face toward his palm. “But you did.”
His lips curved faintly, a hint of something dangerous and tender all at once. “And I’ll do it again if you let me.”
You didn’t answer with words. You rose on your toes, closing the small space between you, your lips meeting his once more. This kiss was different—hungrier, deeper, the careful restraint from before crumbling under the weight of what you both had been holding back. His arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand cradled the back of your head like you were something breakable.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, murmuring your name like it was a vow. And in that moment, with the rain still dripping outside and his heartbeat thrumming against your chest, you knew something had shifted for good.
The rain had stopped by morning, leaving the city washed clean, the air sharp and cool when you cracked the window above your sink. Your apartment, though, was warm—warmer still with the weight of what had happened the night before. You padded into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, still in the oversized shirt you wore to bed. The smell of coffee hit you before you even saw him. Bucky was already there.
He stood at your counter like he owned the space, sleeves rolled, steam curling from the pot he’d set on. His jacket hung neatly on the back of the chair, his damp clothes from the night before draped over the radiator to dry. He glanced up when you entered, and for the first time in all the mornings he’d lingered here, his gaze softened in a way that made your breath catch. “Morning, doll,” he murmured.
You sank into a chair, watching him pour a cup. “You’re getting comfortable.”
He set the mug in front of you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe I am.”
You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was weighted, thick with everything that had changed between you. Every glance lingered a beat too long, every brush of his hand near yours deliberate. When you finished your coffee, you stood to rinse the mug, but his hand caught your wrist lightly. “I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have to,” you said, smiling.
“I want to,” he countered, voice steady, his thumb brushing once across your skin before he released you.
Later, you opened the shop as usual, but the rhythm of the day felt different with him around. He stayed longer than he usually did, claiming a spot in the back to “keep out of the way” but emerging whenever he thought you needed him—hauling a box, adjusting a display, even holding the ladder steady when you climbed up to reach a high shelf. “You know I’ve done this before,” you teased, glancing down at him.
“Not on my watch,” he muttered, knuckles white on the ladder. By the afternoon, he’d drifted closer, sitting on the counter while you arranged a bouquet for a customer. His eyes tracked every motion of your hands, and when you tied the final ribbon, he murmured, “blue suits you better than those roses.”
You blinked up at him, flustered. “That wasn’t for me.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice low. “You’d make it look better.” Your cheeks warmed, and you quickly turned back to the flowers.
That evening, after you locked the door, he walked you home again. The air was still damp, the sky clear now, but his hand stayed at your back the entire way. At your door, instead of pulling back like usual, he lingered. “Let me in,” he said softly. Not a command this time, not quite. You hesitated only a moment before opening the door. Inside, you both shed your coats and shoes, the small apartment wrapping around you in its familiar warmth. He stood close, too close, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
For the first time, you didn’t look away. And though he didn’t kiss you again right then, you both knew it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. It was because the night before had changed everything—and you were both still learning how to live in that new space.
---
The first time he left, it felt strange. Bucky had woven himself into your days without question—closing the shop with you, carrying groceries, claiming the corner of your couch like it was his by right. He didn’t linger on the edges of your world anymore; he stepped directly into it.
But then one morning, he kissed your forehead at the door and said quietly, “I’ve got business I can’t put off any longer.” His eyes lingered on you like he hated the words coming out of his mouth. “I’ll be gone a while.”
You didn’t ask how long. You’d learned by now that some answers weren’t yours to demand. You only nodded, letting him go. When Bucky walked back into his penthouse, the silence struck him like a fist. It was too still, too immaculate, the air faintly cold from being shut up for days. Natasha was already there, perched on the arm of a chair like she’d been waiting. “Thought you’d moved out,” she said dryly, arching a brow.
He shrugged off his coat, dropping it onto the back of the sofa. “Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs.”
She tilted her head, eyes flicking toward the fresh bouquets lined along the window ledge. Some were old—petals curling, stems leaning—but the colors still painted the room in soft life. Your flowers. “Hard not to notice,” she said. “Your fortress looks like a greenhouse.”
Bucky’s gaze lingered on the fading blooms, something tight twisting in his chest. He’d meant to bring them home, to replace them, to keep them fresh—but the shop, the walks, your laugh, your soft hands pressing tea into his grip… it had been easier to stay in your world than return to this empty one. Natasha’s voice pulled him back. “The meeting last week—you missed it. Again.”
He grunted. “Send them my apologies.”
“You don’t have apologies big enough for the people you’re brushing off.” She stood, crossing her arms. “You’re slipping, Barnes.” He shot her a look, sharp enough to silence most. But Natasha only raised a brow, unshaken. “What happened to you?” she asked, quieter now. “You used to live for this. Now I have to drag you back here by the collar.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He poured himself a drink instead, his eyes drifting once more to the flowers. One in particular caught his attention—a small blue bloom tucked into a vase. You’d given it to him, shy and smiling, saying you’d picked it because it matched his eyes. His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the glass. “I’m not slipping.”
“Then what do you call it?” Natasha pressed.
He looked at her then, his expression sharp, dangerous—but his voice was low, certain. “I call it finally having something worth more than this.”
Natasha studied him for a long beat, then huffed a quiet laugh. “God help her if she doesn’t know what she’s getting into.” Bucky said nothing. His eyes lingered on the blue flowers, softer now, before he turned back to the empty penthouse.
Bucky didn’t last the night. He’d tried—sitting in the penthouse office, staring at the stack of reports Natasha had dropped on his desk, the kind of paperwork he used to burn through without blinking. But the silence pressed in, suffocating. The city sprawled below him, restless and alive, but all he could think about was the warmth of your little apartment. The way your voice softened when you teased him, the way your hand lingered on his wrist when you passed him tea, the way you’d kissed him in the rain.
He set the pen down, unfinished page abandoned, and leaned back in his chair. His eyes found the vase on the windowsill again—the flowers you’d given him. The petals were curling now, the blue fading, but the sight of them punched straight through the cold shell he wore in this place. “Fuck this,” he muttered. Ten minutes later, he was gone.
It was well past midnight when the knock came at your door. You blinked awake, heart thudding, but you knew who it was before you even checked. The weight of his presence pressed through the wood like it always did.
You opened the door to find him there—damp from the mist outside, hair mussed, eyes burning with something fierce and restless. He didn’t say a word at first, just looked at you, drinking in the sight of you like he’d been starved. “Bucky?” you whispered, confused but soft. “It’s late.”
“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, voice rough. The honesty in it knocked the air right out of you.
You stepped aside without thinking, and he slipped in, shutting the door quietly behind him. He stood in your living room like he was both too big for the space and yet exactly where he belonged. His jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, but his gaze was only on you. “I thought you said you had business,” you murmured.
“I did.” He exhaled, a sharp sound, shaking his head. “But none of it mattered. Not when all I could think about was you.”
Your breath caught, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your chest. “You came all this way in the middle of the night… just to see me?”
His jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. “I came because I needed to know you were here. Safe. Real.” The vulnerability under his words left you starstruck. For once, the weight he carried wasn’t hidden behind commands or possessive glares—it was just him, raw and unguarded, standing in your apartment like the man he didn’t show the world. And when you stepped closer, reaching out to brush the damp from his sleeve, his hand caught yours, holding it against his chest like an anchor. “I don’t care how late it is,” he said, voice low. “If you’ll have me, I’ll come back every night.”
The clock on your wall ticked quietly, the only sound filling the space between you. Bucky still hadn’t let go of your hand, his thumb brushing absently against your skin as though he couldn’t stand to stop touching you. His presence was steady, grounding—but you could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched into his face, the way his shoulders slumped despite his stubbornness. You rubbed at your eyes, fighting the pull of sleep. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice small, rough with drowsiness.
He tilted his head, gaze softening instantly. “Yeah, doll?”
“Carry me back to bed?” The words slipped out before you could second-guess them, half a murmur, half a plea.
For a heartbeat, his expression flickered—surprise, something darker, something warmer. Then his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, into the kind of smile that always made your heart stutter. “You got it.” Before you could say anything more, his arms were around you. He scooped you up easily, strong and certain, bridal style once again. You gave a sleepy little sound of protest, more out of instinct than anything else, your arms looping around his neck as you curled against him. “You like makin’ me do this, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low, almost teasing as he carried you through the dim apartment.
“Maybe,” you whispered, smiling faintly against his shoulder.
The bedroom door creaked open, and he nudged it wider with his foot. The room was still warm from earlier, the blankets rumpled. He lowered you onto the mattress with infinite care, like you were something fragile that might break if he wasn’t gentle enough.
But when you caught his wrist before he could pull back, your voice soft but certain, his entire body stilled. “Stay with me?”
His eyes flicked to yours—blue, burning, conflicted—and then he nodded once. “Always.”
He toed off his boots, shed his jacket, and slid onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, the space between you vanishing when his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.
You sighed, nestling into him, your hand curling around his forearm where it lay heavy across you. His breath was warm against your hair, steady and sure, but you could still feel the tension in him, the way he held you like he was afraid you might disappear. Sleep tugged at you again, and just before you slipped under, you whispered, “feels right… when you’re here.”
He pressed his lips to the back of your head, a kiss so soft you almost missed it. “Good,” he whispered. “’Cause I’m not going anywhere.” And for the first time in a long time—for both of you—you fell asleep without a trace of fear.
The morning crept in soft and unhurried, sunlight spilling across your bedroom in pale strips. You stirred slowly, awareness tugging at you in waves—the warmth pressed against your back, the steady weight of an arm looped around your waist, the faint tickle of breath brushing against your hair. For a moment, you simply lay there, cocooned in the quiet. Bucky’s chest rose and fell against you, solid and reassuring, his arm heavy but comforting, like he couldn’t bear to let you go even in sleep.
When you shifted slightly, he made a low sound in his throat, not quite awake but not fully asleep either. His arm tightened, pulling you closer, his face burying against the curve of your neck. The bristle of his jaw grazed your skin, and you bit back a laugh. “Bucky,” you whispered, your voice still husky from sleep.
“Mm,” he rumbled, voice low, heavy with drowsiness. “Stay still. Too early.” You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into him. But when you wriggled again—just to tease—he huffed, pressing a kiss against your shoulder, lazy and soft. “Thought I told you to stay put,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin again, this time slower.
Your breath caught, warmth spreading through you. “You’re not usually this… affectionate in the morning,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.
He gave a faint laugh, the sound vibrating against your back. “Don’t usually get mornings like this.” Another kiss followed, lower along your shoulder. Then another, featherlight at the back of your neck.
You giggled quietly, tucking your chin as if you could hide from the press of his lips. “That tickles.”
“Good,” he murmured, nipping lightly at your skin just enough to make you squeak. His arm tightened again when you shifted, holding you flush against him. “You’re not getting away.”
Your cheeks warmed, but you let out a breathy laugh, turning your head slightly to glance back at him. His eyes were half-lidded, blue softened by sleep but burning with something tender. The sight made your stomach flip. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, smiling despite yourself.
“Maybe,” he said easily, brushing his nose against your hair. “But you’re mine.”
The words should’ve sounded possessive, but in his voice—low, almost reverent—they were softer, gentler, like a confession instead of a claim. You didn’t argue. Not when his lips found yours a moment later, lazy and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to kiss you. And for once, maybe he did.
The lazy morning stretched long, unhurried, as though the world outside had decided to pause just for you. Bucky didn’t let you go right away. Every time you shifted like you might get up, his arm cinched tighter, his lips brushing your temple in silent protest. Eventually, though, your stomach growled loud enough to make you both laugh. “Fine,” he muttered, finally loosening his hold. “But only because you’re hungry.”
You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging him along behind you by the hand, which he allowed with surprising docility for a man who barked orders at everyone else. He leaned against the counter while you rummaged through the cupboards, watching with that intent gaze that always made you feel both flustered and oddly cherished. “Eggs, toast… maybe fruit?” you mumbled.
“I’ll do it,” he said, already reaching for the pan.
You tried to argue, but he shot you a look over his shoulder—the kind that dared you to push back. You rolled your eyes but smiled, sinking into a chair as he worked. He wasn’t polished, but he was efficient, moving with the kind of quiet precision that said he’d cooked for himself far too many times in silence.
When he set a plate in front of you—scrambled eggs, toast buttered just the way you liked—you blinked, warmth spreading in your chest. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he cut in, his voice soft but firm.
The meal wasn’t fancy, but you couldn’t stop smiling as you ate together at your tiny table. He asked about your week, listened with rapt attention as you rambled about flowers and customers, and even smirked when you teased him about hogging the pepper.
The rest of the day unfurled lazily. You cleaned the shop’s ledger at the table while he stretched out on the couch, half-reading, half-watching you. At some point, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with tea, setting the mug by your elbow without a word. Later, you both ended up tackling laundry, and you laughed when he insisted on folding with military precision. “You’re ridiculous,” you teased, holding up a perfectly squared shirt.
“Efficient,” he corrected, lips twitching.
By mid-afternoon, sunlight spilled through the windows, and you both ended up back on the couch. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest while his arm draped lazily around your shoulders. He pressed the occasional kiss to your hair, to your temple, slow and lazy, as though he couldn’t help himself. One kiss landed just behind your ear, ticklish enough that you giggled, turning to nudge at him. “Bucky…”
He smirked faintly, kissing you again, this time softer, lips lingering against your skin. “What?”
“You’re… distracting.”
“Good,” he murmured, nuzzling lightly against your hair before kissing you again, this time catching your lips in a slow, lazy press that left your cheeks warm.
You tried to hide your smile against his chest, but he felt it anyway, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your arm. The day melted into evening like that—quiet, ordinary, yet threaded with something so tender it made your chest ache.
Evening settled gently, the last of the sunlight fading from your windows, and for a while it felt like the day might slip into night without disturbance. You and Bucky lingered on the couch, your head nestled on his shoulder, his arm looped comfortably around you. His thumb traced lazy arcs against your arm while your favorite show played faintly in the background.
It was quiet. Too quiet, maybe, because the knock at your door startled both of you. Bucky’s arm tightened around you instantly, his body going taut beneath your cheek. The easy warmth that had colored the whole day dropped from his face, replaced by sharp alertness. “Stay here,” he murmured, voice low, already rising to his feet.
You frowned, but before you could protest, he’d crossed the room. He opened the door a crack, blocking the entrance with his body. Natasha’s voice slipped in, calm but cutting. “You’ve been hard to reach.”
Your brows shot up, but you stayed where you were, listening. Bucky didn’t move aside, didn’t open the door further. “Not an accident.”
“You’re expected tonight,” she said, and though her tone was casual, there was no mistaking the weight behind it. “You’ve dodged the last two. That’s not an option anymore.”
“I said I’d handle it,” Bucky bit out, jaw clenched.
From your angle on the couch, you could see Natasha tilt her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You can’t handle it from here.”
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. For the first time, you realized just how little you knew about what “business” meant in his world. Bucky’s body blocked you from the door, but the tension in his shoulders told you enough. “I’ll come,” he said finally, voice clipped. “Tomorrow night.”
Natasha arched a brow, then glanced past him toward you. Just for a second, her eyes softened with something unreadable before she nodded once. “Tomorrow,” she confirmed, and then she was gone.
Bucky shut the door with a quiet finality, leaning against it for a moment before turning back to you. His expression had softened again, but not all the way. There was still a shadow there, still a reminder of the part of him you didn’t see when he was folding laundry or kissing your shoulder in the morning. You sat up a little, hesitant. “Was that… work?”
He crossed the room, his jaw tight, and sank back onto the couch beside you. His hand found yours almost instinctively, like he needed the contact to ground himself. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Work.”
You studied him, unsure whether to push, but the look in his eyes stopped you. Not because it was cold—but because it wasn’t. It was protective, desperate, like he’d do anything to keep you from the parts of his life that led Natasha to your door.
So instead of asking, you curled against him again, letting your fingers twine with his. “Tomorrow,” you murmured softly, repeating his promise. His arm wrapped around you tightly, his lips brushing your temple. “Tomorrow,” he echoed. But the way he held you, fierce and unwilling to let go, told you that if it were up to him, he’d never leave your apartment again.
The night he finally went, the shift in him was immediate. You’d gotten used to a certain softness around him—the lazy mornings, his arm around your waist as you drifted through the farmer’s market, the way his mouth curved when you teased him. But when he stepped out of your apartment that evening, dressed sharp and dark, there was nothing soft about him. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, his whole body coiled tight like a man walking into battle.
You tried not to worry. He’d promised he would be back. Still, when you finally drifted to sleep on the couch, the clock ticking toward midnight, the sound of a knock at your door jolted you awake. You knew it was him before you even opened it.
Bucky stood in the hall, shoulders broad, coat collar turned up against the chill. His hair was damp with mist, but it wasn’t the weather that made your heart lurch—it was his hands. His knuckles were split raw, streaked with blood, some dried, some fresh. His face was drawn, exhaustion and something darker carved deep into his features. “Bucky,” you whispered, reaching for him before you could stop yourself.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past you into the warmth of the apartment. But the words rang hollow.
You shut the door quickly and followed him into the living room. He dropped heavily onto the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head bowed. For a moment, he just breathed, the weight of the night settling on him like armor he couldn’t shed. You crouched in front of him, your hand hovering near his without quite touching. “You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”
His eyes lifted, blue and tired, searching yours. Something in them softened, cracked, and for a moment he looked less like the untouchable man everyone feared and more like the one who’d spent the morning teasing you with kisses. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”
“It matters to me.”
He closed his eyes, jaw tight, but he didn’t pull away when you reached for his hands. Carefully, gently, you guided them into your lap, your thumbs brushing over the torn skin. You fetched the first aid kit you’d kept tucked away since the first time you’d seen him like this. As you worked, dabbing at the blood, his gaze never left you. His eyes followed every movement of your hands, every soft touch, every careful breath. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he murmured after a long silence.
You looked up at him, meeting his gaze steadily. “Maybe not. But I want to.”
His breath hitched, something raw flickering across his face. He leaned forward then, his forehead resting against yours, the distance between you vanishing. “Sweetheart…” His voice broke low, rough. “I don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.”
Your fingers tightened around his, careful not to hurt him but unwilling to let go. “That’s not your choice to make, Bucky.”
For a long moment, you stayed like that—forehead to forehead, his battered hands in yours, the room hushed around you. And though he never said what had happened out there, the way he clung to you told you enough.
Bucky was quieter than usual after you finished bandaging his knuckles. His eyes tracked every movement you made, like he was memorizing them, but he didn’t speak. Not when you cleaned up the kit, not when you coaxed him toward your bedroom. When you tugged gently at his hand, he followed without resistance. His shoulders looked heavier than they had all week, but the set of his jaw eased the moment you reached the bedroom door.
You crawled into bed first, expecting him to take his usual place at your side, but when you looked back, he was still standing there. His eyes softened, shadows clinging to the edges of his expression. “C’mere,” he said quietly.
You frowned. “I’m already here.”
He shook his head once, low and deliberate. He sat on the mattress, leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out. His hand patted his chest. “Here. Want you here.” Your breath caught, heat rushing to your cheeks. The request was tender, almost vulnerable, but it was also so very him—not asking, but needing, like the idea of you saying no had never crossed his mind. Still, you didn’t hesitate. You climbed up, settling carefully between his legs, your back against his chest at first. But when his arms wrapped firmly around you, pulling you closer, you shifted, turning just enough to lay half across him, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest. His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, faster than it should’ve been for a man trying to rest. His chin dipped, lips brushing your hair as he murmured, “That’s it. Stay right there.”
You shifted shyly, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt. “You’re comfortable like this?”
His arms tightened, pressing you flush against him. “More than comfortable.”
For a long while, neither of you spoke. You just breathed together, your body melting into his, his warmth sinking into you until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. The tension in his frame slowly unwound, his muscles relaxing bit by bit as though your weight anchored him back to the earth.
When you tilted your head slightly, you found his eyes already on you, blue and intent even in the dim light. Without a word, he dipped down, his lips brushing yours in the gentlest, laziest kiss you’d ever felt—more a question than a demand, more a sigh than a claim. You smiled against his mouth, shy and soft, and he kissed you again, this one lingering, his thumb tracing idle circles at your waist. You giggled when his stubble scratched your cheek, and his lips curved faintly against yours.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, low and rough, “don’t giggle when I’m trying to kiss you.”
You flushed, hiding your face against his chest, and he chuckled quietly, his mouth pressing into your hair instead. It wasn’t long before your breaths synced again, the weight of the day pulling you toward sleep. But this time, when his body stilled beneath you and his chest rose and fell in the deep rhythm of rest, you knew he was holding you not out of fear, but because—for once—he could.
---
The fight started small—like most things between you and Bucky did. It was late afternoon, and you’d decided to run down the block to grab milk before closing the shop. Harmless, ordinary. When you returned, juggling the bag in one hand, Bucky was already waiting at the door, his expression sharp, his shoulders rigid. “Don’t do that again.”
You blinked, startled by the clipped tone. “Do what?”
“Leave without telling me.” His voice was low, edged, the kind that made most people freeze.
You frowned, setting the bag down on the counter. “Bucky, I was gone ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes is long enough for something to happen,” he shot back, stepping closer. “You can’t just walk out without me knowing where you are.”
Your chest tightened—not with fear, but with frustration. You’d had this conversation with him before. The way he framed things like orders, the way he seemed to assume he had the right to tell you what you could and couldn’t do. You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. “You didn’t ask me, Bucky. You told me.”
His brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “So? I don’t want you at risk. I’m not gonna apologize for that.”
“That’s not the point.” You stepped closer too, your voice rising just slightly. “I’ve told you before—I need you to ask me. Not command me like—like I don’t have a choice.” For the first time, he faltered. His mouth opened, then shut again, his jaw tightening. You could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to push back this hard. Your heart hammered, but you pressed on, quieter now, more vulnerable. “If you want me to tell you where I’m going… then ask me. I’ll tell you. Gladly. But don’t bark orders at me, Bucky. That’s not how this works.”
The silence stretched, thick with tension. His hands flexed at his sides, metal fingers clenching once before he exhaled slowly. “No one talks to me like that,” he admitted finally, his voice rough. “No one pushes back.”
You softened, your frustration edged with something gentler. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you need someone who will.”
His eyes locked on yours, something raw flickering there—anger, yes, but also respect. And maybe, just maybe, a trace of relief. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful. “…Will you at least tell me next time?”
You bit back a smile, though your cheeks warmed. “See? Was that so hard?”
His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. And though the tension didn’t vanish completely, you knew you’d broken through something important—that he’d actually heard you. And Bucky, for all his control, didn’t know what to do with that.
The shop was already locked for the night, the ledger closed, and the soft glow of your single lamp lit the room. You’d expected Bucky to be restless after your argument—brooding, maybe even distant—but instead he lingered in the doorway, watching you curl up on the couch with a book.
When you looked up, you caught that same flicker from earlier—the one that said he’d actually listened. He crossed the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the couch. For a moment he just sat there, silent, his hands flexing once on his knees. Then, in a voice quieter than you were used to hearing from him, he asked, “can I hold you?”
Your breath caught. The simple question, asked instead of commanded, made your chest warm. You set your book aside and smiled softly. “Yes.” Relief flickered in his eyes. He shifted back, opening his arms. You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees bracketing his thighs, your arms looping around his shoulders. He drew you in immediately, strong arms banding around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he’d been starving for this.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just curled into him, your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His breath stirred your hair, slow and deep, as though the tension had finally bled from him.
His hand slid up and down your back, not possessive now, but gentle, grounding. When he tilted his head down to press a kiss to your temple, you giggled quietly, shyer than you meant to be. “What?” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin.
“Nothing,” you whispered, though your cheeks warmed. “Just… it tickles.”
His lips curved against your hair. “Good.” He kissed you again, lower this time, at your cheekbone. “You’re sweet when you giggle.”
You hid your face against his shoulder, and his low laugh rumbled through his chest. “Don’t hide from me, doll,” he said softly, shifting to tip your chin up with his finger. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them. “I like seeing you happy.”
The moment stretched, warm and quiet, until your lashes fluttered and you leaned forward, brushing a quick kiss against his jaw. His arms tightened, his breath catching, but instead of claiming more, he held you steady, letting you settle against him again. And there, curled in his lap, you realized that maybe—just maybe—he’d heard you after all.
---
It was a quiet afternoon in the shop, the kind where the sun streamed lazily through the front windows and you could hear the faint hum of the city outside. You were trimming stems at the counter when Bucky walked in, his presence filling the room the way it always did—solid, steady, magnetic.
But instead of his usual lean against the counter or wordless offering of help, he paused. His hands slid into his pockets, his eyes scanning the flowers before finally settling on you. There was something different in his gaze—not sharp or commanding, but hesitant. “Doll,” he said quietly, and when you looked up, you noticed the faint tension in his jaw. “Can I ask you something?”
You smiled faintly, setting down the shears. “Of course.”
He shifted, almost like he wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “There’s a gallery opening. Tomorrow night. I was thinking…” He trailed off, then forced the words out, softer now. “Would you come with me?”
The question caught you off guard—not because of the invitation itself, but because of the way he asked. Not a command, not an expectation. A question. You tilted your head, curious. “A gallery?”
“Yeah,” he said, lips twitching faintly. “Art. Paintings. You like that kind of thing, don’t you?”
Your chest warmed. “You remembered.”
“Of course I remembered.” His voice was low, steady, but his eyes flickered away for a moment, almost shy. “It’s… not really my scene. But I figured maybe you’d like it. And I’d like to take you.”
Your heart skipped. For all his power, his control, this moment felt different. Vulnerable. Human. You stepped closer, brushing your fingers lightly against his sleeve. “I’d love to.”
Relief flashed across his face, subtle but undeniable. His hand covered yours, warm and solid, and he exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Good,” he murmured. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. We’ll make a night of it.”
The promise in his voice lingered long after, and for the first time, you realized this wasn’t just about keeping you safe or close. This was him trying—awkwardly, earnestly—to give you something that felt like a real date. Something normal. Something yours.
---
The night of the gallery opening, the city felt different—brighter, sharper, like it was holding its breath. Bucky picked you up just as he promised. You’d taken care with your appearance—clean lines, a favorite dress, a touch of perfume—but as soon as you stepped out of the car and saw the crowd, you realized it wasn’t the same kind of “dressed up.”
Everyone else glided past in tailored suits, glittering jewelry, gowns that looked like they’d cost more than your entire rent. The women’s heels clicked against the marble entrance, men’s watches caught the light, champagne flutes sparkled in elegant hands. They looked polished, untouchable. A different world entirely. And you? You felt… small. Pretty, yes, but simple.
You faltered just a little at the entrance, but Bucky noticed immediately. His hand slid firmly into yours, anchoring you. “You’re perfect,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. His eyes caught yours, steady and unflinching. “Don’t even think about it, doll. They’ve got nothing on you.”
Heat crept up your neck, but you nodded, letting him lead you inside. The gallery itself was stunning—high ceilings, gilded light fixtures, and walls lined with canvases that demanded silence. The crowd murmured in low, cultured tones, laughter muffled behind polite smiles. It felt like stepping into another universe.
You noticed quickly how people looked at him. Heads dipped in acknowledgment, eyes flicking toward him as he passed. A few men approached with polite greetings, their voices threaded with deference. Women gave him longer looks, curious, measuring.
You didn’t know their names, but you could feel it: he belonged here. Even if he stood a little apart from the crowd, he carried himself with an authority that made people move out of his way without realizing they had.
And then there was you, clinging to his hand. For a moment, you worried you looked out of place—until you caught him watching you. His gaze softened, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. The look in his eyes made you forget the polished crowd, the crystal chandeliers, the undercurrent of wealth and power humming through the room.
“This one,” you whispered after a while, pausing before a painting of blue-gray waves crashing against dark rocks. The colors pulled you in, fierce and haunting, yet strangely calm. “I like it.”
Bucky leaned close, his hand still around yours, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Because it looks like my eyes?”
You flushed instantly, glancing up at him in surprise. The smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth told you he’d said it on purpose. “Maybe,” you admitted shyly, but your smile gave you away.
He chuckled softly, his arm sliding around your waist. And just like that, the crowded room, the expensive clothes, the stares—they all faded. Because no matter what world he belonged to, in that moment, he was looking at you.
The gallery opening stretched on, the crowd shifting like a tide of silk and crystal. Every so often, someone approached Bucky—men in sharp suits, women draped in jewels, people who clearly knew who he was. Their greetings were subtle, respectful, often accompanied by a dip of the head or the briefest handshake. You noticed how quickly their eyes slid to you afterward, measuring, curious, but no one dared to say much beyond polite murmurs.
Bucky’s arm stayed around your waist through it all, his touch steady, grounding. He answered their greetings in clipped tones, a man who knew he didn’t need to waste words. The difference between how they treated him and how you knew him in the quiet of your apartment made your head spin.
At one point, a server passed with a tray of champagne. You hesitated, unsure if you should take one, but Bucky plucked a glass easily and offered it to you, his lips twitching faintly at your shyness. “Go on, doll. You’re allowed.” You took it, fingers brushing his, and felt oddly proud when you managed a small sip without feeling out of place. He leaned down, his voice low and meant only for you. “You doing okay?”
Your heart fluttered—not just at the words, but at the way he asked them. Quiet, careful, not assuming. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”
For a while, you walked together through the halls, pausing before a few pieces of art. He didn’t say much about them, but you could feel his eyes on you as you spoke, listening as though your thoughts mattered more than the art itself.
And then, almost before you knew it, he was steering you away from the noise, out onto a balcony strung with soft lights. The city sprawled below, glittering, alive. Out here, the hum of conversation dimmed, replaced by the quiet night air. You set your half-empty glass on the railing, exhaling slowly. “They all know you,” you said softly, more observation than question.
Bucky glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “They know of me.”
The correction made your stomach flip. You turned toward him, searching his face. “And what should I know?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His hand reached for yours instead, fingers lacing with deliberate slowness. “Just that I wanted you here with me. That’s all that matters tonight.”
The way he said it—firm, certain, yet soft enough to make your chest ache—kept you from pressing further. You squeezed his hand, letting the quiet stretch between you, filled only by the glow of the city lights. When you finally left the gallery, his hand never let go of yours.
The car ride home was silent but not heavy. His hand rested over yours the entire drive, his thumb brushing absentminded circles against your skin, and every so often his eyes flicked to you, as if reassuring himself you were still there.
It wasn’t until he walked you upstairs, the city hushed around you, that he finally broke the silence. “You looked beautiful tonight,” he said simply, voice low, the words meant only for you.
Heat flooded your cheeks, but you smiled shyly, your fingers tightening around his. “Thank you for bringing me.” His lips curved faintly, and for once, the powerful, untouchable man from the gallery was gone. It was just Bucky—your Bucky—looking at you like you’d given him more than he’d ever thought to ask for.
---
Bucky’s office was dim, the blinds drawn against the daylight. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, though a closer look would’ve shown smudges of ink on his knuckles where he’d signed contracts and notes. He’d spent the whole morning hunched over the desk, phone pressed to his ear, voice sharp and clipped as he handled one matter after another. The work never stopped; it simply waited for him to return.
Natasha leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, her gaze steady on him as he hung up the latest call. She’d been patient—quiet even—but her silence was its own kind of weight. When he finally looked up, she pushed off the wall. “You’ve been slipping,” she said, matter-of-fact.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’ve been managing.”
“Managing?” Her brow arched, cool and unimpressed. “You’ve been avoiding meetings. You skipped the last sit-down with the heads. You didn’t show up to the import check. That’s not managing, Bucky. That’s negligence.”
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the shift of his weight. “Everything that needed to be handled was handled.”
“Not by you.” Natasha’s tone sharpened. “And people notice. You can’t disappear into that flower shop every other day and expect them not to talk.” At the mention, his eyes flickered, a spark of something softer breaking through. Natasha caught it instantly. “There it is,” she said, quieter now. “You’ve been different. Lighter. Hell, even I noticed. But you can’t keep living in both worlds without one swallowing the other.”
Bucky’s hand curled into a fist against the desk. “She doesn’t know.”
“And she shouldn’t,” Natasha countered. “Not unless you’re ready to bring her in. Because if she stays in the dark, she’s a liability. Not because she’s weak—because she’s unprepared. And unprepared means vulnerable.”
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The thought of dragging you into his world, of letting you see the blood and steel behind the quiet moments you shared—it twisted something in his chest. He wanted to keep you untouched. Untouched and his.
Natasha’s voice softened, though it never lost its edge. “You’re at a crossroads, Bucky. Either you pull back, or you let her see who you really are. But you can’t keep her in the middle. That’s where it gets dangerous.”
His eyes narrowed, jaw working, but he didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t have an answer. Because she was right. The silence stretched, heavy as the air between them. Then finally, his voice came out rough, low. “I can’t let her go.”
Natasha tilted her head, unreadable. “Then you’d better figure out how to keep her safe. Before someone else decides she’s the best way to get to you.” The words hung in the room like smoke, impossible to ignore. And for the first time in years, Bucky Barnes felt something he didn’t allow himself often: fear. Not for himself, but for you.
That night, you noticed something was different the moment Bucky walked through your apartment door. Usually, when he came to you after a day of work, there was a rhythm—sometimes tired, sometimes sharp-edged, but always softened the moment he saw you. Tonight, though, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual. His coat stayed on, his posture stiff, his eyes shadowed in a way that made your chest tighten. “Hey,” you said softly, trying to draw him in. “Long day?”
“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rough. He shut the door quietly, almost too quietly for a man who usually moved with certainty. His gaze flicked over you—like he was making sure you were really there—before he crossed the room.
When he pulled you into his arms, it wasn’t like before. Not just affection, not even just need—it was desperation. His grip was tight, almost crushing, his face buried in your hair. You froze for a moment, startled, before sliding your arms around him, holding on just as firmly. “Bucky,” you whispered, trying to lean back enough to see his face. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed against your temple, and you could feel his heart hammering through his chest. Finally, in a low rasp, he said, “you don’t understand how dangerous it is.”
Your breath caught. You’d always known, in some quiet corner of yourself, that there was more to him than the man who carried your groceries and folded your laundry with military precision. But hearing it now, in that tone—it was different. “Dangerous… for me?” you asked carefully.
“For you,” he confirmed, his hands tightening on your waist as though to prove his point. “Being with me… it paints a target on you. And if anyone ever—” His words cut off, sharp, like the thought itself was unbearable.
You stayed quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then, softly, you said, “and if you left? If you pulled away?”
He finally lifted his head then, his eyes finding yours. They were raw, unguarded, and the sight of them nearly broke you. “I can’t,” he admitted hoarsely. “I’ve tried to think about it. Tried to imagine it. But I can’t, doll. I can’t stay away from you.”
Something in you cracked open at the confession, equal parts fear and tenderness. You lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing gently over the stubble there. “Then don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t stay away. Just… let me be here. With you.”
His breath shook, his metal hand lifting to cover yours where it rested against his cheek. He leaned into your touch like a starving man, his eyes shutting for a moment. When he opened them again, his voice was steadier, though still low. “If I do this—if I keep you close—it means you’ll see things. Parts of me, parts of my life… I’ve kept them from you on purpose.”
You swallowed hard but nodded. “Then show me. I’d rather see than be left in the dark.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, searching, as if weighing the truth of your words. And then, finally, he exhaled, pulling you back against his chest. “Alright,” he whispered into your hair. “But once you’re in, sweetheart… there’s no going back.”
And though his tone carried warning, his arms held you like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.
---
It started with a question you hadn’t expected. A few days had passed since that night in your apartment—the night Bucky had admitted he couldn’t let you go. He hadn’t said much more about it, but you felt it in the way he hovered a little closer, in how often his hand found yours, in the quiet determination that lingered in his eyes.
So when he showed up at your shop one afternoon, leaning against the counter with that intent look of his, you thought he was there just to keep you company. Instead, he said, “there’s a gala this weekend. I want you to come with me.”
You blinked. “A gala?”
“Big one. Everyone who matters will be there.” He didn’t elaborate who everyone was, but the weight behind his words made it clear. Then, softer, “I want them to see you with me.” The warmth in your chest almost made you forget to breathe. Official. That’s what it sounded like.
He didn’t waste time. The next day, you found yourself swept into a world you’d never touched before. The tailor’s boutique looked more like an art gallery than a store—marble floors, velvet curtains, rows of gowns shimmering under soft lights. You hovered near the entrance at first, your fingers twitching nervously at your sides. The place smelled faintly of leather and perfume, expensive in a way that made you want to keep your hands tucked safely away.
Bucky, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease. He guided you forward with a hand at the small of your back, his voice steady as he spoke to the attendant. “Something for her. For Saturday night.”
The attendant’s eyes widened just slightly, recognition sparking as she nodded quickly. Within minutes, you were being ushered into a fitting room with armfuls of gowns in every shade and style. The first dress was sleek, dark, clinging in ways that made you self-conscious. You stepped out hesitantly, smoothing your hands over the fabric. Bucky’s eyes lifted instantly. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even breathe for a moment. His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate, before he finally said, “beautiful.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. “It’s… too much, maybe?”
“Not enough,” he countered smoothly, his voice rougher than usual.
You ducked back into the fitting room, your pulse racing. The next dress was brighter, softer, with delicate embroidery along the bodice. When you stepped out this time, he leaned forward slightly in his chair, his elbow resting on his knee as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. “This one’s good,” he said, but his tone wasn’t casual—it was thoughtful, assessing, almost protective. “But I want something that makes them stare.”
You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “That sounds… intimidating.”
“Good,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “They should be intimidated.”
By the third dress—a deep navy that shimmered when you moved—you felt the air change. Bucky stood this time, crossing the room in a few strides. His hand lifted, brushing along the fabric at your waist, not quite touching you, but close enough to make your breath catch. “This one,” he said, voice low and certain. “Matches your eyes. And when you walk in with me wearing this, no one’ll dare forget it.”
You giggled softly, nerves twisting with warmth. “Bucky… it probably costs more than my whole apartment.”
His lips curved faintly, but his gaze stayed steady. “You let me worry about that.” And in that moment, as the silk whispered around your legs and his hand hovered at your side, you realized: this wasn’t just a dress. This was a declaration.
The attendant had just whisked the navy gown away to be pressed and boxed when something caught your eye. Off to the side, away from the racks of shimmering evening wear, hung a small collection of lighter dresses—soft fabrics, airy shapes. The kind of thing you’d wear in the shop on a warm day, not at some glittering gala.
One in particular made you pause. A simple sundress, pale with little embroidered details along the hem. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t dripping with jewels or stitched with silk. It was… sweet. Something you could actually see yourself wearing, not just trying on for someone else’s world. The attendant followed your gaze. “That’s from a quieter line,” she explained with a professional smile. “Not evening wear, but if you’d like to try it, you can.”
You startled slightly, glancing back at Bucky, who was still flipping idly through a lookbook the attendant had left with him. He looked up at the hesitation in your posture. “Try it,” he said simply. Not a command this time, but a suggestion—an invitation.
You hesitated. “I couldn’t… it’s not—”
His brow arched, the faintest curve of a smirk playing on his lips. “Doll, if you want to try it, you try it.”
So you did. The fabric was soft against your skin, the cut loose but flattering. When you stepped out, you felt lighter somehow, less like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s world and more like yourself. Bucky’s gaze lifted immediately. For once, he didn’t move, didn’t speak right away. His eyes roamed slowly over the dress, then back to your face. You fidgeted under the weight of it, tugging gently at the skirt. “It’s simple. Too simple, probably. Not for…” You gestured vaguely to the opulent boutique around you. “This.”
Still, he didn’t say anything. Just stood, crossing the room with quiet steps until he was right in front of you. His hand reached out, brushing the edge of the fabric at your hip, his thumb pressing lightly into the material. “You look…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, almost frustrated with himself. “You look like you.”
Your cheeks warmed. “That’s… good?”
“It’s perfect.” His voice was rougher than usual, sincere in a way that left no room for doubt. “The gala needs the navy gown. But this one? This one’s for me.”
Your heart fluttered, and before you could argue—before you could even tell him you couldn’t possibly afford something like this—he was already glancing over his shoulder at the attendant. “We’ll take both.”
Your mouth fell open. “Bucky—”
His hand lifted, brushing against your cheek, silencing the protest before it could fully form. His eyes softened, that steady, unyielding gaze fixed only on you. “Let me.”
And standing there, wrapped in a simple sundress in a boutique that reeked of money and power, you realized it wasn’t about the price. It was about him wanting you to have something that made you feel yourself, even in his world.
Bucky didn’t let you change out of the sundress. The attendant had neatly packaged the navy gown, slid it into a garment bag, and made a note of the transaction, but Bucky had waved her off when she offered to take the sundress back to the fitting rooms. “She’s keeping it on,” he’d said, casual but with the kind of finality no one ever argued with.
And so you found yourself leaving the boutique hand-in-hand with him, the evening air brushing against your legs as the hem of the simple dress swayed with each step. It felt strange—like you were supposed to be polished and expensive after a store like that, but instead you felt like yourself. More than that, you felt like his.
He opened the car door for you, but instead of giving the driver an address for home, he leaned down and murmured, “let’s take a walk first.”
The driver pulled away a few blocks later, leaving you and Bucky in a quieter part of the city. The streets were lined with little shops and cafés, the kind that glowed warmly in the evening. He guided you toward one tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall, the kind of place you might’ve gone with friends—if you’d had the time.
Inside, the café smelled like coffee and sugar, the hum of conversation gentle and low. No one looked twice at you. No one cared that you weren’t in glittering gowns or pressed suits. And Bucky—your Bucky, who had filled a marble-floored boutique like he owned the world—looked almost out of place here. His broad shoulders crowded the small table, his hands too large around the delicate porcelain cup. But the way he watched you, leaning forward as though you were the only thing that mattered, made the rest fade away. “You like it here?” he asked, his voice softer than the quiet jazz playing in the background.
You smiled, stirring your drink absently. “It feels… normal.”
“Normal,” he repeated, like the word was foreign on his tongue. His lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Guess I could get used to that.”
For a while, you sat together in that small café, talking about nothing and everything. He asked you about your favorite flowers—not the ones that sold best, but the ones you secretly kept for yourself. You teased him about how he never drank his coffee until it was practically cold. He listened, his hand finding yours across the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in steady circles.
And when you left, walking slowly down the street, he didn’t rush you. He let you stop at the little bookstore window, linger at the flower stall, laugh at the sight of a dog sticking its head out of a taxi. At one point, you tugged his hand without realizing, pulling him closer to something that caught your eye—a display of postcards painted with watercolor scenes of the city.
He didn’t comment on the gesture, but you felt the weight of his gaze as you flipped through them, your fingers brushing over the colors. When you finally slipped back into the car, the sundress soft against your skin and a paper bag of postcards in your lap, Bucky leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You looked beautiful in the gowns,” he murmured, his tone low, almost possessive. “But this? This is what I’ll remember.”
And you realized it wasn’t the marble floors, or the glittering chandeliers, or the navy silk that made the night feel important. It was him. It was this.
---
The gala was nothing like the gallery. From the moment you stepped into the ballroom, it was clear this was a different level of opulence entirely. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light across the space, polished marble gleamed beneath your heels, and the air hummed with the low thrum of strings from a live orchestra. Guests glided past in gowns stitched with gemstones, tuxedos pressed to perfection, diamonds glittering at throats and wrists.
You’d taken extra care tonight, wearing the deep navy gown Bucky had chosen for you, the one that shimmered with every movement. It hugged you in ways that made you nervous at first, but when you saw the way his gaze lingered on you before you left your apartment—sharp, reverent, possessive—you knew you didn’t regret saying yes.
At first, you kept to his side, your fingers woven with his, your steps perfectly matched as he led you through the crowd. His presence was magnetic; people parted for him instinctively, their eyes darting toward you with open curiosity. Some smiled, others whispered, but all of them looked.
The first introductions came quickly—men with quick, firm handshakes, women with perfectly painted smiles. They greeted Bucky with respect, almost deference, and then turned their attention to you. The questions came in polite tones—your name, how long you’d been in the city, whether you enjoyed the gala.
You answered as best you could, but each new set of eyes made your chest tighten. You weren’t used to being the center of attention, and in a room like this, the stares felt heavier than silk gowns and diamond necklaces combined.
So you inched closer. It was subtle at first—your hand tightening on Bucky’s, your shoulder brushing his arm as someone else struck up a conversation with him. He didn’t move, didn’t draw you in, just let you settle where you wanted. But as the night stretched on and more people gathered, you found yourself tucking yourself closer and closer into his side.
By the time he was cornered by a trio of older men discussing investments, you were practically pressed to him, your arm sliding around his. His body was solid against yours, steady in a way that kept you grounded. He shifted slightly then, not pulling you in but adjusting just enough that you fit more comfortably against him. You realized you were hiding. And that he was letting you.
Between conversations, he leaned down just once, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, “you okay, doll?”
Your breath caught, but you nodded quickly, whispering back, “Just… a lot of people.”
His hand slid down, resting against the small of your back, warm and firm. “Stay close, then.” And you did. Through introductions, through polite laughter, through glasses of champagne that you barely sipped. You stayed tucked into his side, your cheek brushing his shoulder once when you leaned in to whisper something shyly, and his answering smirk told you he didn’t mind in the slightest.
It was overwhelming, yes. But the whole night, Bucky’s presence wrapped around you like armor. You weren’t just there as a guest—you were there as his. And judging by the way people looked at him, then at you, that message was loud and clear.
The gala bled into night, the golden chandeliers giving way to the hush of the city as you and Bucky slipped into the car. The door shut, muting the noise behind you, leaving only the soft hum of the engine and the faint rustle of your gown as you shifted against the seat.
For the first time in hours, you exhaled, your shoulders slumping slightly. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself until now. Bucky’s hand found yours almost immediately, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady rhythm. “You did good,” he murmured, his voice quiet but certain.
You smiled faintly, though your cheeks warmed. “I didn’t really do anything.”
His eyes slid to you, blue and intense even in the low light. “You were with me. That’s everything.”
The words settled heavy in your chest, warm and strange, like they meant more than you knew how to hold. The car turned, and instead of heading toward your apartment, you noticed the streets getting sharper, quieter, the buildings taller and glinting under the city lights. You glanced at him, curious. “This isn’t the way home.”
He didn’t look away, didn’t let go of your hand. “No. I want to show you something.” When the car pulled up to a gleaming tower, you felt your breath hitch. This was the kind of place you’d walked past before but never imagined entering. The doorman nodded the instant Bucky stepped out, opening the door like it was second nature. No questions, no hesitation. Just respect.
He offered his hand to help you out of the car, steady and sure, and guided you inside. The lobby was marble and glass, understated yet impossibly expensive. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to shout. The elevator ride was silent except for the low hum of the machinery and the sound of your heartbeat thudding in your ears. His hand stayed at the small of your back, grounding you. When the doors opened, you stepped directly into his penthouse.
It was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, the city sprawled out beneath like a living map of light. The furniture was sleek, dark, carefully chosen—luxury without clutter. A bar lined one side of the space, glassware gleaming faintly under soft recessed lighting. There was a piano, too, its polished surface reflecting the skyline. You turned slowly, taking it all in. “This is… yours?”
“Mine,” he confirmed simply, watching you carefully as you moved further inside.
It felt surreal, like stepping into the part of him he’d kept hidden. The part that wasn’t coffee shops and farmer’s markets, but glass towers and quiet power. You drifted toward the windows, resting a hand against the cool glass as you looked out over the city. Behind you, you heard his steps, deliberate and steady, until his reflection appeared beside yours. “Why tonight?” you asked softly. “Why show me now?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Because after tonight, there’s no pretending. Everyone saw you with me. They’ll keep seeing you. And I don’t want you walking into this blind.”
You turned, looking up at him. The shadows in his eyes were still there, the weight of his world, but so was something else—something softer, rawer. “I told you I’d rather see than be left in the dark,” you whispered.
His hand lifted, brushing lightly against your cheek, his thumb tracing your jaw. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s what scares me.”
And then, before you could answer, he bent his head and kissed you. Not the shy, tentative kisses of your apartment, but something deeper, firmer, threaded with everything he hadn’t said aloud. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he needed to remind himself you were really there. The city stretched endlessly below, but in that moment, all you could feel was him.
Bucky didn’t stop at the kiss. When he finally drew back, his forehead resting against yours, his hand slid down to lace with your fingers. “C’mere,” he murmured, tugging you gently away from the windows. “Let me show you around.”
The penthouse unfolded like something out of a dream. He guided you first through the living space—sleek lines, soft lighting, and a bar stocked more like a high-end lounge than a home. Past that was a dining area, the table long enough for ten but polished to a shine that suggested it wasn’t often used.
Then he took you down the hall to the master suite. The bedroom was spacious but not ostentatious, anchored by a bed large enough to swallow you whole. It was softened by details you hadn’t expected—heavy curtains, a worn leather chair in the corner, books stacked neatly on a nightstand. Not the kind of impersonal room you imagined in a man like him.
But it was the closet that stopped you cold. The space was larger than your entire bedroom at home, walls lined with dark wood shelves and neatly arranged clothing. His suits, pressed and orderly, filled one side. On the other, though—where you expected emptiness—were rows of neatly folded soft fabrics in your size. Pajamas. Sweaters. Undergarments in delicate lace and cotton, still with tags. Even shoes, flats and slippers and a pair of heels you knew you hadn’t bought. Your steps faltered. “Bucky…”
He watched you carefully, his hands tucked in his pockets, his jaw tight. “I didn’t want you to come here and not have anything.”
You turned slowly, looking at him. “You… bought all this?”
“I had someone pick it up,” he admitted, shrugging one shoulder like it was nothing. But the way his eyes never left your face told you it wasn’t nothing. Not to him.
Your throat tightened. It wasn’t just that he’d thought of it—it was that he’d prepared for the possibility of you being here long before you ever were. You smiled softly, shy but earnest. “Thank you.”
His shoulders eased just slightly, and he stepped closer, brushing his knuckles along your arm. “Just want you comfortable, doll. Always.”
Before you could answer, a voice carried from down the hall, low but sharp. “She’s here, then?”
You turned, startled, as Natasha appeared in the doorway. She was different from how you’d pictured—tall, poised, her red hair a striking curtain around a face that gave nothing away. She leaned casually against the frame, though her eyes, green and assessing, flicked over you in a way that made you straighten unconsciously. Bucky didn’t flinch. “Yeah. She’s here.”
Natasha’s gaze lingered on you another beat before she gave the faintest of nods. “Good. Better she’s here than in the dark.”
You weren’t sure what to say, so you offered a small, polite smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Her lips curved, just barely. “We’ll see if you still think that later.” Then, with a glance at Bucky, “she’ll need to know more. Sooner rather than later.”
Bucky’s jaw worked, but he nodded once. Natasha’s gaze softened—if only slightly—before she slipped away as quietly as she’d come. The silence left behind felt heavier than the closet full of clothes, heavier than the glittering view outside. But when Bucky turned back to you, his eyes softened, grounding you once more. “You okay?” he asked. And this time, he phrased it like a question.
You let out a shaky breath, smiling faintly. “Yeah. I think so.”
Once Natasha’s footsteps faded, he tugged you gently back into the hall, his hand warm and steady around yours. “C’mon,” he said, softer now. “There’s more.”
The penthouse was larger than you’d realized. He showed you the kitchen first—polished stone counters, state-of-the-art appliances, cabinets so tall you wondered if he ever actually used them. But there were signs of him here too: a coffee mug left out near the sink, a half-empty bottle of scotch on the counter, a dish towel folded with military precision.
From there, he led you to a smaller sitting room, tucked away from the sweeping skyline. It felt more lived in than the main space—cozier, with a blanket folded across the back of the couch, a chessboard set up mid-game. You wondered if he played with Natasha, or if the board had been waiting for an opponent he hadn’t found until you.
He showed you a study too, lined with dark shelves and heavy books, the scent of old paper lingering faintly. A few leather-bound journals lay stacked neatly on the desk, a fountain pen resting perfectly parallel beside them. You didn’t ask, but part of you wondered what he wrote in them.
By the time you circled back to the master suite, the nerves that had knotted your stomach earlier had softened into something else—curiosity, warmth, and the quiet awe of realizing this was his space. And now, in some way, yours too. He paused at the bedroom door, his eyes flicking to you. “You should get ready for bed. The pajamas are in the closet.”
You bit your lip, shy but smiling, before disappearing into the walk-in again. The set you chose was simple—soft cotton, a pale color trimmed with delicate lace. It fit perfectly, hugging you without clinging, comfortable in a way that made your breath catch. He hadn’t just guessed. He’d known.
When you padded back into the bedroom, barefoot, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the pajama top, Bucky was already waiting. He sat at the edge of the bed, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, the city lights spilling across him through the windows. His gaze lifted the moment he heard you. And it lingered.
You froze for a moment under the weight of it, heat rushing to your cheeks. “They… fit,” you murmured.
His lips curved faintly, but his eyes stayed intent, almost reverent. “Told you. I just want you comfortable.”
You crossed the room slowly, and when you stopped in front of him, he reached for your hand, pulling you gently between his knees. His metal thumb brushed over your knuckles, his touch careful, grounding. “Stay here tonight,” he said quietly. Not a command. A request.
You nodded, your chest tight, your heart racing. “Okay.”
He exhaled softly, his hand sliding to your waist as he pressed a kiss against your stomach through the thin cotton. Then he looked up at you, his eyes blue and raw. “You look like you belong here.” And for the first time, standing barefoot in silk-soft pajamas in his penthouse bedroom, you believed him.
---
The bed was cold when you rolled over, your hand brushing against rumpled sheets where Bucky should’ve been. For a moment you thought maybe you’d imagined it—the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest pressed to your back—but the faint indentation in the mattress told you he’d only slipped away recently.
You sat up slowly, tugging the pajama top tighter around you, and padded out into the hall. The penthouse was hushed, the city beyond the windows muted in its endless glow. You followed the faintest sound—paper rustling, a pen scratching—to the study.
There he was. Bucky sat behind a heavy desk, sleeves rolled up, a lamp casting sharp shadows across his face. Papers were spread across the surface, neat columns of numbers, ledgers, notes scrawled in his firm hand. He didn’t look up at first, but the moment your bare feet padded against the rug, his gaze lifted. “Doll,” he murmured, his voice softening instantly. He set the pen down and held out a hand. “C’mere.”
You crossed the room, shy but certain, and when you reached him, he tugged you gently onto his lap. You settled sideways across his thighs, your head resting against his shoulder. His hand smoothed along your back, slow and steady, grounding you. “You should’ve eaten first,” he said, brushing his lips against your temple. “I’ll text Natasha, have her send something up.”
You hummed, your voice muffled against his shirt. “I didn’t come looking for food.”
His brow furrowed slightly as he angled his head to see you. “No?”
You shook your head, cheeks warming. “…I missed you. In bed.”
For a moment, the silence stretched. Then his chest rumbled with a low exhale, almost a laugh but not quite. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough. “You’re gonna kill me saying things like that.”
You smiled shyly against him, and after a moment, curiosity tugged at you. You shifted just enough to glance at the papers scattered across the desk. Numbers, neat rows and totals, some underlined, some circled. “What’s all this?”
“Work,” he said simply, but when you didn’t look away, his mouth softened. “Keeping track of everything. Shipments, money in, money out. Making sure it all balances.”
You blinked, surprised. “You do the books yourself?”
“Trust’s hard to come by,” he said dryly, though his thumb traced idly over your hip. “Don’t like letting anyone else touch the numbers.”
Your lips curved faintly. “I do my shop’s books too. Every night before I close.”
That earned you a glance, one brow raised, a flicker of amusement breaking through his guarded expression. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not as complicated, but… numbers don’t lie. You can see the whole picture if you know where to look.”
His smirk deepened just slightly. “Smart girl.” He tapped one of the ledgers with a calloused finger. “Wanna help me, then?”
You looked at him in surprise, then back at the papers. The idea of being folded into this part of his world, even in something as simple as numbers, made your heart beat faster. Slowly, you nodded. “Alright,” you whispered. “Show me what you’ve got.”
And for the next hour, you sat curled on his lap while he walked you through the ledgers, his voice low and steady, his arm always around you. It was strange—intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not just the touch of him, but the trust of it.
Bucky’s voice had become a low murmur in your ear, patient as he explained the rows of numbers. You tried to keep up, scribbling a few notes in the margin of his ledger, but the warmth of his chest and the steady rhythm of his hand tracing circles over your thigh slowly lulled you. Your head grew heavier until it finally settled against his shoulder. He noticed the shift instantly. Your pen slipped from your hand, rolling across the desk. Bucky caught it without looking, setting it aside, his gaze softening when he realized your breaths had evened out. You’d fallen asleep on his lap, curled up like you belonged there.
For a while, he just let you rest, one arm wrapped around you protectively, the other turning pages with a deliberate quiet. Every so often, he brushed his thumb over your side or adjusted the blanket he’d pulled down from the back of the couch. A knock broke the silence. Sharp, precise. He didn’t even raise his voice when he answered, “come in.”
The door opened, and Natasha stepped inside, a tray balanced in her hands. Steam rose from a pot of tea, plates neatly covered. Her sharp gaze flicked over the scene in front of her—you asleep, Bucky’s arm wound firmly around you—and her lips curved just slightly. “She’s out,” she said softly, setting the tray down on the corner of the desk.
“Mm,” Bucky grunted in agreement, his hand still smoothing idly along your back.
Natasha straightened, crossing her arms. “You should put her in bed.”
His jaw tightened, and he shook his head once. “She’s fine here.”
The redhead studied him for a beat longer before nodding. “I’ll leave you two, then.” She turned to go, but paused at the door, glancing back with a raised brow. “You’re softer than I thought you’d be, Barnes.”
Bucky didn’t answer. He just shifted slightly, holding you a little closer, his gaze fixed on your sleeping face. Natasha’s faint chuckle followed her out of the room. The penthouse grew quiet again. He leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the curve of your cheek against his chest. His hand stilled over your side as he bent to press the gentlest kiss to your hair. “Sweet girl,” he whispered, so quiet you didn’t stir. “I’ll keep you safe. Always.”
The breakfast tray sat untouched on the desk, the tea growing cooler by the minute. But Bucky didn’t care. You were warm, you were breathing steady, and you were here.
The day passes in a blur, you’re captivated by Soap, the way he smiles at you, the sound of his laugh, the feel of his skin. It’s easy to get lost in him, to let you forget about reality for a while.
Until you’re dragged back to earth with a knock on your door. Both you and Soap seem startled by the interruption, neither of you seemingly wanting to respond and break the peace of the room.
“It’s Price, we need to talk. Soap in know you’re in there too, get out here.”
Soap sighs and begrudgingly stands up, holding his hand out for you to take, “come on Bon.”
You hesitate before slipping your hand into his, appreciating the small squeeze he offers to reassure you before opening the door. Price stands, arms crossed and face unreadable. His eyes move to your joined hands before nodding for you to follow him, “Let’s go you too.”
“Where are we going?” Your voice wavers slightly, wanting to go back to the safety of your room.
“It’s time we all had a talk, as a team.”
Price’s voice leaves no room for argument, walking briskly toward the common room expecting you to follow. Your hand tightens slightly in Soaps as you walk, using the other to tuck your now shoulder length tentacles into the collar of your shirt. Soap watches your action but doesn’t comment, instead just offering you a small smile.
When you enter the common room you are met with the sight of Ghost, Gaz and Price all gathered around the dining table. Price gestures for you to both take a seat, Soap sits down promptly however you pause, seeing how close the last seat is to Gaz.
“I- I should probably stay standing.”
“Sit down kid, that’s not a request.”
You flinch slightly at the sharp tone, slowly sliding into your seat.
“The incident on the tarmac yesterday.”
You practically fold into yourself at his words, shame burning in your gut. Soap squeezes your hand again but even that doesn’t help you feel better.
“Your actions, the things you said, it raises some serious concerns, especially when you are supposed to be returning to the field again soon.”
You nod, blinking back the tears you can feel pricking at your eyes, “right, yeah I get it. I’ll clear out my stuff as soon as possible.”
“…. You’re not getting transferred,” Price’s tone has softened significantly, realising your stress. “Kid look at me.”
He waits until your eyes meet his, taking in your distressed expression.
“You really think we’d want you to leave? You’re one of us, you ain’t going anywhere.” The team nods in agreement.
“But… you all heard what I said. I’m a danger to you guys, I had a mental breakdown on the tarmac, I’m not- how can you want someone like me around?”
It’s Ghost that responds to you, “Everyone has shit to deal with, doesn’t make you less of a soldier.”
“We aren’t here to reprimand you about what happened, we just want to work out a way to try and make you more comfortable. We don’t want you having to isolate yourself from us.” Price offers you a reassuring smile.
You nod slightly, “I just… don’t want any of you getting hurt.”
Price nods in understanding, brow furrowed slightly.
“It’s only the tentacles that can sting us right?”
You nod in response to Gaz’s question, instinctively reaching your hand to check they are still tucked in the collar of your shirt.
“Have you tried tying them back?”
“Yeah when I was younger, but most hair ties end up causing the strands to snap so I end up dropping more.”
“I could braid it.” Your eyes move to Soap, his words unexpected.
Gaz snorts, “you know how to braid?”
Soap flips him off before focusing back on you, “can I try Bon?”
“… ok.”
Soap smiles, standing up to move behind you, hands gently braiding the strands into a secure pattern before twisting it around into something similar to a bun.
“Give a shake test Bon.”
You do as he says shaking your head to test if it will stay put and to your surprise it does. “How did you….”
Soap grins brightly, proud of his work. “I could probably find a scarf or something to wrap around ‘em too if you want to stop any risk of someone touching them.”
You reach your hand up, to feel it, in disbelief that he’s managed to so something you’ve been trying to find a solution to for years.
“Am I great or am I great?”
“Shut it MacTavish,” Ghosts words are monotonous, clearly unimpressed with the Scots bragging.
Soap presses a quick kiss to your cheek before taking his seat next to you, your face quickly heats up at the sudden affection, embarrassed that he would do that in front of the team but also slightly giddy that he is so comfortable showing his care for you.
Gaz nudges Ghost grinning happily, “You owe me ten bucks.”
Price sighs, turning away from them and turning his focus back to you. “If Soap helps you tie the tentacles up like that, would you feel more comfortable being around us? I understand it’s not perfect, but I want you to be able to be properly apart of this team, that means joining us for team dinners.”
“And movie night!” Gaz butts in.
“And movie night. We just need you to talk to us, let us figure this out together,” Price offers you a warm smile.
You chew on your lower lip slightly, conflicted. The thought of being apart of something, belonging, having friends that love you despite everything, it’s so tempting. But there’s that part of you that worries, this is all too good to be true, something will go wrong, it’s only a matter of time.
“I could just trim them-”
“No.” The voices of all four men cut you off before you can finish the sentence, their voices firm.
“That’s not an option, never will be. Understood?”
Prices eyes bore into yours until you nod in agreement, their team letting a collective breath of relief.
“Good. Now I reckon that’s enough serious discussion for now, Ghost it’s your turn to pick the movie tonight, Gaz go grab the popcorn.” The men all stand up, heading in various directions to set up for a movie night leaving you and Soap at the table.
“You feel up to it Bon?” Soaps hand finds yours, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss. Your eyes meet his, soft and hopeful. You can hear the others, laughing and piling together on the couch and for the first time in your life you let yourself admit what you’ve wanted for a really long time, acceptance. And here they are offering it to you wholeheartedly.
“Lead the way Johnny.”
——————
Enjoy! I think this may officially be the end of this series but if there’s a really big demand I could be convinced to do a short epilogue.
Thank you all so much for reading! I was not expecting this to actually take off a bit especially since it started as my third ever post.
I do have quite a few other ideas that I want to write including quite a big series which will probably be around 12-15 parts so it might be a while before I post again as I want to write out a chunk of that while the idea is fresh.
Also feel free to send me requests! If I like something I will definitely write it :)
Summary: Pope Cody doesn’t handle his pregnant wife being taken hostage very well.
Tags/Notes: andrew “pope” code x reader, pregnancy, established relationship, wife!reader, afab & fem reader
Content Warnings: kidnapping, graphic depictions of violence/gore (against the kidnappers; reader does not experience significant violence), glorification of violence, like seriously a big section of this fic is like full on watching pope do torture and it’s 100% played as sexy/intimate; if you want to just read like “pope tenderly takes care of his pregnant wife” skip to part two!
A/N: you know that post “they match each other’s freak to a degree that is dangerous to the public” that’s this fic
Word Count: 7.4k
Pope Cody is whipped.
He knows it.
His whole family knows it.
He takes shit for it day in, day out, every day. He’s taken it for years. When he leaves a meeting early because you decided that Fridays were for date nights, not boys’ nights. When he gives up cage fighting because it makes you too nervous. When he buys you a boulder of a diamond and gives you three jobs’ worth of hundred dollar bills for your dream wedding. Especially when he stands up at said dream wedding in a tan linen suit, baby pink hyacinths and snapdragons pinned to his lapel, his hair a little grown out and moussed back because that’s how you like him to wear it.
Even when you announce you’re pregnant to the whole family, the toast isn’t ‘congratulations,’ it’s Craig holding up his shot of tequila and cheering, “Here’s to Pope getting even more whipped!”
But, to Andrew, it’s all worth it.
There’s no amount of jokes or judgment he wouldn’t take for you. To be by your side every day for the rest of his sorry life. Because you make his house a home. Because you’re everything. You make him real. Your presence baptizes him. You love him – in a way nobody’s ever loved him, not really. In a way he’ll never be able to convince himself he deserves.
So, yeah, he worships the ground you walk on.
He’s the absolute model husband. Flowers and chocolates on every weekly date night, even more extravagant things on anniversaries, which he never forgets. He does the laundry and the dishes and the car maintenance, really any chores that bother you even a little, a list that grows significantly once the pregnancy gives you sensory issues and motion sickness. When you’re not up to cooking, he orders in feasts from your favorite places.
Your nails are always done by your favorite technician, your shoes never have a scuff because he keeps them polished, and your jewelry collection is worth hundreds of thousands, if not more, all purchased from a real store, even. He makes sure there’s always at least a thousand dollars in your wallet every morning without asking.
And he keeps you fucking safe.
When the two of you are out together, he sticks close, hand on your lower back or around you or threaded with yours. He even tags along to girls’ nights at bars without your friends knowing, lingering in the shadows, standing around like a bouncer and shoving guys away when they get too close to you.
For the rare occasion you’re alone, he taught you how to use a gun when you agreed to be his girlfriend and got you one of your own a week later when he was sure you’d protect yourself with it if you had to. You share your location with him at all times because you want to; he never asked, but you know that if you texted him a single word he’d be by your side within minutes, even if he had to hijack a private plane to get there.
And, Christ, he’s ten times as bad when you’re pregnant.
He’s always preferred to drive you around himself, but now he won’t let you behind the wheel with anyone else, no matter how much he trusts them. He installs a newer, even beefier security system complete with exterior cameras and a hidden, mounted automatic rifle set to train and kill. Of course, it doesn’t call the cops, but it alerts everyone he trusts who owns a gun. On the nights he leaves you alone for work, he pays someone a thousand bucks a shift to sit in the car on the street. Just in case.
People think he’s crazy, but you know he’s going to make the best father in the world. He reads the label on everything you eat or drink, tossing out anything he doesn’t like the sound of, making sure everything is either healthy or fills your ridiculous cravings, which he’ll drive for hours in the middle of the night to get. He runs you a bath with essential oils and rubs your feet every night. He fucks you whenever you’re horny. If you get so much as a papercut, he spends an hour doting on you after. You sleep easy knowing your baby girl is never going to worry about anything.
All of that to say: Nothing scares you anymore. Not with your personal guard dog at your beck and call.
So, twenty weeks into your pregnancy, the familiar click of a gun cocking next to your head makes you sigh. It doesn’t scare you; it annoys you. Turning toward the sound, you look down the barrel of a Beretta toward a man in a tinted motorcycle helmet.
In his lowest, scariest voice, he commands, “Do what I say and you won’t get hurt.”
You roll your eyes, finish wringing out your hair in the beach shower, and say, “No problem. Can I towel off and put on my coverup before we go?”
That confuses him. “Uh, sure.”
“Great, thanks.” Better a dumb kidnapper than a smart one. With a tight smile, you pick up your towel and run it all over yourself until you’re dry enough to tug on the flowy white coverup that Andrew loves. Your neon pink bikini peeks through it still. You pause before picking up your things. To the guy training the gun on you, clearly an order-follower and not a shot-caller, you offer, “My gun’s in my bag if you want to go ahead and grab that. Don’t feel like getting bashed when you discover it on me later, if it’s all the same to you.”
Slowly, he shifts lower and rifles through your things, taking the gun, your taser, and switchblade from it. He decides there’s enough contraband, though, that he just snatches the whole bag instead.
Then he orders, “Get up. Stay quiet.”
He moves to grab your wrist, so you give a pointed look and say, “I would really recommend against being rough with me. For your own sake. I promise I’ll be good and go along.”
He shoves his meaty hand between your shoulder blades instead. Mentally, you start to tally every slight against your body, no matter how minor. When this is over, Andrew will expect a list. You get pushed off the beach with the gun pressed to your lower back. It’s late evening now and tourists are pouring between the shore and the streets, so nobody even notices. People these days.
He drags you to the alley behind the beach bathroom, where a big black van is waiting. When he yanks open the back door, you mutter, “Classic choice on the ride. Timeless, really.”
Four guys with semiautomatics strapped to their backs, all wearing different colored ski masks, sit on the bench seats in the back.
Bozo with the gun in your lower back insists, “Get in or I’ll make you.”
You eye up the tall vehicle, turn to look behind you, and ask with exasperation in your voice, “Can I get a hand here? I’m pregnant, if you hadn’t noticed. Hard for me to climb around like this.”
One of the bigger guns, with the camo ski mask, asks, “You gonna give us any trouble?”
You hold up a pinky and say, “Promise I’ll be a perfect angel just like my husband taught me.”
He reaches out his hand and helps you into the van. You mumble thanks and sit in the furthest seat, up against the driver’s side wall. After rolling your shoulders, you present your wrists and say, “I’d prefer zip ties to duct tape if you don’t mind; I have some minor allergies to adhesives.”
Motorcycle helmet joins in with the ski mask guys, wrenches a set of zip ties from his backpack, and tightens them around your wrist until you wince, the plastic snipping your skin and drawing blood. One point away from motorcycle helmet guy.
From there, you do what Andrew taught you: Stay calm, follow orders, memorize everything. Wait for your knight in shining bulletproof vest. The car starts up and you head north. Working on instinct, you track the movements in your head, figuring out what direction they’re taking you. Once it goes past a couple of minutes, though, you lose track of the turns. Whatever. They brought your phone, which has three separate GPS systems pinging directly to Andrew. Doesn’t matter if you know where you are; Andrew already does. Idiots.
Your stomach grumbles at you, so you sigh and ask, “You guys have anything to eat? I was going to get dinner after the beach – y’know, eating for two here – but my plans sorta got interrupted.”
Blue ski mask guy demands, “What the fuck is your problem?”
Resting your tied hands on your bump, you tell them, “I figured you would know already. Are you guys just grunts? I would’ve hoped I’d at least be worth a top guy being in the back with me. I’m a little offended.”
Camo ski mask bashes you on the face with the butt of his gun, the pain thudding but sharp at once, between the high point of your cheek and your temple. You see stars for a second but blink them away quickly. A trickle of blood goes down your temple. “Shut the fuck up, bitch.”
“Jesus, touchy.” They clearly have orders not to rough you up too badly or they would’ve started by knocking you out. “Just trying to make small talk. Pass the time.”
Blue mask doesn’t think that’s funny either. “What is wrong with you?”
You glare. “Besides the kidnapping thing? I’m peachy.” You lean your head back and close your eyes. “The five of you will be either dead or permanently disfigured in an hour or so and I’ll be getting a foot rub from my husband while I eat cookie dough ice cream he scooped to make me feel better about it.” You open one eye and look at black ski mask, who hasn’t spoken. “Seriously, any of you have snacks? I’d kill for a bag of sour gummy worms.”
No answer.
You’ve had more entertaining kidnappers; that’s for sure.
At the drop location, the guys all haul out first. It’s motorcycle helmet again ordering, “Out. Now.”
With an annoyed huff, you hold up your tied wrists and nod to your swollen stomach. “You’re going to have to untie me so I can scoot or carry me yourself.”
Red ski mask is getting visibly tired of dealing with you; he’s used to simple jobs with simple people. He can tune out hysterics; he doesn’t know how to deal with whatever this is. “Come on.”
“I really can’t get myself in a position to-”
He reaches into the van, grabs your ankle, and yanks you forward so hard it feels like your hip’s going to pop out of your socket when you hit the can floor. That’s the first time adrenaline creeps into your blood stream. You’re off-balance, properly at their mercy. He grabs around both your thighs and tugs you to the end of the truck, your bare skin catching friction and getting scraped up by the rough interior. Then he forces you to your feet and shoves you forward. Your sandals fall off and he keeps pushing regardless, toward the door of a warehouse.
“Useless fucking whore.” He spits on you and growls, “You’re lucky I didn’t start by beating you in the stomach.”
You narrow your eyes at him, anger flaring in your throat. “Is that a threat?”
“Yeah,” he says, face close enough to breathe on you, “it is.”
You sigh, annoyed by the wet dirt beneath your feet as they bring you into the wide open empty concrete warehouse. “Andrew isn’t going to like that.”
Of course, you cooperate as they command you to sit, zip-tying each of your legs to the chair’s. They don’t change the ties on your wrists, so you keep them resting on your bump. With a deep breath, you murmur, “Don’t worry, princess, daddy’s coming for us any minute now. We’ll be cozy in bed in no time at all.”
Once you’re secured, red ski mask punches camo in the arm and orders, “Alright, time to call the fucker.”
Knowing he means Andrew, you have the same sort of feeling you get watching a video of a cat who needs rescuing from a tree. They don’t even realize that Pope will only be worse to them if he hears any hurt your voice.
Camo gestures at motorcycle helmet, who pulls your phone from your bag. He turns to you and snaps, “Password.”
You reply, “Don’t need one.”
No point in a phone password when anyone who tries to steal it will lose the hand that touched it. Because it’s your number, Andrew picks up a fraction through the first ring. His breathing is heavy and you can hear his brothers shouting around behind him alongside lots of metallic crunching. They’re working, probably finishing a job by compacting a car or something. “What do you need, angel?”
Black ski mask points his huge gun at your forehead, a clear order to stay quiet. The safety stays on, though, so it doesn’t phase you any more than when the boys wave their guns around at home to feel all big and strong. Amateurs.
Red – he must be the boss – takes the phone and says, “Pope, how are you doing tonight?”
His familiar, gravelly voice soothes what’s left of your nerves; soon enough, that voice will be lulling you to sleep. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to this evening?”
“Not important.”
“Guess not.” The sound of his car starting, tires squealing. He’s already on his way, tracking your GPS. “You have my girls?”
“Baby’s a girl? Congratulations.” He laughs, harsh and unamused, and says, “We want fifty grand. You got that kinda cash right now?”
“I want to talk to her first.”
You smile to yourself as black ski mask drops his gun and nods, signaling for you to speak. “Hi, baby daddy.”
“Hey, mama.” There’s a tight chuckle in his voice. Your job right now is to help him focus, to ease his anxiety, to make sure he won’t get paranoid and falter. “Are you scared?”
You think about it and shrug even though he can’t see you. “No more than usual, I guess.”
The next question is measured. Careful. “Have they hurt you?”
“Only a little.”
His tone tightens. “But they have?”
You cut the guys a look that says ‘trust me, I’m doing you a favor,’ and say, “Nothing serious, love.”
Practically growling now, he clarifies, “Are you bleeding?”
“In a couple places. Just scrapes.”
Red ski mask presses his salty pointer finger into the cut at your temple and you gasp out from the immediate sharp pain. On the other side of the phone, Andrew’s just pushed down on the gas. Red informs him, “She’ll be bleeding a lot more if you aren’t here with the money in fifteen minutes.”
“I’m only five away.” His tone is gruff. You can imagine him in high definition white-knuckling the steering wheel. “We just pulled a job; I’ve got cash on me.”
Trying to help him calm down so he doesn’t come in guns blazing, you ask, “Does that mean you can stop for sour gummy worms on the way over? I’m craving them so bad.”
Camo rolls his eyes. “And tell her to stop annoying us!”
Andrew laughs. Good, he’s not nervous. Just pissed. “You think I’m the first man on earth to have that kind of power over my wife?”
Blue ski mask strikes you across the face. The sting radiates into your spine and your eyes well with tears that frustrate you. When you don’t make a sound, too proud, he hits you the other way, hard enough that you loose a loud whimper despite yourself. Andrew cracks his neck and takes a deep breath.
“Hear that?” Blue taunts, not realizing he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life, “It’ll be a hell of a lot worse if she keeps running her mouth. Get here. Now.”
Andrew lets out a long exhale and says simply, “You know the rules, angel. I’ll be there soon.”
“I know you will. Love you.”
Red cuts the call. As camo once again mutters something like ‘what’s wrong with these people,’ you smile and tell them, “Fifty? Really? You should’ve asked for more. Andrew brought a hundred for me last time. Now that I’m pregnant, you probably could’ve gotten at least two-fifty.”
He doesn’t even bother telling you to shut up that time.
You feel it underneath your feet before you hear it. The deep, rumbling groan of Andrew’s massive truck. There are two other cars, both big. Job cars. He brought everyone. Tires crunch over gravel and then stop outside the hangar-style door.
The kidnappers stiffen and mutter to each other in hushed tones in a language you don’t understand. Russian, maybe, or Polish. Black and blue flank you, each holding one of your arms tight to keep you in place. As if you could move on your own.
The hangar door gradually opens. Headlight beams spill in, silhouetting tall figures. The five of them, cars still running, step into the space. You don’t see any guns, but they have to be near. You make out Baz’s angular features, Craig’s restless stance, Deran’s annoyed energy, J’s unreadably dark face. They’re in battle formation. The air gets heavier.
Finally, Andrew gets out of his own truck, hauls a duffel out of the bed, and walks to the front. Your pulse climbs when you see him, relief spreading. When his heavy gaze locks on yours, he’s unshakable, unblinking, looking at you like you’re already safe. There’s no pain or fear in that expression and it steadies you.
Craig is standing centered behind him, J and Deran flanking him on either side. Baz speaks and you know it’s because Andrew is a silent storm. “Pope’s got the money, you’ve got his girl. Nice and simple.” Pope sets the bag on a nearby crate with a deliberate thud. Baz instructs, “Count it if you want, but we’re not here to waste time. It all adds up.”
“We count. You wait.”
“Then count fast,” Pope spits. You can tell he’s a millisecond away from firing. His eyes are trained on you, going rapidly between your face and your stomach. His voice is made of agony. “She’s been sitting here breathing fumes and dust for too long; I want her home.”
The gun digs into your already bruised temple and your heart starts to race. You weren’t scared when you were alone, but knowing that Pope is right there watching – hurting, upset – makes you start to break. He’s your protector, your safety, your life. All you want is to be back in his arms, to know that he’s okay.
The gun on your other side presses into your neck. “Nobody moves until we’re done.”
Andrew speaks, low and stern, as they shuffle through stacks of bills on a folding table behind your head. “She’s breathing too fast. You’ve got the money; pull the guns away.”
They listen, much to your surprise. The guns return to their backs; their hands stay on you, though, bruising into your biceps. Andrew’s eyes fix on those hands, imagining the marks they’re leaving, feeling bile rise to his Adam’s apple at the fact that he can’t cut those hands off right the fuck now.
Leaning against his car now, like he isn’t itching to do something – you’ve always been impressed by his particular cruelty – J chuckles, “Keep an eye on your friends there. Think I just saw the one in the camo pocket something for himself.” He tuts, shaking his head, and adds, “There’s always one who gets greedy when you’re not family.”
“Shut up,” the man in question cuts back. But his voice is wavering. “We’re the ones in control here.”
That’s the final straw.
Because the kidnappers don’t realize one crucial fact.
Andrew is always the one in control
Pope says, “Cutback.”
A loud clatter from the loading bay – Craig, you know, because Andrew’s told you their routine a hundred times – pulls focus. Your heart launches into your throat as bodies blur around you. Your body relies on instinct; you curl over yourself, ducking your head and shrugging your shoulders.
Everything turns into a muffled movie sequence; you can’t process it all. There’s Deran swinging wide, Baz shoving someone down, J stopping another as they try to run, Craig going on the offensive. Metal screams, guns skittering over the concrete floor. Smashing palettes, wood splintering, fast footsteps. To your surprise, there aren’t any shots fired. You guess nobody wants to be the one who accidentally shoots the pregnant girl.
Somehow, when the dust settles, there are five men hogtied on their knees, random crap shoved into their mouths as gags, each of them with a Glock pressed into their scalp.
And then Andrew’s at your side, flicking out his butterfly knife, kneeling in front of you, not ready to look into your eyes yet. He carefully works through the ties, ensuring he doesn’t so much as graze you with his blade, and then kisses each of your limbs where you’d been restrained. He kisses your knees, too, and then your hands.
Straightening up, he hugs you close then, giving you the space to let out a deep breath. You let your hands tangle in his auburn curls, the ones you hope your daughter will inherit. Kissing your hair over and over, he asks, “How badly are you hurt, angel?”
“I’m alright,” you assure him quietly. “I’ve had worse.”
His jaw hardens; he knows you’ve had worse and he’ll always hate himself for it. Then he touches your bump reverently. “How about my kid?”
“She’s been kicking like crazy this whole time,” you tell him with a little laugh, guiding his hand to where the runt’s been shoving her feet into your abdomen. That always makes Andrew smile. “Think she wants to be a fighter like her daddy. She’s gonna want to take out all the bad guys herself.”
Andrew kisses your stomach then, the tenderness such a contrast to all the violence he’ll inflict the moment you’re in any danger. “Not when she has me to do it for her.” He stands up then, guiding you to your feet. He holds your face between his hands and looks at you seriously. “You wanna go home? I can come back and handle them.”
“No. I’m staying.”
It’s your turn for dark features and a cruel voice. You aren’t like this often – usually sweet and soft as the homemade baked goods you’re always bringing to the family – but, when you are, Andrew remembers exactly how much he loves you. Why he chose you over the countless girls who’ve tried to use him over the years.
He loves your softness, how it balances him, but he knew he was going to marry you the day you suggested that him personally castrating your stalker would be a more appropriate punishment than death or prison. You’d handed him the tools while the guy was restrained and terrified, never once flinching at the gore. He knows you can handle yourself and you let him protect you instead.
So it honestly turns him on a little when you press your lips to his one more time and murmur, “I want you to hurt them. In front of me. Right now.”
He grins. “That’s my girl.”
Then he turns to his brothers, each of whom is managing their hostage a little differently (Craig always just bashes someone every time they move; Baz has a gun in each hand to manage two). “You guys mind sticking around for a minute? I want to remind them what happens when they touch what’s mine.”
“She’s our sister,” Deran, who’s been your friend the longest, says for all of them. “Don’t mind at all.”
The others nod their assent.
When he looks at your kidnappers, Andrew’s voice is frozen steel. The kind of cold that peels your skin off when you let go of it. Staring them down, he asks, “Which ones touched you, angel?”
You cross your arms over your chest. “They all did.”
“Rank them for me.”
You know what he means.
Six months into dating him, three gangbangers tried to pull something similar, holding you and J’s then-girlfriend because the Codys had supposedly taken one of their job leads. After the money had been exchanged to get you out safely, it took your boyfriend all of two hours to track down the guys.
He got the cash back easily with his brothers’ help, yes, but then he zip-tied the guys in the back of his truck, picked you up from home, took all of you to one of his secret locations, and had you tell him what each of them did to you.
The one who hadn’t touched you but had helped plan it got two bullets in the head, right in a row.
That was Pope’s version of mercy.
The two who put hands on you? They weren’t so lucky.
The first, who’d grabbed you to put you in the van, ripping your clothes in the process and groping your ass, had each of his fingers snapped off with bolt cutters, the digits left on his mother’s doorstep.
The second, their muscle, had cuffed you tight enough to bite into your wrists, slapped you across the face to stop you from talking, and beaten you when you protected poor J’s little girlfriend.
When Pope saw the mean bruise high on your cheekbone and the split in your lip, he lost it. That guy? Well, that guy got strapped to a chair, doused in gas, and set on fire, put out right before the point where he’d die from smoke inhalation, the fat beneath his skin melting off him in sloughing drips. You’d never seen anything so brutal, but it didn’t turn your stomach the way you’d expected. Then Pope shoved him into a quarry so he’d have to drag his flayed skin through the gravel to get help.
Sure, someone would try the same game every once in a while, but, for the most part, the legend of Andrew doling out punishments in exponents based on the crime had kept you safe for years. When men from other families would try to give you a hard time, even just hitting on you while you bought groceries, someone from their own crew would smack them, mutter something like ‘that’s Pope Cody’s girl,’ and leave you alone.
Now, Andrew seems to be planning to refresh the lore about what happens when someone messes with you.
With a quick squeeze to his bicep, you start, “The one in the black mask didn’t hurt me.”
“Good.” Andrew pulls off the mask, revealing a guy younger than you, and offers flatly, “Tell her you’re sorry and I’ll let you walk out of here.”
The guy spits a curse in your direction instead.
Andrew doesn’t even acknowledge him. He just grunts, “Cover your ears, baby.”
As always, you do as he says. He lines up and fires two quick shots that land right on top of each other in the center of his forehead. Bullseyes. The booming pops ricochet around the warehouse for a moment before a lifeless body slumps forward. Free from his hostage, J grabs the duffel of money still on the floor and puts it in the back of Pope’s truck once more. Then he returns, standing on your other side, hand on his gun.
Not missing a beat even with flecks of fresh blood thrown across both your bodies, Andrew asks, “What about the other ones?”
“Motorcycle helmet is the one who took me from the beach. Held a gun to my head. I was showering, by the way.”
A higher level of rage tightens Andrew’s jaw. He steps forward and yanks off the helmet, the gesture pulling the guy’s ears harsh enough to make them bleed. Then Andrew takes out the gag and rockets the butt of his gun directly into the guy’s mouth, knocking out half a tooth that he spits onto the floor. He smashes it in another time to get the rest of the tooth and split his lips open to good measure.
When the guy has enough blood dribbling from his mouth to satisfy his anger, Andrew grips his throat and demands, “You grabbed my pregnant wife while she was in the fucking shower? Are you some kind of pervert? Need me to start by cutting off your dick? Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it to someone who wanted to screw her.”
The guy’s trying to scramble backwards, away from him, but Baz has him by the back of his head. “No, man, nothing- nothing like that. I’m- I was just- just following orders.”
“Couldn’t have given me a minute to get decent first?” You lean your head on Andrew’s firm shoulder and go on, “Then he tied me up. Did the zips kinda tight, if you ask me.”
You show Andrew your wrists, which are raw from the material, and point out the spots where the skin got pinched enough to bleed. Andrew rubs your tender flesh with his thumb and nods slowly, making decisions. “You hurt her wrists. There’s a cut on her right one because of you.” He looks up at his brother. “Craig, is the saw in the Suburban or my truck?”
Craig shakes his head, knowing what’s coming. “Your truck.”
As he walks over to his car, Andrew calls over his shoulder. “Sit him in the chair. Tie his wrists to the armrests.”
Craig reaches down and snaps the tie keeping his wrists bound to his ankles. Before he can try to wriggle away, Craig jams a boot down on his ankle, crunching the bone to hobble him. “You heard the man; no funny business.”
Checking with you for approval, Craig maneuvers him into the chair and undoes the restraints around his wrists. When the guy goes for his neck right away, J strides over, pulls his ear from the side of his head, and shoots a hole through it at point blank. Reeling from the noise and the blistering pain, that definitely works to get his hands off Craig, who grabs his wrists and fixes them to the chair.
Just in time for Pope to get back from his truck, holding his favorite yellow reciprocating saw with both hands, cautery pen in his front pocket. He walks right up to motorcycle helmet guy, who’s outright crying now, just quietly whimpering, and balances the saw over his right hand.
Standing over him, Andrew says calmly, “Apologize to my wife and you can keep the left hand.”
The words are immediate, fearful: “I’m fucking sorry, alright? Tell him- Tell him to-” Andrew starts up the saw, the mean buzz filling the warehouse, and the guy sobs out, “Call him off! Christ, call him off! I’m sorry, I- God, seriously, I’m sorry.”
“See? Not so hard, was it?” Andrew looks at the other guys, sweeping the air with the now-whirring saw. “Keep that in mind when it’s your turn.”
Within thirty seconds, Andrew is splattered in red. You’ve always liked the sight of him covered in someone else’s blood; it makes you feel a peculiar type of hunger. Like a lioness watching her mate take down a gazelle to bring back to the cubs. The smell of burning, smoking flesh follows shortly after. Deran has to avert his eyes; he’s never had the stomach for Pope’s relentlessness. His attention to detail. Pope won’t let someone bleed out if he wants them to suffer.
Satisfied with the DIY amputation, Pope turns off the saw and sets it on the floor while the guy snivels. From behind your husband, you give him a smile. “I forgive you, by the way. We all have to follow orders sometimes.”
Then Andrew takes a step to the right, in front of the guy in the camo ski mask, who’s now squirming and moaning around his gag after watching his buddy’s comparatively mild torment. Andrew tugs off the ski mask. He’s older, with crow’s feet and a worn-in white beard. In his blue eyes, you can see him replaying everything he did to you, terrified of what it’s going to cost him.
Andrew kisses your hand, leaving a blood stain behind, and asks, “How about him?”
You narrow your eyes at the guy and pout. “Camo was pretty nice at first. Helped me into the van when I asked. But then he gave me this one,” you tell your husband, touching the freshly scabbed bruise on the side of your forehead. “Probably gonna scar.”
When you wince, Andrew broils. “That hurt pretty bad, baby?”
Really feeling it now that you aren’t in survival mode, you nod.
So Pope takes the guy’s gun off of Baz, looks at his face like it’s a puzzle, and then thrusts the butt of it into the guy’s temple, matching the injury that you’re wearing. Then he tosses the gun away and explains, “Always good to start with an eye for an eye.”
Deran snickers from his side. “You know they say that makes the whole world blind.”
Pope scoffs, “Who does?”
“I don’t know. God or something.”
“Yeah? Well right now, I’m god.” Andrew pulls out his butterfly knife, lets it twist open in a flashy maneuver, and uses his fingers to pinch the guy’s cheek, tugging the skin hard away from the bones beneath. He holds the blade against it. “You know, I really like my wife’s face. Now there’s going to be a scar on it. How much skin do you think you deserve to lose for that?”
The guy’s eyes are wide as bowling balls, probably wishing he’d listened when you told them not to be rough with you. He’s drooling around the gag now, tears mixing with the liquid, the blood dripping into it as well.
Not wanting to take the guy’s gag out, Pope answers his own question after a beat of contemplation, “I’d say half. You only hit her on one side, after all.”
With genuine surgical precision, Andrew slices off the guy’s cheek. The screams that follow are nothing short of horrific, wet and groaning around the gag, as Andrew just keeps going. No amount of thrashing or crying could stop him once he decided on an appropriate punishment. Even Baz averts his eyes, though, staring up at the ceiling, as thick peels of skin fall to the floor.
With the guy wailing, Andrew huffs, “Mind shutting the fuck up for me? You’re lucky I’m not forcing your face down your throat to keep you quiet.”
His cries turn to muffled whimpers. When Andrew’s peeled the skin down to the fingers, he orders, “J, grab that bag of rock salt from my truck, would you?”
J does it without response. Andrew slits the bag across the top and pours it out in a six foot circle on the ground. Then he grabs the guy by the shoulder that still has skin attached to it, yanks him to his feet, and slices off all the ties. He shoves him forward, off balance, into the pile of salt. The agonized cry that comes out when exposed wounds hit salt soothes you like a lullaby.
In a hoarse voice, Andrew commands, “Once you get yourself up, you can go.”
Camo’s shouts of pain create a backdrop of noise as Pope returns to your side. “Two more.”
“This one’ll be fast,” you tell him. “Blue’s the guy who hit me when you were on the phone. Twice. It didn’t hurt too bad, but he made me cry.”
“Made you cry, huh?” He shakes his head like that’s really disappointing to him. Worse than any physical wounds. “Hold his head still, Deran.”
Deran swallows hard and gags, imagination running wild when he realizes Pope is planning to go for the eyes. “Don’t think I can watch this.”
Craig shoves him aside and steps in. He pulls off blue’s mask and wraps one hand around the guy’s chin and the other fisted in his air so he can’t turn his head either way. Pope wipes the other guy’s blood from his knife onto his jeans. Then, in four precise movements, fast but steady, he removes each eyelid, tucking them in the front pocket of the guy’s shirt.
“There,” Pope sighs, giving the guy an affectionate slap on the cheek as red streams down his face, “now you won’t be crying anymore. The blood should lubricate your eyes until you can get some saline."
After a string of curses and pleas in another language, the gag falls from his mouth from the sheer force of his flailing mouth. He stammers out, spitting blood with every word, “You can’t- you can’t just leave me like this, man! You have to-”
Andrew puts on the pathetic whining tone and taunts, “I ‘have to’ what? Since I can’t just leave you like this, should I take the eyes too? Would that make you happier to walk out of here? Up my rating on Yelp?” He shoves the barrel of his Glock directly into blue ski mask’s newly exposed eyeball. Hard. A chunk of jiggly white sclera flicks to the floor. Pope grunts, “Cut him loose now.”
Deran retches at the sight of the half eyeball making a wet spot on the concrete, so Pope reaches into his back pocket, takes out his wallet, and tosses it to his little brother. “Dump him on the side of the road and go get her a bag of fucking sour gummy worms.”
Holding his breath, Deran frees the guy’s feet and shoves him across the warehouse toward his truck, manhandling him into the backseat before peeling out. Baz rolls his shoulders, also looking a little pale, and offers to Pope, “Me and J can run the cash and jewelry out to the drop if you’re good here.”
Pope nods his approval, so Craig takes Baz’s hostage. When they’re all gone, Pope finally points his gun at red ski mask, who you’ve been looking forward to most. “And this last one?”
Your voice becomes as lethal as Pope’s, so cold and calculated it sends a chill down Craig’s spine. Pope pulls off the mask as you tell him, “Red dragged me out of the van. He grabbed my legs. Ripped my favorite coverup and made me walk barefoot. Called me a whore.”
“Called you a whore?” Andrew leans down in front of him and shoves him in the center of his chest. “You have a wife, asshole?”
The guy lunges forward as much as he can while bound and spits at him, “Yeah. I do.”
“What would you do if someone talked to her like that?”
He narrows his eyes and snarls, “I’d kill the son of a bitch.”
“That’s because you’re weak,” Pope replies. Flat. He tucks his gun around his back and plays with his butterfly knife. “Death is too good for guys who talk to women like that. I don’t think you should be able to talk anymore at all, actually. You can choose; wanna lose your tongue or your vocal cords?”
“Wait.” You touch the center of Pope’s back, snapping his attention to you. His eyes meet yours with concern, studying your features for why you’d call him off. “There’s something else, Andrew.”
If you held off on telling him, it had to be bad. He’s already pumped with adrenaline and burning rage and protectiveness, but you know he’ll reach another layer when you say the next part. Voice low, he says, “Tell me, sweetheart.”
Your voice cracks, then, for the first time since he started his work. You cradle your bump gently; she’s finally settling down in there now that your adrenaline isn’t screaming anymore. Looking up to meet red ski mask’s eyes without any fear in your own, you tell your husband, “He threatened to hurt your baby, Andrew.”
It’s impossible for his body to hold all the rage that makes him feel, too big and jagged to fit in his skin. Pope erupts into a frenzy. His knife clatters to the floor by his feet and he’s pummeling the guy with his bare fists, each one landing harder than the last. The guy thrashes around as Pope shoves him onto his back, limbs balled up beneath his body, hitting him anywhere his hands can find purchase. Any time the guy tries to curl to protect himself, Andrew’s knee thrusts into his gut, forcing him to take it. He doesn’t stop until the guy coughs out a mouthful of blood.
Breathing hard, one of his lungs collapsed and a few ribs broken, red ski mask wheezes, “Just kill me already.”
With his knife pressed flat against the guy’s Adam’s apple, Pope growls, “If you wanted me to play nice, you shouldn’t have gone after my girls.”
When Andrew’s finished beating him, you approach red too and look him hard in the eyes, lording over him and feeling the power in your stance. “I think I’ll make earrings for my daughter out of your teeth after my husband pulls them out with pliers.”
Craig snickers from behind him. “Jesus Christ, kid.”
You give him a cute smile like you didn’t just say that. “Don’t make fun of me! I’m having a hard night, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He kicks the guy in the side of his head – hard, the only way the boys hit – and laughs, “I’m not planning on my teeth becoming jewelry any time soon.”
Pope squeezes the guy’s bloodied and bruised face in his large hand. “What do you want me to do with him, angel?”
With a little shrug, you reply, “Well, I definitely don’t think he should be able to knock anyone up if he’s going around threatening pregnant people.”
Red’s eyes widen and he once again tries to scrabble backwards; Pope’s weight on him is too strong for him to move very far, though. As Craig holds him still, Pope yanks the guy’s jeans down around his ankles to give himself more precision before angling the barrel of his gun so that he’ll shoot only through dick and a little thigh, missing his critical arteries.
Andrew grunts, “Cover your ears.”
And you do.
Even Craig winces as penis shrapnel flings across the room.
You don’t flinch.
Pope straightens up and asks you, “That enough for you?”
Red ski mask moans out one gurgling word: “Please.”
But you aren’t finished. You cross your arms over his chest and tell your husband, “I was being serious earlier. I want his teeth. I’ll hold his mouth open.”
“No,” Andrew vetoes. “He’ll try to bite you. Not risking that.”
When his eyes flick knowingly up to his brother, Craig scoffs in offense, “Oh, so it’s fine if he bites me? What if the fucker has tetanus or something?”
Andrew digs the pliers from his toolkit in the truck and returns to his brother’s side. “I’ll give you 5% of my take for helping.”
Craig gives a pleased nod. “That’ll do.”
Not five minutes later, you have a palmful of bloody teeth that you tuck into the side pocket of your beach bag. Pope finishes by choking the guy until he’s unconscious and turning him on his side so he won’t aspirate on the blood.
Then he stands up, tucks away his gun and his blade, puts the tools back in his truck, and says, “Craig, tell Smurf to save us a few pieces of pie for a job well done.”
“You’re not coming back to the house?”
Pope shakes his head. He slides an arm around you, tight and comfortable, and replies, “Not tonight. Tell everyone we’ll be by for Sunday brunch. I’ve gotta get my girls home.”
Craig shakes his head as he hauls himself into the Suburban, lighting up a cigarette with a laugh as he guns the ignition. “You two have some fucked up foreplay.”
You sleep soundly the whole way home, passing out before Pope’s even pulled the truck off the property.
Series Summary: When you move in down the street from the Cody family, you definitely aren't expecting romance. But Andrew gradually becomes a fixture in your life, for better or for worse.
Chapter Summary: The Codys are always interested in someone new moving to their street, so Smurf assigns her oldest son to look into you.
Tags/Notes: andrew "pope" cody x reader, afab/fem reader, girl next door trope,
Content Warnings: none in this chapter
A/N: praying this doesn't flop bc y'all are gonna have to sit through seven more chapters even if it does. im also going to open a taglist for this series for the first time so...lemme know!
You stand at the front door of the nicest house in the neighborhood with a racing heart. So far, everyone’s been kind when you’ve introduced yourself, but they all also warned you about the Codys, a mix of speaking highly of them and mentioning to take care of yourself around them. And this is their place. You’d brought some of your world famous baked goods to try to butter them up extra, but it doesn’t quell your worries much. With just a few days unpacking in the neighborhood, you’ve already heard raucous house parties and seen lots of expensive cars come and go.
A petite older woman, bright blonde hair and lots of jewelry adorning her thin orange coverup and white bikini, answers the door already midway through saying, “-so just come on in and- Oh! Sorry, I thought you were- Never mind, where are my manners?” She extends a hand and gives you a handshake that’s a lot firmer than you would’ve expected from someone so small and feminine. “I’m Janine, but everyone around here calls me Smurf.” Her eyes narrow slightly; there’s a sharpness in her hazels that hints at a quiet brilliance. “You’re our new neighbor, right?”
“Yep, just moved in last weekend.” You introduce yourself and offer up the tray of cookies. “I’ve been trying to meet everyone who lives around here; the whole neighborhood speaks very highly of you.”
“I highly doubt that,” she chuckles, taking the plate and giving you a one-armed hug followed by kisses on both cheeks. “My boys can get loud. They’re all here today; why don’t you come in and say hello? We’re having a little get-together; it’ll be good for you to know some faces.”
The way she says it, you can tell it’s not a question. You follow her into the house, listening as she points out pieces of art by local artists, photos of her kids, and all her special touches that make the swanky house feel homey.
“Grab something to eat; there’s plenty to drink in the fridge, too,” she says, gesturing to an extensive and colorful spread on the kitchen island. “They’re all out back still, but I’ll bring them in. Actually, why don’t you come on outside? Some sun would do you good. That’s probably why you moved to California anyway.”
Smurf’s made a full plate of food for you before you can even think, loading it up with fruits and cheeses. You take it and nod hesitantly. “Sure, okay. Thank you.”
Outside, the scene is total chaos. The sun is gorgeous, the sky is blue, and the pool is chock full of boys – men, actually – splashing at each other, dunking a basketball and rolling around together until it looks like one of them’s going to drown. There are girls on all the loungers, passing around cocktails and laughing along to loud music underneath pastel umbrellas. There’s a faint smell of weed, curled away by the breeze but definitely present.
“Boys!” Smurf claps loud enough to get their attention, her voice rising high and loud. “Come meet our new neighbor; she brought us these amazing cookies.”
The guys all haul themselves out of the pool, water dripping down tan toned bodies, and grab beers from different spots around the pool area before jogging back over. There’s five of them, one a decade or two younger than the rest. They look vaguely alike, all with shades of blondish or reddish hair and green or hazel eyes.
Smurf gestures to you and gives them a stern look. “Let’s all be polite and introduce ourselves.”
Each of the guys shakes your hand and gives their names, but you’re too overstimulated to catch all of them at once. You can tell they’re trying their damndest to behave themselves, but there are still a few sets of eyes raking over your body, not very well concealed in a light sundress.
The biggest one with the shoulder-length hair eyes you up the longest, his gaze definitely not neighborly. “How many people are you sharing that big old house with to afford the mortgage? Boyfriend? Roommates?”
“Ah, no, just me.” Your gaze drops to your feet and you offer up a bashful smile. “Inherited the place from my grandmother; she just passed last month.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, baby,” Smurf says, giving your arm a maternal squeeze. “Were the two of you close?”
You give her a grimace, keeping your tone light, not wanting to kill their party. “Actually, no, not at all. But I’m the only grandkid, so I guess it’s my responsibility. Beats having to pay rent.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” another one of them – this one sharper, not sharing any of the family features – chuckles, tilting his beer toward you. “What can I grab you to drink?”
Shyly, hoping your cheeks haven’t turned too pink from all the attention, you inform them, “I really appreciate the offer, but I have a class to get to and then work.”
“You’re in college?” The youngest one, who can’t be more than 18 or 19, perks up and asks, “What’s your major?”
His interest seems genuine, so you offer, “Nothing yet. I’m just picking up classes at the community college to get credits for now; I didn’t have the chance to go after high school. Might transfer to somewhere in LA or San Diego once I’m more settled. Probably business.”
He nods and smiles. “Cool.”
“Smart and cute.” Smurf asks, half-serious, “Any chance on god’s green earth that you’re single? I’ve got some eligible bachelors here who could use a braincell or two.” At your flaming cheeks, she gives you a pat on the back and laughs. “Don’t worry; they’re harmless.”
The leering one chuckles, “Speak for yourself.”
“She’s not your type,” the one who’s been silent the whole time adds. His voice is softer, harsher, his eyes moodier. When his gaze meet yours, he gives a small smirk. “Looks like she’s had a thought before.”
His brothers all snort at that. You wish you could come up with a witty reply, but there’s nothing. You’ve always been shy, great at warm, professional introductions and structured interactions but not so strong with the back-and-forth, the stuff where you’re supposed to joke and flirt and act normal.
Before you go, Smurf insists on packaging up some of the food for you to take home, pinches your cheek, and promises, “I’ll have one of the boys return your plate as soon as we can, okay? Thank you so much for stopping by; it’s great to meet you.”
The Cody family is always interested when a new neighbor moves in. It’s a rarity; they live, purposefully in an old, established neighborhood where everybody knows everybody – and everybody keeps quiet.
The moment you’re out the door, Smurf stalks back to the patio with her arms crossed. The boys have all grabbed cookies and made quick work of half the batch in no time. Sipping on a wine cooler, she herds them all to a corner and asks, “Baz, what do we know?”
“On the new girl?” Baz straightens up and gives her what he’s learned from a brief search to feel you out. “She’s a waitress over at Juniper’s, that ‘50s diner a few streets up. Not sure why she bothers working; looks like she inherited a small fortune from grandma.”
Smurf nods and inspects a cookie before digging into the buttery, brown sugary goodness herself. “Interesting.”
“Outside work, she takes two classes a week, volunteers at the library and the animal shelter, and has some boring hobbies.” He polishes off another chocolate chip and adds, “Bakes fucking cookies for neighbors, apparently. Not gonna be any trouble.”
“I want some more information before I decide on that.” Smurf searches her boys’ faces, making decisions while she thinks. “Pope, why don’t you go and keep an eye on her for a few days? Stop by the diner a couple times, go check out some books from the library, let me know what she gets up to. Nothing crazy.”
Deran snickers, “Sure you want him for ‘nothing crazy’?”
“Pope’s good with women,” she replies simply. “He’s not like the rest of you.”
“Hey!” Craig protests, “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Smurf narrows her eyes. “I don’t appreciate that tone.”
He purses his lips. “Sorry.”
“You had two – or was it three? – strippers in your bed this morning,” Baz cuts back. “Not sure the angel who helps illiterate children would like you very much.”
The whole time, Pope’s been quiet. He’s a little annoyed with this new assignment because it isn’t exactly interesting, but it could be worse. He doesn’t mind quiet or alone time and he definitely doesn’t mind pretty girls. So he grimaces and nods. “I’m on it.”
You show up to your shift already upset, running behind because of your shitbox car not starting, forcing you to walk, your yellow and white uniform wrinkled because you didn’t pull it from the dryer early enough. Your boss is, as always, grouchy when you show up only two minutes late, chewing you out while you put your things away in the back of house and fix your hair.
By the time you’re out in your section, there are tears stinging in your eyes from your manager’s harshness. He always knows just how to get under your skin, making pointed comments about your uniform that feel like criticisms of your body and your classes which are digs at your intelligence. You focus on the customers. At least it’s busy. In a kitschy diner this close to the shore, evenings are always packed. It keeps your mind occupied and the tips are good.
About three quarters through your shift, a single guy comes in, walks around the line out the door, and gets seated immediately by the hostess, in the corner by the window. She taps you on the shoulder and nods in his direction. “Boss says to take good care of him, got it?”
You nod, slapping up the order ticket. “What, is he a silicon valley bro or something?”
“Or something, definitely,” she confirms. “No idea, but I guess he’s some variety of important.”
“Alright.” You shrug and turn around. “Hope he tips well, then.”
You swish over to his table, hoping that the flouncy skirt and white apron still make you look cute even though they’re wrinkled. At the table, a man with auburn hair in a short-sleeve black button-down stares straight ahead, not looking at the menu or anything. You’re halfway through your ‘my name is blah blah blah’ speech when you stop in your tracks. “Oh, you’re one of my neighbors!”
He gives you a tight smile that reminds you of the one you put on when guys hit on you at bars. “Guilty.”
You try to give him a warmer one and laugh a little. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t remember your name. I know you just told me, like, six hours ago, but-”
“There was a lot going on,” he finishes for you. “I know my family can be…intense.”
You don’t mention that he strikes you as the most intense one, his brows always furrowed and his gazes heavy. For the first time, you notice that his large hands are calloused and nicked with pockmark scars and half-healed bruises. The hands of a boxer, maybe, or someone who does a lot of manual labor. Definitely not some silicon valley bro. Trying to stop yourself from staring, you clear your throat and reply, “No, don’t worry, I thought you were all nice.”
“Nice?” That gets an honest laugh out of him. “Haven’t heard that word used to describe any of us in a long time.”
“I doubt that; your mother’s an angel.” When he scoffs again, you clear your throat, “Anyway, ah, your name? I remember Baz and…Josh, maybe?”
“Josh is my nephew. Goes by J,” he says stiffly. “Brothers are Baz, Craig, Deran. And I’m, ah-” he swallows down the urge to say Pope; Smurf likes for them to use their real names with civilians “-I’m Andrew.”
“Andrew. Got it.” Your eyebrows pinch together like you’re committing it to memory. Then you pull your notepad and pen from that cute yellow uniform and ask, “Well, what can I get you, Andrew?”
He orders a black coffee and sips on it over an hour, scrolling through his phone, taking a few calls in hushed tones, and staring out the window watching people go by like it’s a novelty. Every fifteen or so minutes, in between checking on your other tables, you stop by him to make sure he doesn’t want anything else, even though he insists he doesn’t. At one point, he even takes out a book – Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – and reads it at lightning speed.
On your fourth stop by his table, toward the very end of your shift, you touch his bicep and tell him seriously, “You’ve gotta at least have a slice of the chocolate cream pie, Andrew. It’s so perfect with the coffee. On the house.”
He stares at your hand on his arm until you remove it, his expression a strange mix of confused and curious, like nobody’s touched him at all in ages. When you pull it back, he replies quietly, really quietly, “If you’ll split it with me.”
The sunlight of your smile could power the whole diner. “Yeah, that would be nice. Just let me close out my last table and I’ll come sit with you.”
Two minutes later, you’re untying your apron, taking off the matching cap, and sliding into the booth across from him with an oversized slice of pie, extra whipped cream, and two forks.
Andrew takes a forkful of the pie and closes his eyes when he eats the bite, really savoring it like it’s the first good thing he’s ever tasted. Then he watches you lick whipped cream from your lower lip, mesmerized by the action, unsure why his ears suddenly feel hot.
He has a list of information he needs to get for Smurf, but it’s all about how to package the questions. After a minute, he asks, “You always work this shift or am I just lucky?”
Is your schedule predictable? When are you home?
“I work evenings when I have afternoon classes,” you reply, thinking nothing of it. “Now that I have the house, I don’t need to make rent, so I’m keeping it to a few days per week. I’d be bored otherwise.”
Andrew takes mental notes on your answers. Self-sufficient, reliable, simple.
“That’s great. More time for your hobbies, passions,” he says absently. Then his eyes are serious again, tuned into you. “What do you get up to besides all that baking?”
Where can we find you outside of work? Do you have any useful skills? What sort of people do you hang around with?
“I've got a yard now, so I’m going to start gardening. I’m teaching myself to sew on my grandma’s old machine. Wow, that made me sound ancient.” You admit sheepishly, “I guess I can be kind of a homebody. I like to read, watch movies, do some crafts and things.”
“I’m the same way. Mom always said I have an old soul,” he chuckles.
“Really? You all seemed more like-”
“Partyers?” He shakes his head and laughs to himself. “More my brothers’ scene than mine.” Something about you makes him reply honestly instead of being cagey. “I try to read at least a book or two every month. It’s not much, but it keeps me sharp. Don’t even get me started on the NYT crossword.
You squeeze his forearm and grin; he’s really starting to like making you smile. “I love the crossword.”
“Smart girl.” At the touch of your hand, he shakes his head and gets back on track. “You like living alone or are you just putting up with it a while?”
Will there be strange men in the neighborhood? What’s your social life like?
You shrug and lean back in the booth, stretching your arms above your head and taking a deep breath. He watches the rise and fall of your chest. “It’s definitely better than having roommates. I was splitting a tiny place downtown with, like, five other girls before this. It’s really nice having my own bathroom – three of them, actually, which is kind of weird. It’ll be nice once I have a family, though, I guess.”
“Sounds like a dream,” he laughs. Then he says, “I’d love to have my own place again. Sharing a bathroom with a rotating cast of my baby brothers isn’t exactly my idea of perfection.”
Your eyebrows come together in the middle. “You don’t have your own place? Don’t work?”
He’s surprised that you don’t sound judgmental in the slightest; it’s not the kind of question girls usually ask with a neutral inflection in his experience. You’re genuinely curious. He gets the sense you would never judge someone for their life circumstances. Still, he’s quick to clarify, “I work. We all do. I know it looks like we’re just screwing around at Smurf’s place all the time, but we’ve got a family business.”
“That’s really cool. Working with your family, I mean.” You gesture for him to take the last bite of pie. “What do you all do?”
“Real estate,” he tells you, curt and quick. There’s a foreign part of him that wants to impress you. Wants you to know he’s got plenty of money, that he’s capable, that he’s strong. So he goes on, “I take care of more of the hands-on work. Renovations, inspections, repairs. I like fixing things. Pretty handy.”
“That explains your gnarly knuckles,” you tease. “Glad you brought it up first; I was morbidly curious. Didn’t want to assume you’re some thug before I knew better.”
Andrew’s never liked when girls tease him. But when you do it, there’s a sweetness to it, a sincerity. You aren’t making fun of him; you’re just…cute. He likes that. Why does he like that? He swallows hard, tries out a charming smile, and replies, “Nothing to worry about here. Just a family that cares about each other. It’s solid money if you make the right deals. Family’s been doing it long enough that we don’t take bad ones.”
For the first time, you pay attention to the oversized watch on his wrist. The soft wave in his hair. The thread count on his shirt. All the subtle signs of wealth you pick up on. Of course, the house isn’t exactly subtle, but Andrew seems to keep it quiet when it’s just him. You aren’t really interested in his family’s money, though, so you pivot back. “It’s great that you all get along enough to work together; god knows that would never work in my family. Is that why you live with her then? You just like being together?”
With a long sigh, he rubs the back of his neck. “Pretty much, yeah. Mom needs to have someone around and I’m the oldest.”
Your tender, honest smile worms its way into his brain, carving out a space he pretends doesn’t exist. “That’s so sweet.”
And then your manager’s tapping you on the shoulder – more like grabbing you – and informing you both, “Closing time.”
“Right, yeah. Sorry.” You turn back to Andrew and grimace. “I’ll grab your check. I believe you owe me a staggering seventy-nine cents for the single black coffee. With tip, I think that’ll get you up to a dollar if I’ve been good company.”
Andrew reaches into his pocket and hands a twenty to your manager without a word. Eyes still squarely on you, he says, “I’ll walk you out.”
Your manager rolls his eyes, not particularly caring, and heads up to the register to cash out for the night.
As you stand up, Andrew glances down at your worn-out sneakers. “You walked here?”
Half of the question – ‘Are you easy to keep track of?’ – is for the sake of his family, but the other half – ‘Are you safe?’ – is just for his own curiosity.
You sigh, wrapping your arms around yourself as you cross from the diner into the cool late-night air. “Didn’t have a choice. My car’s trash; wouldn’t start after I got back from class. Lucky I made it home without the thing blowing up.”
Andrew takes his keys from his pocket and flips them around his finger. “I’ll drive you home, then.”
You flush, thankful for lack of light outside. “I really appreciate the offer, but-”
“I’ll drive you home,” he repeats, stern this time. “It’s late; you don’t need to be walking out by yourself.”
There’s a protectiveness to his tone that convinces you he’s safe to trust. “Alright. Just this once, okay? I don’t like owing people.”
“Sure, no problem,” he lies. His mother would end him if she knew he’d let a girl – a neighbor, nonetheless – do something dangerous on his watch; if you ever need a ride, he’ll give you one. “You don’t owe me, though. We’re neighbors.” Andrew shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks you to the back of his parking lot to his car – his truck actually. His giant, almost militant, matte black truck. “Any idea what’s wrong with your car?”
“No clue; I don’t know about stuff like that. None of the lights are on or anything. Just old, I guess.”
Your heart thuds when Andrew follows you around to the passenger side of the truck, his hand going to your lower back. For a split second, your sense of danger spikes, a drip of adrenaline going into your bloodstream. But then he’s unlocking the door and opening it for you, offering up his hand to help you step up.
As you haul yourself into it, actually needing to put some of your weight on him, you mutter, “Jesus, this is a big truck.”
Before he closes the door to go around and drive you home, Andrew says simply, “It’s safe.”
Summary: When your father is brought to PTMC with complications from late stage cancer, you and Robby are forced to face each other after seven years of silence. More than that, you’re forced to face the feelings that still burn between the two of you.
Leaving you had been a mistake, one that Robby doesn’t intend to make again, so as your world crumbles and shrinks to fit inside the walls of the hospital, Robby promises to stay this time.
If you’ll let him, that is.
wc: 14k (31k total)
Tags/Warnings: f!reader, exes to lovers, pre-canon, post-covid (2022), 12-year age gap, age fuckery, angst, hurt/comfort, many tears, advanced cancer (reader’s father), robby’s massive guilt complex, mutual pining, past infidelity, robby is bad at feelings, eventual smut, mentioned canon character death (adamson), canon-typical medical gore, author-typical medical inaccuracies, angst with a mostly happy ending
**reader traits: in the medical field (research), shorter than robby, has specific little habits + likes/dislikes, vaguely implied she’s from the south, but it’s never explicitly said, hair long enough for buns/unspecified braids, bio father not physically described but does have a name (jonathan), a little sassy, a lot heartbroken
A/N: and here it is, part two. This fic became my baby, so I really hope you love it as much as I do <3
The hardest part of Jonathan being admitted (aside from the obvious) is that Robby can’t tell where he stands with you—with any of you—but with you especially.
He understands and wants to support you through this nightmare of a situation, but Robby would be lying if he said the mood swings, impossible to predict, weren’t giving him whiplash. One hour you’re telling him to back off, that he’s making everything harder, and the next you’re texting him to ask if he still owns the hoodie you always used to steal from him.
It’s frustrating, but it’s also relieving in a way, which sounds strange, he knows—fucking masochistic, even—but the fact that you’re comfortable enough to reach out to him again after lashing out means that you trust him. He has no idea whygiven your history, but you do, and he isn’t about to argue it.
Still, he can’t help but be somewhat apprehensive as he makes the journey to the MICU. He’s got your coffee in one hand and the requested sweatshirt tucked under his arm, prepared for Pam to roll her eyes at him, for the passive aggressive comments that Jonathan will probably make between easygoing laughs. He’s prepared for you to scoot away when Robby sits next to you on the daybed only to follow him back down to the ED like a lost child, your small hand wrapped around two of his fingers.
What Robby is not prepared for is the sight of Kiara Alfaro sitting in the room with all of you, though she does not seem at all surprised to see him.
Stopping at the door, Robby looks to you—‘what do you want me to do? Do you want me to stay or go?’—and he feels something in his chest unwind when you nod toward the open space beside you.
“Thanks, bear,” you murmur, obviously not thinking when he hands you the hoodie first, followed by the coffee. No one else seems to notice, but Robby sure fucking does, his breath hitching at the sound of the pet name you used to call him—one that had started as a joke and then turned into a habit.
It takes everything in him not to reply the way he usually would, the way he wants to, but he somehow manages to keep his voice steady, “you’re welcome.”
Kiara had paused upon his arrival but must deem it safe to continue because she shifts her gaze from Robby back to Pam.
“I know that most people associate hospice with dying—” oh, shit. All thoughts of old endearments are immediately dashed. “—but its real purpose is to preserve quality of life and keep Jonathan comfortable.”
“I do enjoy being comfortable,” the man in question pipes up. It makes everyone in the room chuckle except for Pam.
“Jon, please, just—can you take this seriously?”
Robby feels you shift, your body getting tight, defensive. He considers grabbing your hand, but as he’s unsure of whether or not you’d actually appreciate it, simply settles for turning his own, the one closest to you, palm up and open where it rests on his knee. An invitation.
“I’m taking this very seriously,” Jonathan insists, tone still light, but there’s a glint of something in his eyes—something he’s trying to hide.
Fear.
“It sure doesn’t seem like it—”
“God, Pam, what do you want him to do?” you lash, “Start crying? Praying?”
Your father says your name, but it’s not an admonishment as much as it’s to get your attention. “It’s fine. It’s a scary topic,” he soothes you with a smile before turning to his wife, “and, it’s okay to be upset, but I promise I’m really listening to what Kiara’s saying.”
Pam takes a shaky breath, mutters an apology, then motions for Kiara to continue.
“It’s okay, and your husband is right. This is an uncomfortable conversation for most people, but it’s an important one,” she nods sagely, looks like a therapist with one leg thrown over the other, hands in her lap, thoughtful expression as she looks at Jonathan. “We all want what’s best for you, but you have to tell us what that is.”
Jonathan scratches his chin, all eyes on him, and it’s then that you choose to take Robby’s hand. He glances over at you to find you chewing on the inside of your cheek and staring straight ahead, either thinking very hard or not thinking at all.
“Can I get back to you tomorrow?” Jonathan asks, “I just feel like this is something I should probably talk over with my family.”
Kiara nods, “of course. Take all the time you need, and your nurse will know how to get in contact with me when you’re ready.”
Everybody thanks her, and Robby’s neck burns at the way her gaze falls on him then to the door. If he wasn’t so familiar with Kiara’s subtle cues, he would’ve missed it, but Robby knows what that look means.
Can I talk to you for a minute?
Right.
Robby squeezes your hand and whispers, “be right back,” before standing and following Kiara out of the room.
He doesn’t waste any time once the door is completely slid shut behind them, just explains, “ex-girlfriend, was close with her dad, it’s complicated.”
“Seems like it,” Kiara laughs lightly. “You know you can’t be involved with any decision making, right? No advice, no ‘if I were you’…”
“I know, I know.” He’ll leave the suggestions up to you. “I’m only here for support and coffee deliveries.” (and to let you vent and to hold you when you cry).
On the other side of the glass door, Robby and Kiara both hear what were once muffled voices begin to raise steadily.
“—are you really asking him to go through weeks, maybe fucking months of pain just so you don’t have to say bye?” You.
“No! I just don’t think it’s time for hospice yet!” Pam.
Robby glances back at Kiara, her eyebrows high on her forehead.
“Apparently, I am also here to break up fights,” he massages his forehead for a second, then, “if you’d excuse me.”
Nodding, Kiara taps her ID badge as a way to gesture to all the little cards that hang behind her picture— “999 star for security, remember.”
He snorts, “I think I can handle it,” before stepping back into the room.
“—you not listen to a fucking word she said?” That hip is cocked out, one hand braced on the curve of the bone while you use your other arm to emphasize your aggravation, waving and flailing and, “this is about keeping him comfortable and—and happy and home!”
Robby slinks up behind you, “honey, honey, honey,” tries to stop you with his hands on your shoulders and his voice low next to your ear. You try to shrug him off, but he doesn’t let you. “Hey, look at me—look at me.”
“This is not about you, Robby,” you spit as you escape his grasp and turn on him, glare full of venom and hurt.
Pam is weeping quietly where she leans against the bed rail next to your father who looks just as pained despite his lack of tears. Robby’s attention is only on them for a flash of a second, much more concerned with calming you down.
“You’re right, it isn’t,” he agrees, “but if you keep this up, you will get security called on you, and that is the last fuckin’ thing any of you need.”
He watches as you clench your jaw, moisture at the corners of your eyes that he so badly wants to thumb away. Words sinking in, you take a steadying breath then twist back around and make your way over to your dad.
“Listen to me,” you plead with a sniffle, “I am not ready for you to die, but that’s what’s happening here.”
Jonathan swallows, hand trembling when he reaches out for you, and you gladly lace your fingers with his.
“This is obviously up to you, and I won’t argue with whatever decision you make, but I will not—” you narrow your eyes in Pam’s general direction, “—let anyone else make it for you, okay?”
“I’m not trying to make it for him!”
“Oh my go—can you give me a second with my fucking dad?” you hiss.
Robby realizes this is the most emotional he’s seen you get since you got here. You’ve cried a few times, but this isn’t that. It isn’t the helpless dread or the sickening acceptance that comes with grief. No, this is spiteful, protective—a warning. This is you growling before you bite, but it won’t be long before you sink your teeth into something and tear. Scar.
Robby refuses to let you burn a bridge just because you’re angry at your stepmom, so he switches tactics: give you time with your father, remove the uncontrolled variable.
Taking a deep breath and knowing damn well he’s overstepping, Robby makes his way a little closer to Pam and suggests, “let’s give them some privacy, yeah?”
Her face goes from pitiful to pinched in a blur of motion, is definitely offended that he would even try, but then she looks over at Jonathan who nods and encourages, “just for now. It’ll be okay.”
Huffy and defeated, Pam shuffles out of the room, Robby trailing behind and shutting the door.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he tries, though he isn’t surprised to be cut off.
“You’ve got some nerve actin’ like you run the show here,” she jabs a finger in his chest, and Robby winces in his throat, shoving his own hands in his pockets as she continues.
“You think you can just show up here and start callin’ the shots because—‘cause you’re some big shot doctor? ‘Cause you dated my daughter for a second and a half?” (four years, actually, but who’s counting.) “You do not get a say in this, Robby. You are not part of this family. Jonathan may not know the whole story, but I do. I know what you did.”
His entire world stutters for a moment, mind reeling with what she just told him. She knows what he did, but Jonathan doesn’t? Why wouldn’t you…
There’s a lot to unpack there, but he’ll save it for later.
For now, Robby makes sure Pam can see his eyes, his sincerity when he tells her, “I am not denying any of that. I fucked up back then, and I regret it every god damn day of my life, okay? I’m not trying to run any shows or call any shots. I’m only here to help where I can.”
Pam pushes up to her tiptoes, and Robby braces himself for her next line, the one he’s been so afraid of hearing from you: “we don’t want your help.”
“I do.”
Robby hadn’t even heard the door open, but here you are, puffy-eyes, clogged nose, still ready to swing.
“I need him here,” you reiterate, and now Robby thinks that he might start crying. Need. You need him. “If you don’t like that, then you can fucking leave.”
Pam looks shocked for a moment, mouth opening to argue, but apparently you’re done humoring her, instead looking at Robby and asking, “can I stay with you tonight?”
And, if Pam was shocked, Robby is fucking flabbergasted.
“You want to—?” He blinks, trying to bring your face back into focus by shaking his head and, “yeah, yeah, of course.” Only then does he spot the backpack thrown over your shoulder. “Are you ready now?”
You nod, glance back at Pam and grit out, “listen to dad. Listen to what he wants. This isn’t our choice.”
Your stepmom doesn’t respond other than the fresh tears that spring up in her eyes, obviously not enough to move you because you take hold of Robby’s sleeve, your gentle tug a clear sign to get you the fuck out of here.
“Alright, come on.”
He slides his hand out of his pocket, and you grab onto it like a lifeline, like it’s the only thing keeping you from drowning.
You feel like you should be nervous, like your hands should be shaking or your stomach should be in knots. You shouldn’t be so calm walking next to Robby through the familiar park and down a few blocks as he carries your backpack on one shoulder, his own on the other, doing everything he fucking can not to ask questions.
The tension is rolling off of him in waves. You can feel it crashing into you as he white-knuckles the strap of your bag, his other hand flexing at his side. He doesn’t touch you except for when a car passes and he gently manhandles you to the inside of the sidewalk, a habit that used to give you butterflies and likely still would if you could feel anything other than outrage.
“Give me some time to cool off, and we can talk about it,” you promise as Robby fishes his keys from the side pocket of his backpack, jamming one into the lock while glancing over at you.
“We don’t have to talk about anything,” he says, pushing the door open and ushering you inside, “unless you want to.”
“I don’t know what I want,” you tell him honestly, mostly because you are incapable of being anything else at this point. You’re tired of biting back emotions, swallowing everything you want to say but can’t, be it about your father, your stepmom, or the man waiting as you toe your shoes off at the door.
It’s surreal being in this house again. You only lived in it for three years, but in those three years it had been your home. Your sanctuary. Your safe place.
And then, suddenly, it was gone. You were gone.
Robby stays silent as you walk through the entryway, hands hidden in your (his) hoodie pocket, jaw clenched as you make your way to the living room and stand behind the plush rocking chair that you used to nest in whenever you were here.
It’s the only piece of furniture that hasn’t been replaced.
The cozy couch Robby had bought for his first apartment is nowhere to be seen, a dark sectional now in its place. A matching chair and ottoman takes up space where a loveseat used to be—the one you used to curl up on, plastered to Robby’s side as he read a book or some medical journal.
He must see some form of displeasure on your face because he’s quick to inform you, “I had to get rid of the couch, but the loveseat is in the guest room.”
You feel your mouth twitch into a tense smile, comforted by the fact that it’s still in the house but annoyed that you care so much.
Just to torture yourself a little more, you ask, “why’d you keep the rocking chair?”
Robby doesn’t answer right away, and that hesitation is what finally makes you start to tremble, all the ire and grief and confusion coming to the surface until it begins to overwhelm you, and you’re posing, “why didn’t you get rid of it?” through chattering teeth.
Robby’s got his arms crossed over his chest until he raises one to run a hand down his face. Without any lights on save for the one in the entryway, he’s all shadows. All you can really see is his tall silhouette, broad set of his shoulders, and the glint of his eyes.
“I didn’t have a reason to,” he tries only to sigh and admit, “I didn’t want to.”
You snort, simultaneously bitter and amused, “you hate that chair. Always said it made too much noise.”
“It does,” he insists a little louder than you were anticipating—not yelling, not even raising his voice, just not as soft as before. Except then it drops, nearly inaudible, “had no fucking idea how much I actually liked the noise.” Until it was gone, he doesn’t have to say.
Since you’ve been in town, the two of you have done a damn good job of avoiding the subject of your relationship and how it ended. Even with his involvement at the hospital, even with the high-running emotions, through the sobbing and the shoving and the hugging and hand-holding. Neither of you have actually addressed anything.
You’re either the most mature, well-adjusted adults on earth or the most unstable and repressed. Knowing yourself and Robby, you’re pretty confident that you both fall into the second category.
“Could’ve been listening to that creaky fucking chair for the last seven years, you know,” you murmur.
You can hear him swallow beside you, close enough to feel his presence but too far to actually touch.
“I know,” Robby exhales, steps an inch closer. “You’re shaking.”
“Yeah, I’m aware.”
How could you not be? It’s sending fucking tremors through every word you speak.
“Are you cold?”
You want to scoff, squint at him, call him a fucking idiot, but you don’t. All you do is breathe, “no, Robby. I’m not cold.”
A beat passes.
“Nervous?”
And, another beat.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you—do you need a hug, or…?”
“I don’t know.”
Robby locks his fingers behind his neck as he rocks on his heels. You know he wants to solve the problem, but it’s kind of fucking impossible to when the root is unknown. Must be driving him insane, you think.
“Food, maybe?” he pushes one more time.
“I don’t know.” Unable and unwilling to hide your frustration, and it’s not that you want to take it out on him, except you kinda, sorta do.
You want explanations and apologies, you want closure, you want a distraction, you want to go back seven years when you were still with him, before the betrayal, before the heartbreak, before the pandemic. You want to go back to the world that was warm and bright, the one where you were happy and hopeful and in love and where your dad wasn’t fucking dying.
That world doesn’t exist anymore, though, and the only thing left of it is the fallout—a father who’s wasting away, shards of a once perfect relationship, and two broken people staring at each other in a dark room.
It’s on the tip of your tongue. The question that’s been plaguing you for the better part of a decade: why’d you do it? You even open your mouth to ask.
But, all that comes out is a sigh, so deep and heavy that your chest caves in with it. You’re exhausted, you’re upset, and the only thing you really want is for Robby to be kissing you, but that isn’t going to help matters, so, “can I shower?”
“Sure,” he nods. You can see the deep set of his brow—god, he’s so worried, it hurts you. “Yeah, let me—”
“I still remember where everything is,” you tell him, “unless you’ve moved it all around.”
“No, it’s all in place—the same, I mean, same place—fuck,” Robby rubs his temples, annoyed at his inability to speak clearly, which is, admittedly, a little fun to watch. “Nothing has moved. It is all in the same place,” he finally gets it out, over enunciating each word.
You hum. “Boxers?” and when he looks at you in confusion or shock or both, you explain, “clothes in my backpack are dirty,” before his brain can glitch again.
“Oh—yeah, I’ll grab you a pair.”
Dark blue and soft when he sets them on the bathroom counter a couple minutes later along with an old Saints t-shirt that you’ve probably worn more than he has. Hell, it might not even fit him anymore.
You mutter your, “thanks,” not all that surprised when he doesn’t move from the doorway, holding the frame and leaning forward just a bit. He’s restless, nervous, obviously has no idea what to do or, more accurately, what you want him to do.
With the bathroom lights on, you’re able to take him in better, even brighter in here than it is in the ICU. He’s huge and handsome, staring at you with the biggest, saddest brown eyes. Fatigue is written all over his face, shadowed and hollow, hair sticking up haphazardly and—
You step toward him, lifting a hand to his chin and thumbing over the little patch of white. “Still so weird to me.”
Robby huffs, his wobbly smile falling when you scrape through the hair along his jaw, up his cheek, until you’re cupping his face in your small hand. His eyes flutter shut, and his lips part as he leans into the touch, rubs against it the way a cat might, then turns his head to kiss the heel of your palm.
Only when he’s pulled away does he look at you again, rosy at the cheekbones, eyes a little lighter. “Stay in as long as you want. I’m gonna figure out what we can eat.”
Your empty hand itches.
“Don’t worry about it,” you shrug, “you should be getting ready for bed anyway.”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be doing a whole lot of sleeping tonight.” It’s not an innuendo, just a statement.
You’re stressed. He’s stressed. You’re here with him for the first time in seven years, and you know you aren’t the only one feeling emotional over that fact. Add in all the other bullshit that’s taking place, and yeah, no, sleeping does not seem very attainable.
“I’ll be out front if you need anything.”
Robby leaves, shutting the door behind him and leaving you alone with your reflection in the mirror. It’s a strange feeling—not recognizing yourself but recognizing everything around you, from the geometric tile, the off-white walls, to the shampoo and body wash brands sitting on the shelf.
The master bathroom is nicer, bigger and with a garden tub, but you’re not about to beg Robby to use it. And, who knows? Maybe he got rid of the tub, replaced it with some claw-foot monstrosity or expanded the shower. Maybe the back of the house has been entirely renovated, bedroom unrecognizable.
You're barely conscious for the shower, going through the motions without a single thought. Soap, scrub, rinse, stand under the water for too long. At some point the door opens and closes, but either the spray is too loud or you’re too out of it to notice. Whatever the case, you know that Robby had to have come back inside, proof being the tub of your favorite moisturizer sitting on top of a fresh-from-the-dryer towel.
You should probably be upset at him for thinking he has any right to sneak in, but there's no room left inside of you for that, too full of memories, and longing, and reprieve.
Robby knows you too well, knows how to take care of you, what you need and when you need it. He is comfort, he is a respite from the elements, a calming balm for your soul, and you miss him so much, and you hate him so much, and you can't stand it. This feeling in your ribcage, the ache in your throat, the burning in your eyes. Robby's taking up so much space inside of you when you should only be concerned with your father, but you don't want to lose it. You don't want Robby to leave you just for grief to take his place.
Clad in the football shirt, soft boxers rolled up at the waist, and a pair of thick socks you hadn't noticed before, you pad out of the bathroom feeling both cleaner and foggier than before, nothing but eucalyptus scented steam where your brain used to be. Robby's in the kitchen making some kind of stir-fry, which really just means he went through his fridge and/or freezer and picked out whatever might go well with rice.
The familiarity of it makes you smile, makes you walk over to him, makes you hug him from behind and rest your head between his shoulder blades. Robby doesn't flinch or stiffen, just raises his free hand to cover both of yours where they're locked over his belly, giving a gentle squeeze as if this is normal, as if this is what you've been doing for as long as you haven't been.
"It'll be ready in a few minutes," he says, moving like liquid when you slide around to his side, lifting his arm then wrapping it around you in one fluid motion. Natural.
"You still anti-salt?" he questions. You can hear the teasing lilt even through the gruffness of his voice.
"I'm not anti-salt. I'm anti-too-much-salt," you correct. "A little goes a long way." Robby hums like he doesn't believe you but leaves it at that, keeps stirring until he's able to fill two bowls, one sprinkled with salt, one without.
In the living room, he takes a seat on the couch as you curl up in the rocking chair, jumping when Robby drops the TV remote he'd only just picked up. You meet his wide-eyed stare, notice how wet it is, and then he's setting his bowl down and leaning forward over his spread legs.
"Fuck," like a hiss as his fingers curl around the back of his skull, palms against his temples, and it almost looks like he's trying to keep his head from splitting with the way his hands are shaking.
"Rob—" you try, but he stands up quickly, utters a short, 'one second' then disappears down the hallway.
The squeak of the rocking chair is deafening in the otherwise silent house, and it occurs to you that the noise is probably what startled him in the first place, a steady creak that's soothing as it is unsettling.
You sit for a minute or two at most, eat a couple bites of food before placing your own bowl on the coffee table and getting up. You know you should give Robby time to deal with whatever it is he's feeling, wait for him to come back out when he's ready, but the last thing you want right now is to sit alone in the house, and you think that Robby probably doesn't want that either but doesn't know how to say it—doesn't know he's allowed to.
So, you walk down the hall, past the bathroom, past the laundry room, pausing at the last door that's open just enough for you to catch a glimpse of Robby sitting on the edge of the bed. His hands are clasped together, head low and bobbing as he stretches his neck and rolls his shoulders.
When you toe the door open further, you see his whole upper body lift and shudder with a deep breath. He watches you move toward him, has to look up when you stop in front of him. His nose is red, his gaze dewy and bloodshot.
You aren't sure what has him so out of sorts, if seeing you and your pain reminds him of his own loss, or if your being here is just too much. All you know is that it hurts.
Everything hurts. Everything aches. Desperately.
You step forward to card your fingers through Robby's hair, watch his jaw drop open in something like ecstasy, but there are tears glistening in the corners of his eyes, and he's mouthing, "I'm sorry," like a confession, a prayer.
"I never—" he swallows like it'll clear his throat, but he's still speaking in glass and gravel when he says, "I still haven't told you how fucking sorry I am."
Something cold slithers along your insides, coiling in your gut and reminding you of the nauseating weight you used to live with every day because of him.
You don't have a response, don't have much of anything, just the softness of his hair under your hand.
Robby must take your silence as a challenge, a punishment, an invitation for him to grovel which he does willingly, "there is—I have no excuse. It just made sense in my head at the time, and I never meant—"
"Yes, you did," you finally find your voice, and Robby releases a tiny whimper when you let your hand fall away from him. "You absolutely meant to hurt me."
"No, I didn't—I mean, I did, but not…"
The ice in your stomach flash boils, bubbles all the way up your thoracic cavity, your trachea and esophagus until you're spitting fire, "oh, fuck off," the force of it making you stagger backward. "You didn't want me around anymore—I know. I wasn't sure then, but you'd been pushing me away for fucking months. I was just too—too fucking stupid and too—a-and you knew I wouldn't leave on my own. The only way to get rid of me was to cheat, so you did."
Robby looks like he's about to be sick, too pale and breathing too fast, and god, you've thought about this conversation for so long. How it might go, how it might feel, how it might end. You'd accounted for the tears that are rolling down your face, accounted for the blistering anger and full-body trembles.
What you had not accounted for is the oppressive, undeniable need for Robby to hold you through it. It's disgusting. It's pathetic. It's everything you're not.
Because you are strong for your family and selfless with your friends. You made it through med school, through your doctorate, are so fucking close to being done with residency. You are a fucking scientist.
You are all of these things and more.
And…
You are Robby's.
Always have been.
"I was so in love with you, Robby, I—" you choke on a sob, "Jesus, I was so fucking in love with you—how could you?"
"I didn't want you to see me like that!" he shouts, not mean, just loud. "I was fucking spiraling. It was getting so fucking bad, and I couldn't have you seeing—"
"You being a human? I knew it was getting bad. I saw it—I remember Brian Monroe—" he flinches at the name, but you don't stop, "I listened to you talk about that kid every fucking day, and I—I watched you lose f-faith in the system, in yourself—but, I don't… what—why did you lose faith in me?"
It's a miracle that he can understand you given how small and choppy your voice is, thick hiccups and aborted words strung together in some semblance statement and question.
Robby gets to his feet and reaches for you, his expression broken and crumbling further when you back away, "don't fucking touch me."
He looks like he’s a second away from falling at your feet, his face wet and splotchy, pinched like he's in physical pain, and maybe he is. Maybe he's feeling the same blade in his chest that you feel in yours.
"I know it doesn't make sense, okay? I fucking know, but I swear I was trying to protect you—
Your laugh is a sharp rasp that triggers your gag reflex. You’ve been trying to figure it out for years—why he would do what he did—but a small part of you knew. On some level you knew he was trying to save you. You just didn’t know what. Leave it up to Michael fucking Robinavitch to twist infidelity into something noble.
It doesn’t make it okay. If anything, it makes it all worse.
"What could you have possibly been protecting me from?" What could have been so bad and so dangerous that he would rather break your heart, betray you, than let you face it?
"Me—fuck, I was trying to protect you from me!"
There's a growing fury in his eyes now, and something about it is satisfying, causes goosebumps to raise on your arms and legs.
Make it sting. Make it bleed. Hurt me.
“You were so fucking green and hopeful, and I—” Robby scrubs both hands down his face, nails and all. “I was seeing the worst of everything. The system and—and the hospital and fucking humanity, and I was angry—I was so fucking angry. I know you were there, but you have no idea. I was having trouble sleeping 'cause I would just lay awake at night thinking about how fucked up it all was, and you would lay awake with me," he emphasizes the last part as if it was the main issue, which, apparently, it was.
"You were studying and researching and learning to practice fucking medicine, and I was falling apart. I could see it—I could see how fucking hard you were trying to hold me together, and I didn't want to be the reason you failed or—or fucking gave up. I wasn't gonna be this dark cloud hanging over your fucking head everywhere you went."
Didn't want to be a dark cloud, so he became a fucking hurricane instead. He's so—
"Why couldn't you have just said that?" you throw both your arms out. "Why'd you have to—God, Robby, you are such a fucking asshole!"
"I know! I know, and I'm sorry."
He's still yelling—both of you are—but it's less about frustration, more about understanding and willing the other to do the same.
You wipe your eyes, trying to steady your breathing, counting in your head then starting over when your body jolts with another sob.
"That hurt… more than anything—" you cover your mouth to force a silent cry back down your throat, "I didn't think I'd e-ever fucking recover." You never really did. "Why did—do you at least regret it?"
Robby frowns, taken aback, like it's the last question he was prepared for you to ask. Then, he nods, "every day. I regret it every single day."
"Why?"
Again, Robby blinks, confused, starts to answer only for you to cut him off when your current train of thought is derailed by, "did I know her?"
"Jesus fucki—no." Zero hesitation this time. "I didn't even know her."
Does that make it better or worse, you wonder.
The curiosity and the irritation driving it has you feeling a little more clearheaded as you pry further, "did you pick her up at a bar, or…?"
Robby scoffs, turns his hands up, at a loss. "You want the details?" He sounds exasperated, and you shrug, raising an expectant eyebrow until he sighs, "alright, fine," and confesses, "yeah, I met her at a bar. We went back to her place, fuck knows where, and… and the only thing I truly remember is that at some point I realized her hair kinda looked like yours—"
Fresh tears scorch the backs of your eyes.
"—I didn't even make it to the bathroom before I threw up."
The laugh you let out is entirely involuntary, a single, huffed out syllable brought on by hysteria. "You threw up," you repeat just to make sure you heard him correctly. "You went home with a woman. In an attempt to protect me. And, then you threw up while fucking her."
Robby scratches the back of his neck, face scrunched up in a cringe, "yeah, that's… that's pretty much the gist of it. For the record, I tried to clean it up—"
"As any gentleman would," you roll your eyes.
He snorts, "but she just wanted me to get out. Threw my clothes at me and shoved me out the front door. Literally."
"Can't really blame her."
“No,” he shakes his head once, “and, even if I could, I wouldn’t.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. There are so many emotions warring within you—rage, disappointment, sorrow, relief. Mostly you’re just tired. Again. As always.
Robby must be able to sense it because he offers, “I can go back to the hospital if you want to be here alone.”
And, you consider it. Not because you do want to be alone but because he deserves to be a little fucking inconvenienced.
Then, you remember the warm towel and the moisturizer, the fact that he brought you home with him without question. You remember that he’s been by your side since you came back to Pittsburgh, checking in, bringing food, trying to make it so that you have one less thing to worry about.
“God dammit,” you mutter, sigh, rub your eyes and ask, “why are you the way that you are…” more to yourself than to him.
“I don’t know,” Robby chuckles in a self-deprecating manner, “but I promise I’m working on it.”
“I sure fuckin’ hope so.”
You turn and nod toward the door, “c’mon, we need to eat,” not waiting for him as you step out into the hallway.
There is no closure, and there is no forgiveness, but there is an explanation and a reluctant sort of understanding.
More importantly, there is cold stir-fry and a cozy rocking chair that’s calling your name.
•
With the day off, Robby tidies what he can while keeping as quiet as possible. He catches up on some emails, flicks through the latest edition of a journal that was recently mailed to him, but it’s impossible to focus with you sleeping, still in the rocking chair and curled around a plush pillow.
He should move you, rouse you just enough to get you to the bedroom or, at the very least, the couch. You’re going to be full of aches and pains, but how the fuck is Robby supposed to wake you when your face is so open and relaxed? When the golden light shining through the window is casting a halo on the top of your head?
Free of all the stress, able to breathe easily under the blanket Robby had covered you with sometime around one in the morning—you need the rest. You deserve it.
So, Robby pads around his house in socks, sets his coffee mug down on the table pinky-first to dampen the impact and keep it from clinking, anything he can do to stay silent.
The front door opening and closing is what ends up waking you, not when Robby leaves to pick up breakfast, but when he gets back with a paper bag of kolaches.
“What—shit, what time is it?” you mumble, wiping your face and blinking at Robby with bleary eyes.
“Quarter past ten,” he answers, and when confusion takes over, he tells you, “I’m off today.”
You nod, “convenient,” sit up and stretch, and the way all your joints pop makes both of you cringe. “Please tell me those are what I think they are,” you say, motioning weakly to the bag in his hand.
“Depends. Do you think they’re kolaches from Denny’s Donuts?”
“That’s exactly what I think they are,” you smile lazily.
Robby matches your sideways grin, only his has less to do with breakfast and everything to do with the heart stopping fondness he feels as he stares at you—hair out of place, imprints on your cheek from where you were resting against the pillow, swimming in his hoodie and missing a sock.
Fuck, he loves you so much. So fucking much.
Then, Robby thinks about the conversation from last night and his smile falters. There’s no way that was the end of it.
“Come on,” he steps over and extends a hand to help you out of the chair. “I even have some of your Texas Pecan coffee.”
Something funny and familiar flickers over your face, an affection similar to the one Robby’s currently feeling, and it gives way for hope to bloom in his chest even as you shake your head.
“Bet you don’t have my amaretto creamer, though,” you challenge.
Robby just smirks, “ye of little faith.”
“No fucking way.”
Shrugging, he lets go of your hand and turns to make his way to the kitchen where he sets the kolaches down and opens his fridge to procure what is, in fact, your favorite coffee creamer.
“Don’t tell me I was actually able to convert you.”
Robby levels an unimpressed look at you, “absolutely fucking not,” then starts peeling the plastic off the lid to prove, “this is a brand new bottle.”
You hum, face going soft again, and Robby considers it one more triumph. You always did appreciate the little things.
As the two of you wait for the coffee to brew, you hop up on the counter top as if you still live here, as if you still belong here (you do), and Robby leans against the cabinets beside you.
“What time did you want to head back to the hospital?” he asks because it’s pretty safe to assume that you do.
You exhale through pursed lips, “I guess after breakfast… and another shower. I feel like I sweat a lot last night.”
“You may have been getting a fever,” Robby suggests. “Stress will do that.”
Even without looking at you, he knows you’re rolling your eyes, just like he knows you’re about to swing your leg to the side to lightly kick him—yeah, there it is, right on schedule.
It’s all so familiar to him, and he’s been missing it, missing you, since you walked out of this house those years ago.
Robby reflects on all the rights and wrongs of the past, the bad days he took out on you and the trauma that eventually got the best of him (still a risk now), and it reminds him…
“Why didn’t you tell your dad that I cheated on you?”
He feels you stiffen, your breath stuttering as you grumble, “fucking Pam,” and then you lean back until your head hits the cupboards behind you.
It takes you a while to answer, but Robby thinks he might already know what you’re going to say.
Actually hearing you say it is still a little fucking devastating, though.
“I didn’t want him to hate you.”
Robby’s gut clenches along with his jaw as he fights back waves of emotion—guilt, regret, unfathomable longing.
“If I told him, he’d never forgive you, and I…” you swallow before continuing in a much smaller voice, “I was still holding out hope, I guess.”
“Hope for what?”
Your laugh is bitter, more of a hiss you blow through your teeth. “I dunno, Robby—that you’d eventually call and, like, beg me to take you back or something? Chase after my plane or show up on my doorstep. All the stupid rom-com tropes.”
“Believe me, I considered it,” he easily admits, running a shaky hand through his oily hair. You’re not the only one who needs a shower. “I thought about it all the time,” and then, because at this point there’s no way you haven’t figured it out, he corrects himself, “I think about it all the time.”
He watches you from the corner of his eye, relieved that you don’t tense up again, but the way you’re fidgeting with your fingers is enough for him to know that your mind is spinning.
Maybe he shouldn’t have dropped this on you within ten minutes of you waking up.
“Why didn’t you ever follow through?”
“Are you joking?” He twists to look at you fully. “I cheated on you. You should’ve hated me. You were supposed to be burning all my shit and buying fucking voodoo dolls.”
“Uh, sorry, I was too busy grieving and wondering what the fuck I did wrong to make you do it in the first place.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong!”
“Yeah, I know that now. I kinda knew it back then, too, but—Jesus, Robby, I was so fucked up over you. I knew you were struggling, but I never would’ve thought you’d—that you’d do something like that. I… I mean, I thought I was gonna marry you.”
His stomach rolls, and his eyes start to burn, and suddenly he’s walking out of the kitchen and to his room. He hears your distant, “what the fuck?” but ignores it in favor of rummaging through a shoebox in his closet until he finds what he’s looking for.
Heart pounding, Robby returns to you, still sitting on the counter, only now you don’t look nearly as sad as when he disappeared, just annoyed. And, maybe a little bewildered.
It all vanishes when he sets a small, white box right on your leg. You don’t immediately pick it up, but Robby waits it out (hoping he doesn’t go into cardiac arrest in the meantime), and after what feels like an eternity and a half, you crack the box open with trembling fingers.
Then, you just stare.
The ring is elegant, a gold band with three diamonds. Robby remembers the seller describing the cut as vintage which he whole-heartedly agrees with considering how much it resembles his grandmother’s ring which had, unfortunately, been lost in a fire.
“I bought that eight years ago,” he tells you, voice far too croaky for his liking. Still, he pushes on, “I had every fucking intention of marrying you. I just—even before I fucked up I knew you deserved better.”
Robby flinches when you snap the box shut, clenching it tightly in your unsteady hands.
“It is too fuckin’ early for this,” you grumble, and Robby has to chuckle because the reality is that it’s too late. He missed his chance.
“Sorry.”
You slide off the counter and set the box in your place.
“You are the most infuriating person I have ever known,” you say, not even bothering to look at him.
“Yeah, I’ve been told that before.” By you, as it happens. “Never grew out of it.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Obviously,” then, “I’m getting in the shower.”
He doesn’t try to follow you, just picks up the ring box, a physical symbol of everything that could have been.
•
The walk to the hospital is silent. In fact, you haven’t uttered a word since getting out of the shower, which might have something to do with how puffy your eyes are.
You split paths once in the EC, and though it pains him, Robby is thankful for your honesty when you tell him, “just give me some space.”
So, he does, lets you go up to the MICU alone while he saunters over to central where Dana is already eyeing him from over her glasses.
“What’d you do this time?”
Robby scoffs, offended despite her being correct.
“Picked up breakfast and made her, her favorite coffee,” he answers innocently, gripping the counter as he leans back then letting go as he rocks forward. “And, showed her the engagement ring I got for her before we broke up.”
Dana stares at him dumbfounded before her eyebrows knit together and she glares. It’s uncharacteristic—at least when it’s directed at him—and Robby thinks this must be what dogs feel like when they get smacked on the nose with a newspaper.
“I know you can be a jackass, but that might be the cruelest thing you’ve ever done.” Her tone is scathing. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I was trying to prove a point,” he snaps defensively.
Dana drops her tablet onto the counter and snatches her glasses off her face. “And, what point might that be?”
He sucks his teeth, can’t help the way he turns at the sound of sirens, but he can feel Dana’s eyes boring into him, demanding his attention.
Robby squeezes the back of his neck, drops his head for a moment then answers, “she told me she had thought…fuck—she wanted to get married. Back then. I wanted her to know that I did too.”
“Jesus Christ, Robby.”
“What?”
“Why don’t you just dangle a fuckin’ carrot in front of her?”
He wants to argue, wants to tell Dana that it shouldn’t matter that he showed you the ring because it’s not as if you still want it.
Except…
Having you back in Pittsburgh hasn’t exactly been easy on either of you. You’ve told him to fuck off on more than one occasion, but you’ve also been relieved to see him just as often. You breathe deeper when he’s next to you, like you’re somehow steadier with him around. You still reach for his hand, still lean against him, rest your head on his shoulder. You still tell him what’s on your mind.
You still trust him.
Which, to be honest, is kind of fucking irresponsible on your part. After what he put you through, you really shouldn’t want to have anything to do with him.
Yet, here you are letting him hold you, letting him support you, letting him love you, so Robby can’t help but think that maybe you do still want it. Him.
Maybe he still has a chance.
Just probably not right now when your dad is dying.
“I’m not trying to dangle a carrot,” Robby sighs. “I’m… I don’t know what I’m trying to do.”
“No shit.”
“I don’t know what she’s trying to do either.”
Dana looks up at the ceiling, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “lord, give me the strength,” before looking back at him, “she’s goin’ through something awful. The only thing that girl’s trying to do is hold it all together, and you flaunting everything she missed out on is not helping her.”
“I’m not flaunting anything, I’m—”
The buzzing in his pocket stops Robby mid-justification, and alarm bells start going off in his head when he sees an incoming call from you.
He doesn’t even say goodbye to Dana, just presses the green circle on screen and starts walking toward the elevators.
“Hey, what’s—”
“Can you come up here? I need you up here,” you say in a rush, and Robby can hear how thick your voice is through the speaker.
“I’m getting on the elevators right now. Is your dad okay?”
It’s stupid to ask, not because he doesn’t want to know but because he’s going to lose service as soon as he steps into the car.
“No, he’s—”
Robby’s heart drops just in time for the call to drop, and the ride up is possibly the longest he’s ever experienced. So long that he gets off the elevator the second time it stops at a different floor. The stairs will be faster.
He’s winded by the time he’s swiping his badge and shouldering through the doors to the MICU, too impatient to wait for them to open on their own. Jogging through the unit, Robby ignores all the nurses who look his way as he all but flings himself into your father’s room.
You’re bracing yourself with one hand on the bed while you hold your other in front of Jonathan’s face, moving a finger from side to side, and Robby would laugh at the sight of you performing a neuro exam, but there is absolutely nothing funny about your dad’s inability to follow your movements.
“What about—okay, okay, touch your nose then my finger, can you do that?” you ask, and it sounds like you’re begging.
It takes too long for Jonathan to respond, and when he does, it’s with, “I don’t know.”
“Can you try? Come on, dad.”
‘Try’ being the key word here because while Jonathan does make several attempts, he only succeeds on one, and, if Robby’s being honest, he thinks that was probably just a happy coincidence.
Stepping up behind you, Robby urges you out of the way before pulling out his pen light, warning the older man, “bright light coming in,” then checking his pupils. Normal size, reactive, but, “a little sluggish,” he tells you, then asks, “Jonathan, you know where you are right now?”
Again, your dad hesitates, thinking harder than he should have to, until answering, “Pittsburgh medical center.”
“Good. Now, can you tell me what year it is?”
Robby waits patiently—“2019…”—and cringes.
You don’t let Robby finish his line of questions, just barrage him with your own.
“Can you order tests? MRI, EEG, chem panel,” you list.
Robby has to stop you with his hands on your shoulders, “hey, slow down.”
“Please.” Your fingers curl in the material of his shirt as you gaze up at him with dewy eyes. “Please, do something.”
“I can’t order anything myself,” he reminds you, “but I’ll get the nurse to page oncology, okay?”
You nod with a sniffle, and Robby breaks away from you to step out and talk to the nurse just outside the door.
He feels sick, dread pooling low in his stomach because he’s pretty sure he knows what’s causing these new symptoms in your father.
And, he’s pretty sure you know too.
•
The trouble with hospice is that you have to choose.
The cancer has, to nobody’s surprise and everyone’s devastation, spread further, and while your dad’s shiny, new brain tumor could be removed, it’s not like it’ll just stay gone.
You know that getting rid of all of it is not only unrealistic, it’s impossible. Still, deciding to throw your hands up in surrender is harder to do than you had previously thought. It’d be cruel to ask him to keep fighting. That was never the plan you envisioned when coming here.
Hearing him say it, though, hearing him tell his oncologist and his surgeon and his neurologist that he doesn’t want to keep getting carved up just so he can have a few more sure-to-be painful months with a family that’ll have to watch him waste away…
Suddenly, it’s much more real than before.
As always, though, you put on a brave face, tell him through the tears that you’ll support him no matter what, and then you’re asking Robby to get in touch with Kiara so that all of you can discuss hospice providers.
Your father has to remain in the hospital for a few more days just to make sure he doesn’t develop complications from his previous stomach surgery which works out because it gives you time to go to the house, direct the workers on where to set up the electric bed and go over the possible issues that could come up.
You’re given a pain management kit as well as mobility aids, and then you’re setting up your laptop so that you can video chat with a few different nurses until you find one you think your dad will hopefully be comfortable with. It’s all sort of a whirlwind, and though you manage to keep everyone updated, you feel like you’re being swept up yourself, thrown straight into the stratosphere without so much as an oxygen mask.
Pam, who is handling all of this remarkably well, is staying with your dad, and you want to as well–you really do–but after spending another night in the unforgiving chair you’d been sleeping in before, you’re not sure you or your back can handle it. (The pounding headache definitely is not helping.)
So, you end up back at Robby’s, which is heartbreaking in its own special way, but at least he has your favorite coffee and a huge bed that he’s insisting you take. Trying to, anyway.
“You’re six-one. There’s no way you’re fitting on that couch,” you argue, one hand on your hip as you motion toward him with the other.
“It’s a pretty big fuckin’ couch.”
As if to prove his point, Robby plops down on it, laying back and then quickly scooting up further in an attempt to hide the way his feet hang off the edge.
“Just let me take it,” you grumble, add, even quieter, “it’s that or we both sleep in the bed.”
There’s an edge to your voice, sad more than bitter, as you pad over to one of the bookshelves just to give yourself something to do other than look at him. God, he’s so easy to look at.
You’re not over the conversation–the confession–that took place in the kitchen a few days ago, still haven’t forgotten about the ring that’s somewhere in the house.
Thinking about it makes your stomach ache and your heart race. It brings up beautiful memories of the two of you and horrible memories of you curled up all alone. It makes you hate him and it makes you love him. It–
You squint at one of the shelves, eyes scanning a row of medical journals that have been separated from the others.
While it isn’t surprising that Robby’s keeping up to date with new research and innovations, it’s sort of unnecessary for him, an emergency medicine doctor, to collect journals specific to neuroscience.
You sigh, unshelving the nine editions and look over your shoulder to find him just a few paces behind you. “If I flip these open, am I gonna find my name in all of them?” You don’t know why you ask; you already know the answer.
“Why do you think I have them?” and, it sounds like he’s annoyed you’d even question it. “Why wouldn’t I want to keep up with your research?”
It’s on the tip of your tongue–’why would you?’– but you already know the answer to that, too, and it’s that he never stopped caring about you. Cruel as he was in the past, he didn’t… you don’t think he really meant…
Turning around to face him, you keep the journals clutched to your chest and pout, “you are–you are so bad for my brain, you know that?”
Robby chuckles, a little red in the cheeks as he nods like he understands. Like he knows how you feel.
And, that must trigger something in you because all of a sudden you’re letting everything out, what you’re thinking andwhat he’s doing to you: “you fuckin’–you save my dad’s life, and then you just insert yourself back into mine, and you–you bring me breakfast, and you piss me off and show me the ring you never fucking proposed with, and you have all these journals like you’re proud of me or something–”
“I am proud of you,” Robby cuts you off, and the look on his face has gone from uncertain to adoring, and oh, you’re crying again (you’re always fucking crying). Those are tears in your eyes, streaming down your cheeks, being wiped away by Robby’s thumbs.
“You can’t just do this,” you sniff, but you don’t back away. “You can’t fuck me up the way you did and, like, just expect everything to go back to how it was.”
Nodding, “I know,” Robby’s mouth ticks up on one side. It makes him look impossibly sad. “And, I know it wouldn’t be the same.”
For some reason, it hurts more to hear him say it than it does to think it yourself. Wouldn’t be, like it’s impossible. Not worth trying.
You shouldn’t want to try, though. You shouldn’t want him—
But, you do, oh god. You want him so fucking badly in every way imaginable. Even knowing that it wouldn’t be the same, even if it goes against your instinct of self-preservation, you want to try. You want him to try, want him to want to.
You grasp his wrists to pull his hands from your face, let out a heavy sigh and mumble, “I need some air,” before moving around him to get to the back door, dropping the journals on the table as you go, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the living room.
Since getting to Pittsburgh you’ve had to keep reminding yourself that this trip isn’t about him. Robby shouldn’t be taking up this kind of space in your head, your heart. It’s just…
How could he not?
You knew that seeing him wouldn’t be easy, but you hadn’t expected for it to be this fucking hard. You hadn’t expected to spend so much time with him.
Stupid on your part; Robby’s always had a knack for getting a little too involved with certain cases, and he has a pretty personal interest in your dad’s for obvious reasons.
But, you came here with the memory of him pushing you away. Somewhere along the course of your relationship, Robby came to the conclusion that you needed to be protected. Without asking you. Without talking to you. He decided you weren’t strong enough. He decided he couldn’t trust you enough to take care of him or yourself.
Yet, for whatever twisted fucking reason, you still seem to trust him—and Jesus, how damaged does that make you? How could you possibly have any amount of faith in him?
How could you still love him as much as you do?
This is the shit that’s been keeping you up at night. You are heartbroken over your father, terrified of the future, but it’s Robby who makes you feel so hopelessly lost, and it’s Robby who finds you—again and again—and you don’t understand why.
By the time you go back inside the sun has set, and there’s a note on the refrigerator.
Went out for a drink with Jack.
I left dinner in the microwave.
Call if you need anything.
Bear ᐢ. .ᐢ
You’re hit with a staggering sense of Deja vu, having read almost this exact note countless times before, from the messy handwriting to the cutesy signature. You can barely stand it, can barely breathe.
For a moment, you consider going back to the hospital to sleep there again, feel the subtle ache in your lower back and decide absolutely not. Then, you remember that your dad’s house is still an option, the room you used to stay in before you moved in with Robby.
The whole reason you’re over here, though, is so you won’t be alone. Robby may be gone for now, but you know he’ll eventually come back.
And, he does. Barely after ten you hear the front door open and close followed by him quietly moving around out front. You stay in the bedroom, wrapped in the plush duvet as you strain to listen for the opening and closing of the linen closet, and as soon as you hear it, you call out for him.
His pace quickens, taking longer strides like he’s panicked, then he’s peeking into the bedroom. “You okay?”
Eyebrows raised, voice like a warning, “I know you didn’t just grab sheets from the closet.”
“And, if I did?”
“Robby,” you whine, “I told you not—”
“You really want to sleep in the same bed—”
“Yes,” you cut him off firmly, unwavering as he stares at you with wide eyes. Apparently, he had not been prepared for that. “Look, if you’re straight up uncomfortable with it, I get it. I’m just saying I don’t mind.”
He swallows. “You sure?”
“Do I sound like I’m not?”
The corners of his mouth twitch upward, a little sparkle in his brown eyes. “No. Kinda sounds like you want it, if I’m being honest.”
It’s your turn to stare, jaw setting as heat pools low in your belly. You nearly respond, maybe I do, choose not to. Your silence is enough of an answer.
You do want him in bed with you. You want to be able to touch him, even if it’s just your finger brushing his hand, his foot nudging yours. Anything.
Maybe having him so close will help you understand your feelings for him, at least get some of them out of your system.
Or, maybe it’ll make it all worse.
It doesn’t really matter because after washing his face and changing into an old t-shirt and boxers— “is this okay?” Robby is laying down and pulling the covers up to his waist.
On your side to face him, you watch him put his glasses on, a slight blush painting his cheeks as he scrolls through his phone.
After a moment’s peace, you ask, “how’s Jack?”
Robby’s eyes flick over to you for a moment, “he’s doing pretty well. Still struggles with some shit, but he’s better than before.” Better than he was when you knew him.
“I’m glad. He’s a good guy.”
“One of the best,” Robby agrees, then, “don’t tell him I said that. He’d take it and run.”
Searching for something else to say, you hum, come up empty handed. You don’t know what you want to talk about, just that you don’t want to sit in silence.
You could ask more about Jack or how the fresh batch of students is, if Dana is still keeping everyone in line. Fuck, you could go back to when you didn’t know him and ask if he’s had any interesting cases lately.
There are options.
The problem is that you’re not actually interested in any of that. Not right now, anyway.
You’d much rather ask what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling, if all of this—seeing each other—has been as hard for him as it has been for you. You want to ask more about the ring, when he bought it, when he knew, and if given the chance now…
Instead, you turn over and snuggle deeper into the blankets. Robby turns off the bedside lamp, and that’s that. No more questions, no more answers, just the two of you laying in bed.
Wide awake.
You do everything you can to quiet your mind, go through every exercise you can—the full body scan, stretching your eyes up and down, side to side, counting all the way to 500.
No matter what, you can’t block out the sound of Robby’s breathing, steady but stilted, like he can’t quite fill his lungs all the way. Tension is radiating off of him, and you know he’s trying so hard not to fidget, but eventually his foot starts rocking and his teeth start grinding, and you cave.
Rolling back to face him, you shimmy closer, eyes shut, heart beating too hard as you press up against his side and scoot down enough to rest your head just under his collarbone.
You feel Robby’s chest rise with the deepest breath he’s taken in 20 minutes, and then he’s letting it out all at once and fitting his arm around you.
Little by little, his heartbeat slows under your palm, your own following suit. The drowsiness finally hits you, a bobbing in the back of your head, in and out, pulling you deeper, deeper—
“I miss you.”
Under different circumstances you might tell him to shut up, maybe ignore it completely.
But, you’re so tired. You’re so fucking tired. From everything, from fighting him. Fighting yourself.
So, you give up.
Shifting upward, you trail your hand from his chest to his face, tilt his head toward you then softly, slowly press your lips against his.
It’s short and timid, so unlike the last kisses you shared. Robby pulls back first but stays close enough that your noses bump, voice hardly more than a whisper, “you sure?”
The second time he’s asked. The second time you’ve told him, “I’m sure,” and meant it.
It’s the only confirmation he needs before claiming your mouth, more insistent than the first kiss but with some remaining hesitance until you run your fingers through his hair, press yourself a little closer, and then Robby is groaning low in his throat and reaching for your thigh. He doesn’t tug you on top of him, just hitches your leg over his own, hand at the back of your knee to stroke the sensitive skin there.
If he were to drift further up, he’d find you wearing only panties under his baggy shirt, and the thought has your body heating up, has you running your tongue over his lower lip.
Robby breaks away with huff, “fuck,” only to dip forward and nip. “Is this just a distraction for you?” and he’s got that scratch, every word like a serrated blade that drags across your skin in a way that makes you shiver.
You wonder what he’d do if you said yes. Would it hurt him? Would he leave?
It isn’t worth risking, though, especially since it isn’t true.
Shaking your head, you murmur, “not a distraction,” lips brushing over his, “promise.”
The noise he lets out is deep and desperate before he’s rolling you onto your back, caging you between his arms.
Both of your hands are on his face, holding it to yours, and fuck, fuck, this is Robby—it’s Robby—who held you, who hurt you, who’s always felt like coming home, even now.
He’s everywhere, overwhelming, and you ask just to hear it again, “you really missed me?”
“Every fuckin’ day. Before you even left.” His teeth clamp down on your bottom lip as he sucks on the soft flesh, and you keen, back arching, nails digging into the back of his neck.
“What do you want tonight?” he has the sense to ask. Your heart skips a beat. “What do you need from me? Tell me—”
Your eyes are burning, tears of longing, desire, furious and feverish as you bracket his waist with your thighs and urge him downward until his hips slot against yours.
“Words, baby,” Robby says through a strangled breath, “not going any further ‘til you tell me.”
He’s trying to be considerate, responsible, but it comes off as teasing and sexy, and you sound pathetic when you whimper, “you—I want you. All the fucking time. Please.”
It knocks the air out of him, lips parting in a ragged exhale, and then he’s grinding against you and asking again, “are you su—”
“Robby,” you tug on the longer hair on top of his head so that he can see your eyes—the shine of them—“I’m positive.” You ghost your lips over his again, “do you not… want to?”
His kiss is fierce, thick fingers gripping your chin as he licks into your mouth, and fuck, you can feel how hard he is, the long line of his cock pressing between your legs.
“Oh, I want to,” Robby smirks, letting go of your chin in favor of snaking his hand downward until he’s cupping your pussy, a finger pressed between your folds. You know he can feel how slick you are even through your panties, his smirk growing into a wide grin. “Still get so wet from just a little touching.”
“And, you still ea—ah” he slips under the material to slowly slide inside of you, digit by digit— “you still eat it up,” you moan.
Thrusting in and out, he mouths down your neck, muttering mostly to himself, “speaking of eating…”
Just as quickly as it had come, his finger disappears, and you whine at the loss. Robby starts trailing down your torso, shoving your shirt up and off then pausing and sitting back on his heels to stare down at you and swear.
A laugh bubbles out of you when he immediately goes for your tits, groping and squeezing and groaning as he lowers his mouth to suck on one nipple, the other, back and forth until they’re taut and sensitive. You try to buck against him, the throb between your legs enough to drive you insane, and when he pinches, you arch into it.
“Robby—”
“Sorry, baby. Couldn’t help it.”
That smugness disappears when he slides your panties off and settles between your legs. Without even looking at him, you can tell he’s taking you in. Gazing. Something he’s always done that never fails to make you incredibly hot.
Robby spreads you open with his thumbs, his low grown fucking predatory, then he’s licking from your hole to your clit, and you’re calling his name, gripping his hair, only getting louder when he wraps his arms around your legs to hold you still.
“Fuck, fuck, Robby…”
The scratch of his beard is delicious as he sucks your swelling clit into his mouth and hums in acknowledgement, the vibration causing you to writhe in his grasp, twitch in time with every flick of his tongue.
Maneuvering in an almost frantic way, Robby’s able to push a finger back inside you. Like muscle memory, he curls and rubs against the spot that makes you leak, makes you fucking dizzy.
“God, ohh, forgot how fucking good you are at this.”
You feel him laugh, eyes dark as he looks up from between your legs. “How dare you?” teasing your clit with a kiss. “Definitely won’t let that happen ever again.”
The words make your stomach lurch. Ever again. Like… like the two of you…
Any coherent thought floats away when a second finger joins his first, just as relentless as his tongue, and you know you’re making a mess, know you must be dripping into his hand.
You also know he loves it. The squelch and the spray, lapping it up and drinking it down until you’re panting, “okay, h’okay, need you, pleaseplease—”
Robby ignores you. Or, maybe just doesn’t hear you. Either way, he doesn’t let up, still sucking, still fucking, then glaring up at you when you bend and reach for his wrist.
“Cum on my tongue, and I’ll stop,” he grunts.
Fire licks up your spine at the sight of his blown pupils, his voice rough. Unwavering.
With no room for argument, you fall back to the mattress, quivering in his grip and feeling everything.
Fuck, that tongue. Those fingers. He’s always known exactly how to take you apart. He had ruined you, left you to compare every partner that came after, each one of them coming up short.
Robby. Shit, this is Robby. Between your legs, peering up at you, watching your jaw drop, holding so tight, and groaning along with you when you topple over the edge into a blissful abyss.
You vaguely hear him speaking, can barely make out the words, “there it is—so fucking pretty when I make you cum, look at you…”
He fucks you through it, slows down when you go limp, replaces his fingers with his tongue to soothe you while he slurps.
Strong hands massage your trembling thighs, urging you to relax and let them fall open further. He licks up your mess as if it’s a form of worship, so tender with the flat of his tongue.
No matter how good it may feel, though, you’re absolutely desperate for something more.
You reach for him again, and this time he lets you guide him back up, pulling his shirt off and tossing it somewhere behind him. You scratch gently down his chest, through the hair over his sternum, making him shiver when you trace his ribs and the spaces between.
Robby’s clumsy as he takes his boxers off, too busy kissing you, all teeth and tongue and dripping fucking beard.
“Do you—” he’s panting, “—condom?”
“Do you know me?” you snicker, “absolutely not.”
“Didn’t wanna assume,” he murmurs, his nose bumping yours.
“Such a gentleman.”
“I try—”
You cut him off when you shove his shoulder hard enough for him to lose his balance and fall to the side. You’re quick to climb on top of him, even quicker to crush your mouth against his.
Rolling your hips, you slide back and forth over his cock, shuddering as you remember the way it stretches you, salivating at the thought that you’re about to feel it again.
Robby holds you at the waist and aids with the motion. His lips are red and shiny with spit, his eyes hooded with desire.
“Ready?” you breathe.
He doesn’t answer verbally, just reaches between the two of you to line himself up.
Gazes locked, you start to ease down on him, a high pitched noise leaving your throat when his cockhead slips past your entrance, spreading the ring of muscle thin.
Inch by inch, you sink further down, a nonstop litany moans and curses tumbling from both of you until you’re fully seated. Your eyelids flutter. You’re nearly positive you’re drooling.
Robby isn’t any better off. Flushed from the chest up, eyes wide like he can’t believe this is happening, like he’s never felt anything like it, which you know isn’t true ‘cause it’s not like this is the first time you’ve—
“Fuuuck me,” he groans, “oh fu—god dammit, you’re so…”
You lift yourself, thighs quaking, then drop back down. Robby rasps, his fingernails digging into your skin, jackknifing forward as if punched.
He feels so fucking good, so thick, twitching inside of you, nudging your cervix in a way that’s just shy of painful.
Gyrating in an inelegant circle, you adjust to his size, Robby’s thumb rubbing circles on your clit, and with a reedy moan, you start a slow rhythm that very quickly becomes frenzied. Uncontrollable.
Wet skin slapping wet skin, heads thrown back, Robby releases a guttural, regretful noise, “wanted to fuck you nice and slow. Take my-hnn—take my time with you.”
“Later,” you pant.
The lopsided grin that spreads across his face is so charming, you can’t stand it, have to kiss it away before it wraps too tightly around your heart.
You yelp when he rolls you, hiking your leg up and changing the angle so that your eyes swivel into the back of your head.
“That feel good?” shameless and self-satisfied, and you can only nod helplessly. Robby ducks down, catches you in a filthy kiss and teases, “still know how to fuck you stupid, don’t I?”
Christ. For some reason you’re always surprised by how fucking dirty his mouth is.
You bite down on your lip, lighting up from the inside out and blinking back tears that Robby wipes away.
“Too much?”
“Nonono,” you shake your head fast enough to make you dizzy, “feels so good, so good, so—”
Grabbing your other leg, Robby pushes your knees toward your chest, your hips lifting from the mattress, and your voice breaks when you cry his name.
The ridge of his cock rubs against your g-spot with every thrust, milking slick and squirt from your sopping cunt. You clutch his shoulders, scratch whatever part of him you can reach, tug him down for a kiss and chant into it, “Rob-by, Rob-by, fuck, fuck…”
“Missed you. Missed this pussy, all of this, all of you,” he confesses in a rush. You suck in a deep breath, a confession of your own on the tip of your tongue, but he beats you to it: “love you—I love you I love you. So fucking much, never fucking stopped.”
Your lips part, eyes watering for reasons other than lust, and you want to say it back. It’s right there, so close, almost—
Your vision starbursts, everything inside you superheated, racing through you as your muscles seize and pulse. Spinning, breathless, body lost to sensation while your mind remains stuck on I love you. Never fucking stopped. I love you. I love you.
And, he’s kissing you again, swallowing everything you haven’t said yet, hips snapping mindlessly and losing every bit of grace they previously had. Robby throws his head back, his throat exposed for you to run fingers over his flexed tendons. His jaw slides forward, shoulders curling, shaking apart as he spills deep inside of you with a wrecked moan.
You’re so full of him, overflowing both literally and figuratively. Robby stares down at you, dazed and blinking slowly, then begins to pull out with a hiss. He flops down next to you, and you can’t fucking stand the distance. It doesn’t matter that his arm is still pressed against yours. Doesn’t matter that you can still feel his phantom grip and the ghost of his kiss. It’s not enough.
You plaster yourself to his side, uncaring of the sweat or the mess between your legs. The only thing you care about is your hand on Robby’s cheek, his brown eyes as soft as they are infinite.
“I never stopped either,” you say, hushed like a secret, then again, slightly louder. “I’m still…” voice cracking—“I still love you so much.”
Robby’s expression is one you’re not entirely familiar with. You’ve seen similar, but not…
This relief. This hope. This overwhelming adoration.
It breaks your heart in the best way, the organ stuttering in its rhythm, stomach flipping, chest heaving with a deep breath.
“How?” he whispers, covering your hand with his.
You swallow, sniffle, “I don’t know. You’re just… you’re you. I’ve always loved you,” you shrug. “It’s like I can’t help it.”
Robby sighs and rests his forehead against yours. “It’s so fucking selfish, but I hope you don’t stop. Don’t go looking for help.” Then, kissing your hairline with a thoughtful hum, “I know we have a lot to talk about, and I know this is a hard time for you, so I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I want—fuck, I want you. I want it all back—
“Robby…”
“—I don’t deserve it, and it won’t be the same, I know, but I just—I want to be here for you. At the very least, I want to be here.”
“I want you here,” you tell him, a little confused because, “I’ve been leaning on you since, like… basically since I stepped off the plane. I need you here. With me.”
You feel his breath against your forehead, his mouth curving into a small smile. “Terrible choice, actually.”
“God, I know. I can’t believe I’m still so hung up on you.”
Robby tilts his face down to press his lips to yours, sweet and tender and amused. “I can’t believe I’m this fucking lucky.”
He can’t see the way you roll your eyes, but you think he probably knows you do, grin widening until you’re kissing his teeth more than anything else.
There are so many discussions to have, so many decisions to make, so many problems to overcome—past, present, and future.
But, right now, with your legs woven together and Robby’s warm hand on the back of your neck, you can’t be bothered by any of it.
It feels good. It feels right, like you’ve found a missing piece of your puzzle, lost a long time ago, still fitting perfectly in place even with its frayed, cardboard edges.
Back where it belongs.
Where you belong.
•
It’s impossible to describe all of the emotions that accompany watching Jonathan get transported from the back of the ambulance to the hospital bed that now takes up a large portion of his living room.
At the same time, Robby can name every single emotion coursing through him simply from being able to stand next to you as it takes place.
Sad on your behalf, understanding of Pam’s helpless resignation, sympathetic to Jonathan’s apprehensiveness and the frustration he’s likely feeling as he loses his independence.
Then, there’s utter elation (topped with guilt and maybe a hint of embarrassment).
Robby really should not be this fucking happy in the face of death, but he is because he has his arm wrapped around you, one of your hands enveloped in his as you squeeze two of his fingers for comfort.
This morning Robby got to wake up next to you and make you coffee, and the two of you sat in the kitchen and talked, made sure that last night wasn’t all just post-orgasm oxytocin and that, even if you aren’t on the exact same page in the midst of this chaos, you’re at least reading the same chapter.
The hospice nurse is already here, helping Jonathan get settled and answering everyone’s questions. Her face is kind and compassionate, perfect for easing worries families.
You list what you were told about the medical kit, ask for clarification on the different sedatives as you perch on the arm of the same plush chair that Robby is sitting in. He leans forward so that he can see your face, a frown of concentration that softens when Robby starts to scratch your back in the way that’s always soothed you.
Feeling eyes on him, the obvious familiarity with which he touches you, Robby looks up, expecting to find Pam peering at him from across the room with suspicion, possibly judgment.
Instead, it’s Jonathan who’s watching.
Though his sight may be limited, the older man can apparently still see Robby well enough, and Robby is taken aback at how warm the gaze is.
Content.
A subtle smile and short nod is enough to make Robby’s eyes burn. He swallows the lump in his throat, sniffs quietly and shakes his head with a quick jerk to the side.
He doesn’t deserve the blessing, but Robby vows to do everything he can to earn it before time runs out.
One day soon, he’ll promise your father what he should have promised a long time ago.
To take care of you, to keep you safe, to love you with everything he has.
jack abbot x f!attorney!reader | 14.3k words | ao3
synopsis: abbot decides it's your turn to fix what's broken and, lucky for you, he's there to talk you through it.
content: 18+ mdni, age gap, swearing, praise!! sue me, blood and wound, lesson on stitching and suturing, star wars reference specifically episode iii revenge of the sith timestamp 1:14:55 if u even care, oh right. oral (male receiving), masturbation
a/n: salaam alaikum girliesssss I have risen! HAVE I READ THIS SINCE APRIL? NO! DEAL WITH IT!! I swear this was supposed to be crisp 7k words of fun dynamic establishing banter I have NO idea how we got here. kinda falls apart at the end, but, as chinua achebe notes, things often do.
Trauma bays are supposed to be sterile.
They should be too cold, and too bright, and be populated with so many machines sprouting wires that you feel like you wandered into the last remaining RadioShack on Earth.
Yet, the freaking field hospital that sprang up in your apartment within minutes is in laughable discordance. If that sterile RadioShack is the holy grail of operating rooms, whatever’s going on here is a suspiciously slimy battery you found lying in the street that you definitely should not be using.
Sitting uncharacteristically still, you’re perched across from Jack with his injured hand cradled between your own. Knees knocking into his and a Costco latex glove only half‑pulled onto your dominant hand—not that you need it, but he gave it to you earlier to make you feel included while he cleaned his wound—you watch unhelpfully as he threads the suture through the needle’s eye with clinical ease.
One-handed.
Not even looking.
Probably assuming you don’t even know how.
Not that you do, but it’s almost offensive he just assumed it without checking in.
And then with the slightest quirk of his eyebrows, Jack locks his eyes on yours and holds the hooked piece of metal out to you, slow and deliberate, as though handing you a needle—a real one, not the sexy roleplay kind, though that would be just as bewildering—is the most natural thing in the world.
The click of the plastic suture-roll against the table seems too loud, a tiny guillotine sealing your fate.
The silence stretches, broken only by the faint scrape of the chair against the floor as you instinctively lean back.
He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t explain.
He just keeps his hand a little too close for comfort, a hooked, metal host offered in a fucked-up communion—some godless fucking ritual with an altar built upon a bloodied IKEA tabernacle, bearing a chalice of isopropyl alcohol beside him.
You blink, unimpressed. “What’s this?”
Jack’s lips twist in a half-smile.
“A needle.”
“I see that.” Your voice is pointed, but your head tilts slightly, as though you could divine its purpose from the way it rests—all sterile, and precise, and delicate in a way that has no business being nestled between Abbot’s large fingers. “Why a needle, though?”
His eyes flick deliberately from his hand resting in your lap to your face, saying what the hell do you think it’s for?
And then he says, “We’re going fishing, honey.”
Your eyebrows twitch at that, your mouth pulling into a wry, confused smile as half-formed words try to take place on your tongue. Each one evaporates before it can be spoken.
Does he think you’re dumb? You know what the needle is for—but that doesn’t explain why it is being presented to you like it’s some sort of offering for the altar.
“Sorry,” you say, not sounding sorry in any definition of the word. “What I mean to say is, I don't understand—” your hand gestures between the small gap between you and the metal, “—this.”
An amused smile graces his face.
“You’re gonna do it,” he answers, so casually it’s almost insulting.
Casual.
Like it should have been obvious.
The words land right between your eyes, the sheer audacity of them nudging your head ever so slightly backward in disbelief.
A small huff leaves your nose as you let your body follow your poor head, bringing the front legs of your chair to hover an inch above the floor, widening the gap between you and that sanctified little relic of tetanus in his right hand. The poor little injured one acts as a pathetic tether between you and whatever situation Jack’s trying to create.
You blink—quickly, reflexively against the first wisps of anxiety coiling in your chest.
And then again, slower, hoping that by the time your lids part, the scene will reset itself.
No such luck. But you do think you get it now.
Jack’s losing his fucking mind.
Calf muscles surrendering to the relentless pull of gravity, the chair legs slam back to the ground.
“They finally revoke your license to practice, Abbot?” you ask, carefully lifting his hand and placing it on the table.
Your eyes narrow as you examine the injury, before deciding the cold wood couldn’t be too comfortable under his hand. Sliding your right hand beneath his, you dryly add, “Old age?”
“No,” the oldest man in existence replies, calm and condescending as ever. “Just figured we’d put that law degree to use. See if you’re any good at closing.”
You open your mouth to retort, but he’s already pressing on, barely pausing for breath.
“Though, with that mouth…” His eyes flick to yours, amusement simmering just beneath the surface. “Starting to think you just specialize in opening things.”
Your jaw snaps shut with an audible click. Wholly displeased, your gaze cuts to Jack from where you were ascertaining the comfort level of his palm’s assumed final resting place. A second later, your head follows the same trajectory, lagging behind in its astonishment.
You stare at him, unblinking.
“I’m sorry,” you say flatly, still completely devoid of apology. “Are you seriously joking right now? Your hand’s about to fall off.”
Jack’s eyebrows lift in amusement, one slightly higher than the other.
“From experience, this’s nowhere near falling off,” he disagrees. “This is…a two on the papercut to amputation scale.”
Your face contorts. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
He continues, “Also, not sure why you sound like that, because every time you’re scared, you start crackin’ jokes like your life fuckin’ depends on it.”
It’s honestly unclear why you just caught a stray, but that’s an insult if you’ve ever heard one. One that your brain seizes between its teeth, chews twice so the parallel dissonance turns to mush, and then spats it back out.
Your lips twist into a frown, a poor imitation of sympathy coating your voice. “Oh, is baby scared?”
But, honestly, yeah, maybe you are getting a little scared. As if it’s your fault. You’re scared for him, for you, for whatever the hell this is turning into.
You don’t say that part out loud.
Instead, you lean in slightly and raise your eyebrows like it’s a joke, like your heart isn’t writing out tell me what I need to do checks your mouth won’t even sign.
“Foot trauma?” you ask.
The bait dangles between you, testing his devotion to patience.
Behind him, the ice maker thuds dully.
The veteran just rolls his eyes, hand flexing where you placed it on the table, fingers splaying wide before curling back in. The motion is slow, and methodical, and oddly hypnotic, drawing your gaze. As soon as your eyes settle, your attention snaps back to him—back to where the polished needle gleams under the light, balanced precisely between his steady fingers.
It suddenly looks way too pointy and way too close.
Is this guy is actually fucking crazy?
Unable to stop it, a small laugh—three pitiful, nervous ha’s—escapes you.
It stretches longer than it should, like the laws of physics themselves are trying to help out by extending the wavelength. A desperate invitation for him to join in, to tell you that he’s joking. He’ll say the way you fall for everything, I’m pretty sure they overcharged you for your degree, and you’ll shoot back you’d know all about that price—it’s the same number as on your birthday cake, right?
He doesn’t laugh.
He says nothing about your university’s refund policy.
He just stares, eyebrows raised, lips curved into a patient smile.
The laughter dies in the air.
Your face loosens—muscle by muscle, the smile slowly stuttering off—until all that’s left behind is a slack mouth and deeply unamused eyes.
“You’re not actually serious,” you deadpan.
“Of course, I am.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“It’s a good teaching experience, honey.”
And, God, he sounds so earnest, which is somehow the most concerning part of all this.
“Teaching experience?” you echo in disbelief. “For whom? Does your body want to learn how it feels to lose another limb?”
“Maybe you can teach me all about that malpractice you’re always bitching about, doctor.”
And the way he says the title makes your jaw drop. Fucking uttered with the kind of smug provocation that comes from years of having the same argument.
You blink once, twice, as your mind scrambles for something coherent to say amid the cacophony of insults lining up.
Fuck his pathetic hand for a second.
“Oooookaaayyyyy,” the word drags out slowly in a desperate attempt to stay focused.
Not that it works, but a worthy attempt nonetheless, you think.
“It’s not my fucking fault the healthcare system has co-opted the use of the word doctor, Abbot.” The final T snaps out, crisp. “It comes from the word docere meaning to teach—” oh, you’re fucking going now, “And it actually referred to academics and church officials first and medical professionals, like, last, you filthy little man. I’ll show you malprac—”
The words cut off abruptly as a sliver of his insufferable bastard smile breaks through the cracks of his otherwise patient face.
Your eye twitches.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows exactly how to bait you.
You suck in a sharp breath and beg your brain work long enough to weasel your way out of this situation. But for some reason, your mouth keeps moving without a consult and you can’t fucking stop talking—compulsively rebelling against the weighted blanked of silence he’s letting settle over you two.
“I just don't think...” Your words falter pitifully. “I mean, this just seems like... not an awesome idea."
Jack chuckles softly and the thread shifts again, catching the light for just a moment, a tiny noose in the heavy air.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” Jack tries to assure you. “Everyone starts somewhere.”
“Everyone starts—? You literally do this for a living, Abbot,” you snap sharper than intended, trying to cleave any space around the needle-shaped void sucking all the lighthearted air out of your dining room. “Fucking act like it.”
The very employed doctor doesn’t respond.
Just inches the small object closer to you in an unspoken go on, movements careful and gentle, and you’re almost insultingly reminded of a ranch owner trying to coerce a wild animal to come check out his cool, new farm.
It’s a pasture that you’d really rather not graze on, if you’re honest.
Unfortunately, by the time you’ve finished cobbling together your fuckass farming metaphor, Jack’s already in motion.
You’ve inadvertently provided him an opportune moment to take advantage of your physical pause.
With no sudden movements and even less words, he slowly guides the delicate piece of metal into your non-dominant hand, arranging your fingers into a gentle hold with maddening care.
His touch lingers—just a beat longer than necessary—before retreating.
You look down at it.
And then back up at him.
And then over to where your right hand holds his wounded one.
And then back down.
Panic bubbles, fizzy and muted under your skin, decisively dragging your defensive joking kicking and screaming into actual what the fuck territory.
Trying—and probably failing—to not let it show, your eyes flitter around the room for an escape, some brilliant solution that doesn’t involve stitching him up yourself.
They drift over Jack. The fridge behind him. The hook by the front door where his backpack hangs. The unfinished dinner on the kitchen island, abandoned by the spontaneous sword fight in which Jack decided to engage with the only avocado on Earthmade of freaking bedrock.
Finally, they land on stigmata-ass mark adorning his hand.
Emotion swells in your chest at how useless it looks lying there. Curled and limp. Like a dead spider. So far from the hand that is always so steady and sure under florescent lights. Even further from the one that shook a little the first time he gave you roses.
But still the same one that no longer bears a tungsten ring. Still the same one you guiltily imagine claiming with sterling silver before the sun has chance to creep back in and kiss the pale stripe of skin that should be yours.
Moth seeing its flame, you lean in to get a better look.
And the wound isn’t really huge—maybe an inch. But it’s deep. And on him, it feels so much worse. To you, that small cut is basically equivalent to the splitting of the Red Sea.
Right.
Muscles tugging your upper lip in a grimace, you very quickly reach your diagnosis: it’s fucking disgusting. If you were meant to be seeing all those layers, you’re pretty sure that, evolutionarily, something would have happened and human beings wouldn’t have an epidermis.
Yeah, this shit definitely needs stitches.
What did you call it a second ago? Stigmata?
Well, Jesus didn’t get stitches.
You don’t think.
“Actually, as the doctor here,” you softly start, a touch too light for your pounding heart. Your fingers move from where they were soothing over his wrist to gingerly prod at the white skin around the cut. A soft grunt breaks past his lips and yours catches in your throat. “I don’t even think this needs stitches.”
Dryly, “Is that right?”
You let out a mm and nod.
“Neosporin,” you prescribe, the lilt of your voice implying a question. “Rub some dirt in it, walk it off. Preferably to your place of employ, doctor.”
A huff of laughter leaves his nose.
“That your official treatment plan, sweetheart?”
“The only one covered by your cheap-ass VA insurance, at least.”
“Insur—?” his voice strains and breaks off.
“The Neosporin shouldn’t be billed,” he mutters, unspoken fucking vultures ringing loud. “I already own it.”
Your shoulders inadvertently give a single, tiny shake of laughter at that—more of a tremble, really—and it slowly travels down your arm. But the humor ends as soon as it begins, visceral fear of driving your entire finger directly into his wound swiftly chasing the amusement away.
Carefully, you move your hand to lay flat on the table. And, because Jack has bewitched you and now your body just responds to his, without quite meaning to, your pinkie regains lost ground and inches closer.
And closer.
And a little closer, until it brushes against his, feather light and almost accidental.
With so much gentleness it makes your teeth ache, you deliberately hook your pinkie around his.
His curls around yours in kind, locking you in place.
Your eyes finally retreat from the tiny ravine carved into his palm back up to his waiting face.
“Neosporin was under the table, actually.”
Jack blinks, amused. “What, so dirt carries a premium price-tag, now?”
“I mean,” you half-heartedly shrug one shoulder. “Recession hit it hard.”
Needle still pinched delicately between your index and thumb, you turn your palm upward and pause. Trailing behind it, the suture moves, dragging a taunting whisper across your wrist as its anchor shifts and, really, Jack was onto something when he basically said you freak out by pathetically careening from one wisecrack to the next.
You lean forward in your seat, voice lowering.
“If you can’t afford it, you can always try the plant in the living room,” you inform him. “But she usually asks for collateral, so…”
He breathes a soft laugh, then squints at you. “The hell does she need collateral for? The water bill?”
You tip your head up, mirroring Jack’s amused squint.
Water bill?
Is it because—?
Mouth closed, your tongue moves to trace the front of your incisors, biting back any comment.
Because you have to water a plant?
An imperceptible sigh begins to leave you. And halfway through the tiny breath, all air flees from your body, disappointed and refusing to cohabitate with the words that just populated in your mind.
“No Abbot,” leaves your mouth, almost reluctantly. “For the loam payment on her Ford Ficus.”
Jack just stares at you.
You stare back.
He blinks once.
Twice.
Then his head tips back against the chair, tendon along his jaw flexing while he chews on the tragedy of every life choice that led him to this moment. A deeply weary exhale carries the last vestiges of his hope rattling from his chest.
“God damn it,” he groans, voice becoming muffled in his skin as he drags his good hand over his face. When he emerges, his expression is exhausted. But you can still see it—the fondness softening the lines around his mouth and shining in his eyes.
What a beautiful betrayal.
Sitting in front of you, tired and leaking blood onto your kitchen table, and still enduring every ridiculous word out of your mouth like it’s a fucking privilege. Affection pours through you and gathers behind your ribs so fierce it borders on unbearable.
Your shoulders soften marginally.
Maybe you could compromise a little. Ask if you could learn by watching him. Do anything to make you feel worthy of his endless patience.
And you’re positive if you actually told Jack no,he would back away instantly. Take the stupid needle and suture out of your hand, and stitch himself up without flinching, and then make fun of you before giving you a soft kiss.
But, if you’re being honest, you don’t want him to do it alone.
You don’t ever want him to do any of it alone again.
Because, God, you want to help fix him.
And it’s not some ill-conceived fantasy of fixing him—not in the reductive, self-righteous way that people mean when they say it like a project, a renewal, a cleansing. You don’t want to sand down the imperfections and mold the jagged edges into polished palatability. You just want to be close enough to kneel among all the little shards he’s convinced himself are too fractured and too far scattered to reach. To hold each piece in your hands—still sharp, still uneven—not to reshape, and not to force symmetry where there was never meant to be any, but to lift them into the light and say, look how it all refracts.
Not pristine, not uniform, but deliberate.
You want to be the lead inlaid between each fragment, a soldered seam as interwoven scaffolding—to say, all this is still beautiful. I love every incongruent and fractured hue like it’s placed there on purpose.
I love you on purpose.
Still, beneath that surge of devotion, anxiety coils itself around your heart—the sharp-edged fear that this is the moment you’ll fail him.
That he could hurt. And that it could be your fault.
Jack, meanwhile, is completely fucking unfazed, though you suspect he knows of your current mental turmoil. You can almost imagine this is just another routine in his endless parade of bizarre survival schemes—this time, enlisting his too-young, woefully unqualified girlfriend as an impromptu field medic.
You nearly laugh, the absurdity of it all crackling beneath your skin.
To him, this is all just part of another day—no more unusual than a slight change in weather, roughly equivalent to asking you what you want for breakfast.
His voice drifts over, cutting through the tension.
“I’m bleeding out,” he mutters, deadpan, “and you make me listen to that joke?”
A strangled sound makes its way from of you.
Okay, Abbot.
Forget all the disgusting things you just thought. Compromise has never led to peace.
You liked your joke.
“You don’t have to be bleeding out.” It comes out way more offended than you mean it to. “I could go get the knife? Finish the job?”
Rather exasperatedly, his head turns to the side just enough to catch a glimpse of the offending utensil abandoned on the battlefield lying meters away, a green and red streak still smeared along the edge.
He turns back to you, solitary eyebrow ticking up. “God forbid I die with dignity.”
“You’d have to, like,” you breathe in, insulting, “have some to do that.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, reluctant fondness tugging roughly at the edges. “You’d probably make yourself laugh at my funeral.”
You blink, more offended at that than at his rude dismissal of your joke.
“I’m not a pussy, Abbot,” you scoff. “I’m not attending your funeral. I said ride or die, and I meant it. I’ll be in that casket with you. Full body—” your needle-housing hand flips over in the air, palm down, “—tossed on yours. Michael’s giving the eulogy. And he’ll cry.”
“Can’t even have my own coffin? You have to steal my blankets in death, too?”
“It’s fine,” you flippantly say. “You don’t need them.”
“I’d sure like them,” he counters.
“Probably’d like spry knees, also.”
“Just give me the blanket—we’re dead.”
“Yeah,” you stress, your tone somehow implying that his response is secretly support for your argument, “so you’ve already reached postmortem thermodynamic equilibrium.”
“You’re pumped full of formaldehyde same as me. Why do you get the blankets?”
You coyly duck your head and scuff your sock against the linoleum tile, a small smile playing at the edge of your lips.
“‘Cause I get cold.”
That makes him snort—short and sharp like it caught him off guard. His eyes crinkle at the corners, beams of amusement breaking through the grumbling veiling his expression.
“So, just to confirm,” he says dryly. “You’ll die for me, but you’re just gonna leave my hand like this?”
His palm raises an inch, your pinkie still attached to his like it’s a volunteer limb transplant, in emphasis.
The smile melts off your face.
“You just said it was a two on your fucked up little scale,” you deadpan. “Maybe your therapist will give you a discount on account of the fourteen percent less person.”
Your final diagnosis weights him down in his chair, knees spreading wider as he settles and right leg stretching out long. And, once again, your body—possessed by fucking Judas tonight, apparently, and influenced by the treason of your involuntary pinkie-promise—your traitorous body reacts to the newfound minimal distance, right foot sliding forward to barely graze his, craving any connection it can get.
He clears his throat, amused.
Your eyes fly back to his, a little too wide and distracted.
“I’ve never met a more absent doctor—”
“We both work with Shen,” you defend.
He continues like you didn’t even say anything, nodding towards the injury you managed to forget by making yourself laugh, “I want a second opinion.”
The silence stretches out, your eyes locked unblinkingly on his.
There’s no way you’re letting someone tell him that you need to give him stitches.
You flash your teeth, unamused and pointed.
“Ask me again, then.”
Gentle lines around his eyes deepen as he narrows his stare.
You don’t even blink.
He should have known better from the start—when has arguing with you ever been productive?
Jack’s tone softens, just slightly, as he decides to change tactics.
“Come on, kid,” all the teasing from before folds in on itself, melting into something slower.
Letting his unscathed hand drift to your thigh, his palm slowly smooths across your leg before curving around the outside. Thick fingers trace the tendon anchored to your calf and tighten their grip, thumb coming to press just above your knee. His foot deliberately slinks around, hooking behind the leg of your chair with his heel.
A slow, controlled tug pulls you closer, the soft scrape on the floor filling the room. His knees knock into yours and he moves his right one to the outside of your thigh, bracketing your chair.
“Be brave for me,” he murmurs.
Your brain stalls.
And sputters.
The four words settle over its cogs and oxidize, turning to rust and forcing the entire thing to grind to a halt, inhibiting any movement that might convert electrical impulse to thought.
It’s embarrassing, really. Three years of logical reasoning school and ten years of arguing job just to be bested by a phrase you’d tell a child before they got a shot.
You open your mouth to protest—to argue, to bite—but nothing comes out.
You snap it shut, once again betrayed.
Then your hand lifts, pinkie reluctantly releasing him from your promise, so you can jab a finger into his chest, desperately trying to strike him with your wordless indignation, because who says that when they’re self-proclaimedly bleeding out?
His eyebrows raise just enough to feign innocence.
And then his gaze drops, measured and savoring the moment.
It traces down the slope of your arm, down to your hand—to the trembling finger that’s leveled at him like you could somehow divert any of your untapped neural activity down through your fingertips and strike him where he sits, Palpatine style.
He stares at it, and the amusement in his expression deepens.
Needle in one hand and Jack’s chest in the other, you track his gaze. Mild horror slowly bleeds across your features. The weight of the situation presses through your meticulously crafted barrier of defensive humor.
All you’re left with is the dawning realization that you will put this needle through his fucking flesh.
You don’t know how, but you know he will get you to agree.
“Jack,” you breathe. “I’ve seen steadier hands on a snake.”
He huffs a laugh through his nose, and you almost want to hit him because, maybe for the first time in your life, you’re not joking.
But then he looks at you again.
And the shift is so subtle it could break your heart.
“I trust you,” he says, low and quiet, final in a way that leaves no room to argue.
There’s no smirk this time. No teasing for you to deflect with a joke. Just those three words, gospel spoken quietly in weaponized reverence—like there’s no conceivable universe in which he doesn’t trust you implicitly and entirely.
His eyes pin you to your seat.
Ringing in your ears and burning through your retinas, the words permeate every barrier that stands between it and your bloodstream, probably replacing the oxygen in your blood entirely with Jack.
In vain, you suck in a soft breath, trying to replenish the air your lungs find suspiciously lacking.
So that’s how he’ll do it.
Tongue pressing hard against your molars, you look away from Jack and towards his injured palm.
You’re afraid of how badly you want to be worth the trust he’s just handed you. To merit the blind faith he’s placed in you without pause.
To be identifiable as the only snake on Earth with hands.
But then, selfishly, guiltily, all you want to do is wrap your hands around this moment and guard it—quarter kitchen crucifixion, and all. To rewind it and play it again and again and again, impressing the sequence directly into the prefrontal cortex where your entire sense of selfis stored.
Because no part of you can stand the thought of him ever looking at anyone else like this.
You know you’d give him a thousand stitches, bleed for him a thousand times over, if it meant he’d look at you exactly like this forever.
Like you could never mess up at all.
You swallow, throat sandpaper.
You hate him, you decide.
He’s asking you to perform freaking field surgery, equipped with nothing but a law degree and maybe a Reddit post of confidence—rational thought now, obviously, nowhere to be seen—and this man is weaponizing eye contact and words like trust like it’s not nestled between paragraphs somewhere in the Geneva Conventions.
How in the world did he manage to get the upper hand here? The man only has one.
You drag in a breath. “Put those fucking eyes away, Abbot—”
“I didn’t do anything,” he protests, barely above a gravelly whisper.
“—you know I’ll have sex with you anywhere, but I draw the line at open wounds.”
You can’t believe you’re about to fucking do this.
And in this particular case, you guess this means sewing Jack Abbot up like Corduroy Bear.
Because he’s a freak.
Because you love him.
Jack deliberately dips his head, searching for your gaze. He reaches out to the small hand wrapped around the needle, callused fingers snaking around your wrist. Rotating it down slightly, he brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss into the base of your thumb.
Moving your hand back just enough to part his lips, each whispered word brushes them against your skin. “Do you trust me?”
Even though you’ve hesitated the entire night, you don’t even have to think.
“Of course,” you reply.
“I’ll talk you through it, sweetheart. I promise.”
You slowly nod.
Sure. He promises.
“Should probably hold the needle in your other hand, though, honey,” he adds, softer.
You nod again. That tracks. Probably.
And then the bastard says, “You’ll also need these,” like he just remembered—like he didn’t know exactly how this would play out fifteen minutes ago.
Returning your hand to you, his joints shift under his hoodie with extension as he reaches over to the first-aid kit he gave you years ago. Not a new one, but worn. A little battered and scratched. Stocked, not from the hospital, but from him, specifically curated for you.
From the bottom, he pulls out a pair of scissors that boast little medical-grade teeth and passes them to you without ceremony. He pauses, then adds, “Don’t lose those.”
And then he’s reaching for the next item.
Another pair of scissors follow, toothless this time. “And these.”
Your hand barely wraps around it before one, single glove hits your thigh, accompanied by a pointed look and raised, vaguely disgusted eyebrows—all for your poor ungloved digits pressing around the needle.
“Definitely this,” he mutters.
“Okay, what the fuck, Abbot?” you spit, phantom whiplash settling into your neck from the change of pace.
The supplies pile up in your lap, growing as something new is added, one after the other. You have to scramble to even stay competent—whatever that means right now—as you fumble with some stupid-ass thing he’s holding out for you before he decides you need something else.
The older man shrugs with the ease of someone long since absolved of guilt. “Just prepping the surgeon.”
A roll of gauze snaps from his fingertips into your lap—a smirk from him sizing up your abilities and saying just in case—landing atop one of the scissors with a soft thud.
Then he points to the needle perched between your fingers, and matter-of-factly says, “This really should be sterilized.”
The needle disappears from your hand, because apparently Abbot moonlights as freaking Chris Angel when he’s not busy bleeding out on your furniture, leaving behind a small indent in your skin from where your fingers pressed into it.
And if anyone asked if you were scared, you’d swear up and down—in front of a judge, hand on the bible, life on the line—that you weren’t.
But maybe you feel your heart accelerate, keeping time with the sudden change from carefully methodical to downright fucking rapid—clocking in for overtime and pumping blood through your veins with concussive force.
And think you might feel a little dizzy, which isn’t always what you want to hear from your surgeon moments before they do their hibachi performance.
But you know what you really don’t want before a hibachi performance? Another hibachi chef pulling a big-ass syringe out of nowhere that definitely isn’t from your restaurant.
Jack doesn’t even warn you.
One second, you’re still trying to mentally prepare for the awful thing he’s about to make you do, and the next, he’s uncapping the syringe with his teeth like this is routine.
You blink once, hard, trying to reset your brain—but then he adjusts his hand flat on the table, palm up, fingers spread.
You expect hesitation. Maybe a breath. Hopefully a warning.
You get none.
He doesn’t look at you—just angles the needle toward himself and pushes it in the soft space between his thumb and index finger like it’s nothing. Not fast, not slow, just deliberate. The burn must be sharp because you see his jaw twitch, see the muscle jump just below his ear. The man doesn’t even make a sound. Just exhales once, sharp through his nose.
“Side effect,” Jack mutters, pressing the plunger with a steady thumb.
When it’s done, he withdraws the needle in one smooth motion and sets the syringe down with the nonchalance of someone who just finished screwing in a lightbulb.
Abbot turns back to you.
“Lidocaine,” he informs, which you would have accepted as a welcome warning thirty seconds ago.
Mouth parted, you mentally retrace your steps from the last time you rummaged through the first-aid kit he gave you, searching for something mundane like band-aids or emergency ibuprofen.
And yet, you’re certain no syringes were ever part of its contents.
Brows knitting tight and jaw loosening on its hinges, disbelief coils around your voice. “Where did you even…?”
He flexes his hand on the table, testing the rapidly dwindling range of motion. He nods, satisfied, and looks back to you.
“Cabinet,” Jack says simply, shrugging like there’s anywhere else you’d find a vial of medically exclusive local anesthetic that wasn’t your kitchen storage.
You blink.
Mistaking your silence for confusion at the fucking coordinates, he clarifies, “By the peanut butter.”
Again, slower, waiting for your brain to catch up.
“In what world,” you ask slowly, “would you need peanut butter lidocaine?”
“This one,” he shoots back, a barely muted obviously on his tongue.
And the reality of your heartbeat and blood pressure aside, you definitely feel your tongue revving up, ready to assault the dying man flinging medical supplies at you. You brace your open palm on your knee as you lean forward, supplies rustling and sliding as you do.
You’re laughing, sure—but your pulse is rabbit-quick.
And your hands still smell like his blood.
“I’m sorry, do you just plan to get in fights with rogue berries—?”
“No fucking way avocados are berries,” he cuts in.
“They so are. Fucking Google it, Abbot.”
“I’m not Googling it—”
Your laugh slices through his words. “God, dude probably thought it’s stone fruit—”
“Of course it’s a stone fruit,” he whispers hotly. “Did you fucking feel how hard—?”
Jack’s shoulders rise in a steep inhale and his good hand flies up, cutting himself off and halting the argument in its tracks.
Then his eyes drift heavenward, quietly praying for serenity to accept that which he cannot change—which, in this case, is the gaping hole in his hand and your fucking mouth.
You mimic his tilted head.
“What’re you searchin’ for?” you ask.
You weigh your next words for a second.
“Google’d probably be…”
You don’t even finish the thought. You let him marinate in it.
As far as you’re concerned, if you have to wade through this onslaught of unadulterated fear and inevitable failure, he can suffer your words.
A huff of laughter leaves his nose.
“Okay, can…?” His arm lifts in inch from the table, throwing the spotlight back on the freaking chasm cleaved into his palm. “Can we please—?”
The words are out before you can even think them.
“—get back to the matter at hand?” you finish.
His eyes close.
“Jesus Christ,” rumbles in his chest, caught somewhere halfway between a groan and a laugh. “Do you ever stop with the jokes?”
“That one was unintentional,” you defend, and—for once—you mean it.
You sniff.
You mindlessly glance at your watch.
“But God must have wanted me to say it. I swear it was divine, Abbot. Prophetic.”
“You’re prophetic,” he mutters, and honestly you can’t tell if he means sent by God or if he’s just using it as an insult because it sounds close enough to pathetic.
You’ll let him have that one, though.
In your professional medical opinion, he will lose his hand and maybe his arm. Possibly the entire left side of his body. And, to top it all off, he’s going senile, as indicated by this entire fucking situation you find yourselves in.
He should have good memories while he still can.
Jack’s broad shoulders rise on an inhale.
Eyes slide back open.
And you know maybe looming sepsis should take priority here, but you really can’t help it.
Small mountain of medical supplies in your lap and crime scene on your brand fucking new, white IKEA table notwithstanding…
Some quiet part of you feels chosen.
Unruly, soft gray curls sticking up at Einsteinian angles. Cargo pants with the fabric creased and bunching behind his knee from sitting so long, a pocket on his thigh hanging open from where it escaped the clutches of Velcro. An Army hoodie faded by a hundred washes and a hundred and one memories, shoved to his elbow on his injured arm. White socks—but pink in the right light—still bearing evidence from when you forgot to start the cycle on cold.
Every detail suddenly feels sacred.
Another beat passes.
His shoulders lower back down.
Before the muscles even settle, the doctor’s eyes shift between the glove in your lap and the offending appendage it should be on.
His head dips to the side.
“Sweetheart, let’s…” his voice falters, unsure how to phrase it politely.
The intentional pause feels very insulting.
“Let’s do something about this,” he settles on finally, eyebrows jumping in a quick plea to escape another disaster tonight.
You’re honesty taken aback. He somehow coerced you into agreeing to give him stitches, but he draws the line at sepsis. Okay.
An indistinct, disgruntled sound hums forth from your chest. You snatch the glove from your leg.
“Teaching experience,” you grumble to yourself sarcastically. “Real noble of you, Saint Jack, patron saint of poor fucking decision-making.”
The son of a bitch shoots you a lopsided grin—and it’s the biggest fucking smile you’ve seen all night, and you know it’s because he’s fucking giddy, over-the-moon ecstatic, at your new title of Frankenstein’s fucking surgeon—eyes moving to you from where he’s dousing the needle in alcohol.
“Saint Jack sounds good, honey,” he agrees, tone not unlike you’re deciding where to order takeout. “Should get a plaque that says, The Most Patient Teacher Alive.”
Your glare sharpens as you tug the glove over reluctant fingers. The glove almost refuses you outright, obstinately pledging to tear apart your resolve before you can even get the damn thing on.
“Or dead,” you mutter. “Either would be a mercy at this point.”
Latex clings to your skin with every clumsy movement, the struggle enhanced under Jack’s heavy stare. Granules of cornstarch grind against your palm. The barrier turns white where your nails try to press through. The band snaps against your wrist—tight and suffocating. Penitential.
Jack tracks the movement.
He grunts, approving.
Using his foot, he drags your chair a little closer to the table.
Jack leans in, elbow on knee, expression hovering between encouragement and teasing.
“You’re going to have to breathe eventually, you know,” he remarks.
You forcibly inhale.
The cornstarch burns cold in your nostrils, medicinal and sharp.
The granular discomfort gives you something to focus on instead of the tightening in your chest.
“So,” Jack ventures, voice softening, “ready when you are.”
You fix him with a look that could curdle milk.
But you nod, feeling every nerve ending in your hands bristle with anticipation.
And then the words begin slowly—mercifully—in, what you can only assume is, understanding of how fucking close you are to bolting.
“We need to grab the needle driver and use it to clamp the, uh…” he pauses, and ambiguously gestures. And you get it—repetition’s a bitch. “Well, the needle.”
Right.
The needle driver.
Sifting through the surgical mound on your lap, you realize you don’t actually even know what you’re looking for. Something to chauffeur the needle, presumably.
“Are those—? The driver, is he, uh, licensed?” you question, heart sounding in your ears. It doesn’t even make sense. You’re just stalling.
Still looking down, your eyes catch on the myriad scissors and your fingertips begin the trek over them. Tiny, rough grooves, just tangible enough to break through the tactile oppression of latex.
“Ah,” You thread your fingers through the circular handles and lift them up, making a little snip in the air.“The little guy with teeth?”
“Exactly, teeth.” He nods once, a genuinely proud small smile gracing his features. “Look at you—off to a promising start, honey.”
Any other time, the barely-there condescension would make your eyes narrow. But tonight, you really have to take every meager win you can.
Let’s hear it for little teeth guy.
Jack presents the needle to you, freshly baptized in alcohol and proudly sporting a .15% BAL, steadily between his fingers.
He’s not looking at it.
His eyes burn directly into yours.
A single nod toward the hook. An unspoken commandment.
You slowly bring the scissors up to hover in front of the small stem, elbow creaking in protest. Inching forward, hand shaking just enough that you’re concerned, you pry the blades apart.
You center them around the metal.
You force them closed.
A small click sounds, an intruder in the suffocating silence. But you swear it echoes like a gunshot, a small, sharp canonization of whatever narrative will be painted in his ascension to sainthood.
Your breath catches.
Jack loosens his grip.
Wordless, deliberately, he lets you take the needle. Below it, the medical rosary swings with the movement.
A dazed buzzing fills your ears.
You try not to flinch as the weight of the moment presses in from all sides.
Jack’s gaze follows, tracking your fingers with the kind of focus he reserves for live combat. It burns into your skin, the prickling at the back of your neck the only proof it was ever there. But just beneath the heat, something warmer settles—steadier. Pride, unmistakable, mixed into the way he looks at you.
Like the very fact that you’re here, needle in hand, willing to try, has shifted something in him.
His head dips slightly. And when he speaks, the words are so soft, so potent, they drip from your shoulders and wash your back in anointment, consecrating your body before him.
Simple. Two words.
“Thanks, kid,” he says.
It might be the influence of huffing cornstarch, but it sounds like a blessing, somehow. Sitting in your kitchen, a martyr to your non-existent sewing skills and about to be stitched up like a fucking ragdoll—he somehow makes your barely formed decision to help sound like a sacred favor you’re doing him.
Like you’re bestowing him with saving—with salvation—like he’s not the one sitting here keeping you sane.
And the way he looks at you after, you think you might be the first.
The first to kneel before him with only minimal bitching.
To blur the line—obediently, stupidly—demarcating your might as well from your absolutely fucking not.
To willfully offer up a part of yourself, not out of duty, not out of obligation, not even because he asked.
But just because it’s Jack.
And God knows if you even trust yourself to verbalize any of that.
You flash him a smile in silent acknowledgement and look down.
The needle wavers as you bring it closer to his skin, the space between you shrinking.
You exhale.
It hovers, suspended over broken flesh. The sharp contrast between clinical steel and ragged skin slices clean through the absurdity of everything that led to this moment.
You fumble, eyes darting across the shallow cut, unsure which side you’re supposed to start on. Is there a right side? Does it matter? You don’t know.
The thought alone makes you acutely aware of the tremble in your grip.
You don’t know.
Your voice comes out small, unsure. “Abbot, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”
“You got this, kid,” he says, certain. “I got you.”
Your eyes flick up to his.
Jack’s arm rests calmly beneath your hands—still, patient, but his eyes are trained on your face.
He trusts you. He has you.
Because he’s a fucking lunatic, the rational part of your brain yells, and you make a mental note to schedule a psych consult for him on Monday. And then you make another mental note to schedule a psych consult for yourself, for that matter, because you’re sitting here going along with it.
Your breath comes out too sharp, too shallow.
“Just start on the end. Pinch the skin closed,” Jack softly instructs.
You focus on the rhythm of your breathing, willing it to slow, counting each inhale, each exhale, until the world narrows to the narrow strip of skin you’re meant to mend. The needle feels impossibly heavy between your fingers, the point sharp enough to split atoms.
You adjust your grip, searching for steadiness, and he senses your hesitation.
“You’re not gonna hurt me,” he murmurs, so quietly you almost convince yourself you imagined it.
With a trembling breath, you bring the needle closer, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.
And suddenly it feels like you’ve entered a universe where seconds were still seconds, but perhaps triple the length of normal ones. The moment stretches, suspended.
Only when you’re certain your hands won’t betray you—probably about an hour in your new world, maybe several Earth seconds—do you begin.
Gently, you press your fingers into his curled ones, feeling the rough calluses catch against the latex as you unfold them flat against the table. His fingers twitch, faint but unmistakable, instinctively wanting to slot between yours. The tiny pulse travels down your arm and lodges warm and heavy in your chest.
Attacked by a rogue knife and at your mercy, he still wants to hold your hand.
You could probably cry about that if you really wanted to.
Your eyes cut back to Jack’s one last time.
He nods.
You look down again. Gently, your thumb and forefinger draw the cut, closing the gap between the orphaned skin.
“Start from the right side.”
God, you’ve never wanted to do something less.
The still-unfortunately-trembling-needle touches down on target and your breath catches in your throat.
Right beside your ear, Jack exhales, soft and pleased.
His free hand comes up and brushes over the back of yours and presses down, applying pressure.
“Firm, like you mean it,” His voice is rougher this time. “Bring it all the way through. The needle is hooked, so you have to turn it.”
He rotates your hand clockwise in a scooping motion. On the other side of the cut, you see the point peak out and the sight makes you wince.
“You’re a bastard,” you whisper.
“You’re still shaking,” he counters, voice dropping closer to your ear than before.
“I’m about to have half a boyfriend,” you defend. “Of course I’m shaking.”
He laughs and the sound wraps around you, smoothing the sharp edges of your panic, loosening the edges of the tight coil of doubt twisting inside your skull.
For a heartbeat, the tension slips away, replaced by a fragile thread of calm.
Which is broken immediately.
The next word cuts clean through the static in your head, snapping you back into your panic-addled body.
“Forceps,” Jack says.
And it’s directly into your ear.
You flinch, barely, eyes dragging upward to find his face again.
That’s all. There’s no elaboration, no clarification.
You blink—slow, begging the dragged-out time to imbue you with understanding of what that was supposed to mean. But it doesn’t. And when you lift your lashes again, Jack’s just staring at you, ears perked and head tilted. Expectant.
You think, really—belatedly—that was a demand disguised as a noun.
A minute shake of your head, eyes dropping to scan over your treasure. “And would that be the, uh—?”
“The toothless one, yes.” he finishes, one step ahead of you.
Fucking finally, he’s speaking your language.
“Now, use,” his guiding hand releases yours, careful not to disturb it, and brings the other scissors to your empty hand. His lips twist to the side in fondness at the next words, “Use toothless to grab the needle, so you can release teeth guy—” underlined with a sharp jab of his eyebrows, “—and pull the needle all the way through.”
With one hand guiding your movements, you clumsily follow his directions.
And the simultaneous release-and-clamp action makes you feel so fucking cool.
You’re basically a surgeon at this point.
The student has outgrown the master, Abbot.
Weathered digits wrap around your wrist, palm caressing the soft skin over your honestly frantic pulse. Slowly, they urge your protesting muscles backwards.
It doesn’t take much, though. The needle slides through the skin with such little resistance that your poor little brain can’t fucking cope—can’t process what it’s experiencing.Instinct claws up your spine and you react like you just unsuspectingly placed your entire arm directly on the surface of a hot stove.
Before you can stop it, your hand jerks back violently.
And Saint Jack, blessed with the prophetic gift of foresight, immediately tightens his grip a second before, anchoring you in place.
“You’re doing great, kid,” he quickly assures you.
You inhale, sharp and shallow, a strangled squeak clinging to your breath while you fucking sprint back that student-master thought.
“Okay, start pulling out.” His hand drifts down the line of your forearm, leaving you on your own to operate—which, you have no idea why he would think that’s a good idea, given what the hell just happened.
Your hand obeys, slowly tugging the scissors—forceps, whatever—backwards.
The needle moves first, coaxing the string through the small opening in his flesh.
“Good, just like that,” is whispered low in your ear.
You shoot him a small glare from the corner of your eye. Why is hesaying it like that?
It takes more coordination than you expect, keeping your eyes glued to the moving thread while also adjusting for the seemingly unlimited slack tugging at the suture. Back muscles contract, slowly reeling your arm inward, as you slide the scissors into the small space between your ear and Jack’s watchful eyes.
Further still.
“Just until there’s a centi— okay, stop.”
Every muscle in your body freezes.
You don’t even blink.
“We’re gonna tie it off, you ready?”
And you think it’s so funny that Jack phrased it as a question, like a choice, because his hand is already moving towards the hand holding the needle driver and moving it to hover obediently by your left. Switching his grasp to the suture, he guides it around the driver once, twice, and with a tug and a practiced flick, he pulls the tail through, tying off the first pass.
On the other side of the thread, rough skin finally makes its move, belatedly committing to a crawl. The cute, little half-knot tightens, pressing the skin into an approximation of how it should look, the two edges drawn back together in quiet, satisfying contact.
He changes grip without pause, using your hand like a freaking puppet, and repeats the motion once more, this time with a single wrap in the opposite direction.
He pauses.
Rough calluses move feather-light across the sensitive skin, down the slope of your arm and across your shoulder. He doesn’t stop until he finds the back of your chair, fingers curling around the top. Leaning in, he claims your personal space like it was always his.
“Trust yourself.” Jack says, nodding down at your hands. “Finish the knot.”
Trust yourself?
At this point, you wouldn’t even trust yourself to breathe, let alone tie a knot through his skin.
Feeling vaguely like Edward Scissorhands, you fumble with an incredible lack of dexterity, trying to replicate whatever the hell he just demonstrated—to secure the tail between the blades and guide it through.
Just pretend it’s like your shoes, girl.
Making a loop, you switch the needle into your other hand and pull it through.
You blink down at it.
And then blink again, partly in bewilderment at your success, mainly in confusion of how you managed to do that.
It’s not as cute as his, but it’ll do.
Okay.
Your tense muscles loosen, uncertain.
That wasn’t… awful?
One down, however many he dictates to go.
Easy.
You nod to yourself, quick and staccato, and look up.
“Atta girl,” he grins—a flash of teeth, dazzling and sincere. You search his expression for any sign of second thoughts, any hint of discomfort at having cast you in this role. But all you find is pride, gentle and unspoken, etched into the lines by his mouth and quietly aglow in his eyes.
Suddenly, you can’t even remember why you were so scared in the first place. Vaguely—distantly—you remember something about maybe a Toyota?
But when he smiles at you like that, the only thing on your mind is doing whatever it takes to see it again.
“See, kid?” His voice is low, reassuring. “You got perfect hands.”
Warmth creeps up your cheeks as you flex your fingers, glancing at the clean, synthetic line running through his palm.
You never really thought about it, but, yeah, you guess they’re okay.
You risk a grin, the kind that comes unbidden and vanishes before it can settle.
“Yeah, well…” you murmur. “Acceptable…teacher, or something.”
He chuckles, warmth softening the sharp lines of his face.
“They’re perfect,” he replies, gaze unwavering. “Made for this.”
You snort, trying to deflect the weight of his words. “For role-playing doctor?”
He shakes his head, smile lingering.
“For me.”
The admission lingers between you, sudden and weighty.
You look away, heart thudding harder than you’d like to admit, searching for distraction in the mundane details—your hands, the weight of miscellaneous medical supplies on your lap, the gentle pressure of his attention.
You press your eyelids together so hard that, for a brief moment, you see stars, then look back at Jack.
He hadn’t looked away from you the entire time.
Your nose twitches as you sniff.
“I should probably…” you trail off.
Made for him.
The comment makes every word stick in your throat and feel clumsy on your tongue. You breathe in and click your teeth together a couple times.
“…yeah,” you lamely finish.
Swallowing, you look back down to his hand. Two slender digits come up and tug at your ear absentmindedly, tips dancing with the earring that hangs there.
The warm metal pulls against your earlobe. The pointed clasp presses sharply into your thumb.
And you freeze, kinda disgusted.
You were just poking and prodding his revolting cut with this hand.
And now it’s on your ear.
Your shoulders slowly rise and fall annoyance. All that work to get the glove on all for fucking naught. You don’t even have to look at your patient to know his eyebrows are basically fused to his hairline and an amused smile is taking residence on his lips like it fucking pays rent to be there.
“Should—?” you cut yourself off, resignedly shaking your head. “New glove?”
Warm breath fans your skin as he laughs, low and rough.
“New glove,” he confirms.
Then, a fresh glove caught between outstretched fingers, you feel the vibration of his voice more than you hear it.
“Sharp as always, sweetheart.”
And you peel the glove off your skin and wrangle the next one on, snapping the rubber-adjacent material against your wrist dramatically. The crisp sound echoes in the small space as you flex your fingers, finding rhythm again.
And you don’t really know why, but that sound fluidly mixes with the admittedly Bacchanalian concoction swirling in your chest composed of accomplishment at a single—and, lest you forget—guided, stitch and the way Jack just said see, kid? You got perfect hands. Made for me.
And it goes straight for the jugular, flowing up and through the delicate artery that frames your neck until it reaches its target.
Jack’s approval thrums through you, as palpable as the latex tugging at your wrist.
You roll your shoulders, letting the tension drain as much as it ever does—spoiler: not a lot—and set your jaw.
Your mind runs wild with useless calculations: the number of stitches left, the ever-increasing chance of fucking up, the precise shade of Jack’s eyes when the light catches just so.
The next moment is quiet, stitched together with anticipation and the faint scent of antiseptic. Jack shifts, the subtle movement drawing your attention back to his open skin beneath your hands, his gaze heavy with patience and—were you not currently preforming arts and crafts with his flesh—something you’d swear was want.
Which is frankly insane, considering you’re elbows-deep in what has got to be at least six OSHA violations.
You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, exhale slow, and nod, more to yourself than to him—ready to get this over with.
Fingers tremble slightly as you position the needle again.
Jack’s eyes never leave yours.
“Ready?” His voice is low, rough around the edges, but steady—thank fucking God, because, glaring down at the vibrating needle, you realize you need steady right now.
With a careful, deliberate motion, you pierce the skin, and Jack exhales sharply, a sound so raw it sends heat flickering straight down your spine.
“You’re got it, kid,” he murmurs.
The reassurance lands hard, threading into your spine. A laugh bubbles out of you, real and slightly breathless. Giddy and only a little drunk—well below the legal limit, thank you—with adrenaline and approval.
“Well, like you said, Jack. You have me,” you say, and it’s the most truthful thing you’ve said all night.
There is no doubt in your mind that Jack doesn’t have your back, and there is not a single bone in your body that would betray that implicit trust. He trusts you. You have to trust yourself that he trusts you.
To your left, the veteran inhales slowly and shifts a little closer.
One large hand slides up from his thigh, skimming down your forearm before gently wrapping around your elbow, halting your movements.
You blink, confused. Does the needle not go that way?
His exhale is sharp, a smile curling around his words. “Say that again.”
Your eyes flick down to the half-embedded needle sticking out of his open wound and then back up. “Say what?”
“What you just said.”
“What I just…?” you trail off, trying to follow his line of thought.
The confusion melts off your face. “Oh, for Christ’s— Don’t start, Abbot. That is not what I meant—”
He cuts in, voice rough but quiet, “So I don’t have you? You’re not mine?”
Your pulse thuds painfully at the base of your throat.
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Jack’s thumb drags lightly against the inside of your arm.
“Okay, obviously— I mean yes, I’m— can we please—?” You bite the sentence off with a sharp, deeply annoyed, inhale through your nose. You really need to get this under control.
“Whatdid I just say about open wounds and sex?” you finally snap, voice way higher than you intended. “What I meant was there was no danger.”
“Danger’s relative, kid,” he replies, mouth remaining parted while he decides if he wants to push you further.
What the fuck is happening right now?
The exchange presses down on your ribcage, curling around the bones and pulling tight like the thread through his skin. You want to look away, to go back to your task, to get yourself as far away from this needle as possible. But you’re fucking bolted to this chair, nailed down by his stupid-ass trust, by this reckless act of care.
“Okay— I just— can we—? I—” every word tumbles out of your mouth, a new one replacing it with rapid-fire fluster. “Please let me get through this Abbot. Just let me….” you motion pathetically to his hand, “let me help. Mess with me later, or I will purposely fuck up your thread count.”
You can’t keep looking at him. His expression’s too open, too fixed on your mouth like he’s waiting for something else to fall out of it.
So you drop your eyes back to the thread.
And it feels unfair.
That he gets to say things like that—you’re not mine?
That he gets to mean them, when you’re the one stuck here.
Stuck here, trying to pretend the room isn’t spinning.
Trying to pretend you remember how to breathe.
Trying to pretend you’re not on the verge of tears while his blood makes your glove stick to his skin.
You tighten your grip around the forceps, the pressure aching the fragile bones, and whisper, “Please just let me finish this.”
You feel, at first, like you might break. But then—
The tiniest twitch—his jaw, clenched, almost like he’s holding back words or laughter or—fucking God forbid, at this point—something softer.
But you guess your quiet desperation finally gets to him.
Jack doesn’t say a thing.
Just holds out his hand, palm up, surrendering the next inch of trust to you.
You take it.
Trembling but determined.
He waits. You sense him watching, not intruding, letting you gather yourself, letting the heat of anxiety fade into something almost companionable.
When you risk a glance up, you finally meet his eyes.
You find no mockery.
Just patience.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
He nods back, the smallest of truces.
The room steadies around you, breath by breath. The rhythm lulls you in, desperation quietly acquiescing to necessity.
Quieted by the focus it takes to set the next stitch.
Thread. Forceps. Needle. Pull.
The sharp sting of antiseptic. The soft whisper of cargo pants as he readjusts himself in the chair. The faint warmth of his skin under latex.
Jack lets you have two.
Two stitches with much-needed silence, only broken with a soft correction or a murmured, good, honey.
A neat diagonal line connects the bottom of the last needle pass to the top of the second.
You chuckle to yourself, quietly and shakily, almost smug as you admire your work.
Yeah, okay.
You think you finally understand why Walsh just, like, walks around like that.
Tendons on your neck stretch as you try to crack the joints like they do in the movies. In typical you fashion, there’s no cool noise—it just hurts a little.
And slowly, talking glacial speed to everyone on Earth but you, you start to repeat the motions he taught you for a third time.
Fingers delicately pinch the skin together. Metal punctures right outside the cleanly sliced flesh.
“Honey, I’m so proud of you—” finally cuts through your laser-like focus, “—but if you go any slower, the cut’s gonna heal on its own.”
This fucking guy. Quiet this entire time, breaking the silence just to insult you.
You slide your head closer, squinting to get a better look at the skin. “Don’t you have, like, crayons to eat or something, Abbot?”
“That’s the Marines,” he says dryly.
“Oh,” you drawl, dragging it out, each syllable dipped in syrupy mock pity meant for children.
Switch the scissors. Release the teeth. Pull the suture all the way through.
Your hands stall after the motion, the world’s most disingenuous moment of silence befalling as you pout in sympathy. You balance your wrist on top of his and cut your eyes sideways for a split second.
“Army boys can’t figure out the wrapper?”
Jack’s arm tenses slightly under your touch.
“Wrapper wasn’t the problem,” he says, voice low and steady. “Just assumed if we complained long enough, someone like you would show up to do it for us.”
There’s a pause.
“And look at that,” he adds, nodding down at the stitch halfway through his hand. “Didn’t even need crayons to bait you. That’s my girl.”
Your entire body tenses at the words, eyes frozen on the needle hovering just above his skin like you’ve forgotten what your hands are for.
Can he let you fucking live?
You were so fucking right. This is definitely some fucked-up doomsday-prepper fantasy of his.
It has to be.
You hear a soft rustle of fabric as the man shifts, the long line of his thigh coming to press unyielding, grounding, against yours. His hand releases his grip on the back of your chair, smoothing up the ridges of your spine, grazing the back of your neck, fingers gently trailing down the base and curling around, heavy and burning with approval.
“Look at you,” Jack murmurs, each exhaled word heating your skin.
His thumb slowly, deliberately drags a line over your pulse, tracing the rise and fall of each beat.
Good Lord.
You almost laugh at yourself.
Maybe you went into the wrong profession.
How hard could the MCAT really be?
It’s just some math and stuff, you think.
If you knew that you would have Dr. Jack Abbot whispering like this in your ear, finding any excuse to touch you while you’re doing doctor-y things, you think you would have crushed it. Ninety-ninth percentile, probably. Graduate with honors, awards, white coat with your name embroidered in goddamn solid gold thread, diploma handed to you from Jack Abbot’s cool, hip classmate Hippocrates, himself.
Jack’s head dips down, unhurried, until his nose grazes over your cheek. The touch is delicate, but it burns through your skin with blistering heat.
A shaky breath rattles your frame as you grasp for any oxygen in the vicinity.
The grip on your neck tightens marginally at the stuttering inhale. The worn cotton of his hoodie brushes your arm.
“Come on, kid,” he exhales, lips skimming the sensitive skin. “You got some more for me?”
Of course, you immediately think.
Some what?
The line of his nose whispers across your skin as he turns his head a fraction, refocusing on the half-finished sutures.
“Not gonna finish itself, sweetheart.”
Right.
It all rushes back to you.
High-stakes medical procedure.
A shiver dances down your spine.
Your head moves before you can take the obedience and wring it by its neck—small, frantic motions that answer him faster than your vocal cords could ever imagine pushing air through. It’s automatic—and eager, fucking sue you—muscle memory responding to Abbot’s voice.
You fumble for a second before you firmly have the needle trapped between the scissor blades armed with teeth.
Trembling fingers press the edges of the wound together.
“Good,” he murmurs, barely more than breath. “You follow directions so well.”
Holy shit, was this guy stationed at Guantanamo? Is this psychological warfare?
“Night’s young, Abbot,” you manage, aiming for dry and missing by a fucking mile. “I think I could find an artery here if I fuck around enough.”
“Luckily, we don’t have to run that scenario,” he replies dryly, not moving an inch. “Just gottta tie it off, like we did earlier. So, take the– yeah, you got it.”
You bite your lip, focus blurry from the warmth of him under your hands and the rasp of praise right against your ear. You feel his good hand shift, covering yours, guiding your grip as you pull the suture snug.
“And then loop it under, straight through– good job, sweetheart. Just like that.”
The last knot doesn’t come easy. Your fingers feel clumsy, your brain half-melted by the way his voice keeps rumbling low and close, telling you exactly what to do.
And then your hands go slack—back to fucking trembling, breath caught in your throat, so dizzy on him you forget to look away until you hear him shift in his chair.
Slow and deliberate, you lift your gaze, letting it travel from the neat line you’ve made, across the rise and fall of his chest, until it finds his eyes again. They burn into you, glinting with quiet approval—something you fucking apparently need like air.
Each beat of your heart rattles your chest, echoing through your bones, sending seismic waves through your veins. Slow and careful, you pull in a soft breath. Your tongue flicks out, a quick swipe at your bottom lip, teeth dragging thoughtlessly behind it—an unconscious, nervous habit—and Jack’s gaze immediately fixes on it, dark eyes intent.
For a second, neither of you move.
Jaw flexing rhythmically, he swallows, and forces his eyes back up to yours. But his control slips, and they drop once more.
“Knew you could handle it.” His voice comes out rough rasp. “Always so amazing.”
Jack doesn’t look away from your mouth as he says it—doesn’t even look over to where you’re finishing up a fucked-up game of Operation. His right hand shifts, fingers brushing where your pulse flutters under the thin skin on your wrist, before he pulls away entirely.
You open your mouth. Close it again. Try to think of something clever—fuck it, you would take something not clever, something so stupid, anything—but your brain is swimming underwater with rocks chained to it.
Jesus Christ, you can’t fucking breathe.
Your eyes flick down to his mouth again.
You can still feel the phantom weight of his praise ghosting across your skin—the way he talked you through suturing him like he trusted you with his life, like your shaking fingers were steady just because he said so.
You never stood a chance. Not against that voice. Not against that look he gives you when he’s letting you take care of him.
Honestly, you don’t mean to.
It's not that you're not still scared—it's that something warmer is starting to crowd the fear out. That look in his eyes, the way he says perfect, like it’s fact, like you’ve never failed him in your life—
It lights something underneath the panic.
Not lust—not just lust—but overwhelm.
Overwhelm by what it means to be wanted like this—trusted like this.
To be looked at with love while doing something that was supposed to be terrifying and, honestly, probably done by anyone in the world but you.
Jack trusted you.
He let you put a needle through his flesh, let you tremble through every minute of it, and still he looked at you like salvation.
If he asked, you’d bless the ground he walks on with your fucking mouth.
You don’t plan it.
One moment your hands are still hovering over the last knot, still remembering the feel of his skin beneath the thread.
And the next, you’re on your knees in front of him like your body finally figured out what to do with the weight of his trust.
Your hands tremble slightly as you battle his sweatpants, not from nerves, but from want. From how long you’ve been holding it in. The memory of his voice guiding you, breath warm against your ear, is still clawing at your skin, like maybe you miscalculated what exactly you did with that needle and accidentally stitched it into your bones.
“Let me,” you murmur, lips brushing his knee. “You always take care of everyone else.”
A sharp breath escapes him. “Christ. At least let me—”
“One handed?” You peer up through your lashes. “You’re not Anakin Skywalker, Abbot.”
You smile. Soft. Reverent. A little mean.
“Sweetheart, you don’t—”
“Please, Jack?” you cut in softly.
You decide you want him shaking. Call it payback for whatever he just put you through. You want his hands desperate. You want the rough sound of your name punched out of him. But more than anything, you want him to tell you you’re good. Perfect. You want to hear it so badly it makes your skin feel tight.
You don’t rush. Not with him watching you like that—jaw tight, chest rising with slow, deliberate breaths.
You free him from his briefs, and your breath catches. He’s heavy in your hand, already hard, already leaking (because, as you’ve observed, he’s a freak). Wrapping your fingers around him as best you can, you drag your thumb over his head, smearing the bead of precum deliberately, reverently, mesmerized by the way he twitches.
You stroke him once—slow, base to tip, twisting just a little—and he lets out a low grunt, hips shifting.
You glance up and his eyes are locked on your mouth.
“Jesus,” he mutters, voice rough and shaky. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”
You lean in and press a kiss to the tip—light, almost innocent—and part your lips, tasting him first with a soft, tentative flick of your tongue. Then you shift lower, lips brushing the base, before your tongue drags a slow stripe up his length, tracing the vein. Jack jerks under you, a breath caught in his chest—you feel the tremor in his thigh where your hand braces for balance.
His good hand sinks into your hair, the fingers sliding through until they find a solid hold at your nape.
And then you take him into your mouth. One inch. Then another. And it’s not a lot but he’s so fucking thick in your mouth and so heavy, it makes your jaw ache and makes your breath catch.
But you need it, addicted to the way the velvety skin glides between your lips and presses into your throat, turning oxygen into a fleeting commodity. You sink deeper until your lips are nearly flush with your hand, tongue pressed against him, and you can feel the shiver that runs down his spine.
You feel the tension hit his thighs first, then his abdomen, like he’s trying to hold himself perfectly still.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathes. “You—fuck, sweetheart, your mouth—”
That heat in your belly spikes.
That’s what you wanted.
You let yourself moan around him, soft and vibrating, and he groans again, hand tightening in your hair, and his hips jerk—small, barely-there.
He groans, raw and breathless.
“That mouth,” he gasps. “Christ, I’d keep you on your knees if you’d let me. Look at you—look how fucking good you are for me.”
His fingers tighten in your hair as you work him deeper, jaw aching, spit slipping down your chin, and still you don’t stop.
“So proud of you— fuck—” Voice breaking as you hollow your cheeks and suck, tongue dragging against his length. His knees spread wider. “So wet— brave. So brave, did so fucking good, kid.”
You moan around him, needy and aching now, your own thighs pressing together from the molten ache crawling low in your belly and dripping down between your legs like honey.
And you really can’t help it.
Free hand trembling, you let it trail down his leg, finding the gap between your shorts, and press in. And you’re not sure what twisted spell Jack Abbot has you under, but you’re fucking soaked, the weight of his voice doing something obscene to your brain.
You brush your fingers over your clit and you jolt so hard you nearly choke on him.
His hips twitch.
You open your throat and take him deeper, slowly stroking yourself while your mouth works him in time.
It’s almost hypnotizing, the taste of him on your tongue, your lips gliding up and down his length, your hand working what your mouth can’t reach. Your other hand stays buried between your thighs, rubbing tight, frantic circles. You're trying to keep still, to stay focused on him, but you can’t stop rocking your hips in tiny, desperate movements.
Your tongue works slowly, savoring the way he swells heavier in your mouth. Each shallow breath from him, each subtle pull of his fingers in your hair, winds you tighter, until you’re practically leaning into him for support.
You draw back a little, sucking softly at the tip, teasing him, and his grip tightens—a wordless warning, the smallest growl deep in his chest.
You ease down again, taking him deeper this time, your throat working around him. He lets out a hiss, low and sharp, his thumb brushing along your jaw.
Jack, for all his observational acuity, doesn’t notice right away. He’s too caught up in the rhythm, the feel of your mouth. But then you moan around him—quiet, and muffled, and desperate—and his hips stutter forward.
His eyes snap open, pinning you with his gaze. It trails over you, lower. Then lower, still.
“Jesus Christ,” is punched out of him in a broken groan. “Are you touching yourself?”
You don’t answer, way too busy trying not to fall apart just from the sound of his voice.
But you press closer to the small patch of fair framing his cock and moan, needy and desperate, and his whole body jolts. The groan that breaks out of him is rough and dragged straight from the base of his spine, punched out of his chest like it bypassed thought entirely—low and fucking visceral.
“God,” he pants, like it physically hurts him. “You’re fucking getting off while you’ve got your fucking mouth on me—”
His hips thrust up before he can stop them, hand shaking where it clutches at your scalp. “That’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
Fingers twist in your hair and you whimper. “Kid—shit—you’re so good at this.”
You start to fall into a rhythm—hand and mouth working together—your own hips rocking minutely with every drag of your fingers. Your thighs are trembling already and you’re only barely getting started.
His chest is rising and falling too fast now. His head drops back, jaw clenched, his voice just a rasp.
“You’ve got no idea what you look like right now. Mouth wrapped around me. Pretty little fingers in your panties—fuck.”
His hips thrust sharply, and you gag. He jerks again, thighs tensing under your hands.
You don’t stop.
His hand fists tighter in your hair. “Jesus, kid. Look at you.” He leans in, and your eyes try to find his. “So needy you can’t even wait, huh?”
You whimper around him—fully, shamelessly—and grind your fingers tighter between your thighs. The pleasure hums under your skin, threatening to spill over, and it takes everything to not come right then, with his eyes burning into yours, and his cock shallowly fucking into your mouth.
Because you want him to fall apart first.
You can’t think. You can’t breathe. Your fingers are soaked and relentless, hips moving without permission, and every few seconds another whimper escapes, muffled by the fullness of him in your mouth.
Your eyes flick up—he’s looking down at you, lids low, lips parted, approval etched in every line of his face. You feel owned under that stare.
You love it.
He groans, the sound rasped and edged with praise that drips like molten iron in your chest. “Fuck… look at you. Good fuckin’ girl…”
You can feel him pulse, feel the small tremors in his legs that tell you he’s close.
“Look at you,” he rasps, breath catching. “Taking it. So pretty like this.”
You nod again, frantic, helpless.
“You feel too good,” he gasps. “So fucking good for me. Good girl. Jesus—fuck, I’m close.”
His grip tightens in your hair and thrusts shallowly into your mouth, bordering desperate, and his eyes flutter shut. His chest rises and falls fast now, his restraint slipping second by second.
“Shit—You’re so good, kid. So fucking good for me. Jesus Christ—kid, I can’t—fuck, I can’t even think—”
The words drop from his mouth like they’re dragging his soul with them, voice split down the middle. You feel his thigh tremble under your palm, the grip in your hair tightening by a fraction, anchoring him to you.
“You feel too good,” he gets out, rough. “Fucking made for me.”
You take him deeper. Hollow your cheeks. Swallow him, slow and aching.
“I’d give you anything,” he says, voice breaking again. “Anything you want, sweetheart. Just don’t stop. Please don’t fucking stop.”
You whimper, the sound vibrating low in your throat, and he feels it—his breath catches in a full-body shudder. His jaw clenches. His eyes flutter.
“That fucking mouth. Maybe all you’re good at is opening. You were made for this, weren’t you?”
Your fingers stutter between your thighs. Your chest heaves. You feel dizzy.
“Please,” he gasps. “Need to come, baby, please. Been holding on, fuck, please—”
Your whole body clenches at that.
He cuts off with a sharp inhale, hips jerking forward. You take him deeper and press harder on yourself, every part of your body tuned to him. To the way he gasps your name. To the way his fingers twist in your hair, bordering on painful, forcing himself a little further down your throat.
And your name tears out of him in a broken groan as his cock pulses against your tongue and he spills down your throat, hand clenched in your hair, voice broken.
You swallow all of it. Swallow around him until his body shudders, grinding into your own hand as he throbs on your tongue.
You stay there, mouth still on him, letting him twitch and groan, until he finally relaxes into the chair.
You pull off slowly and sit back on your heels.
Your jaw aches, your lips are wet, and your mouth tastes like him—but the ache between your legs is louder than all of it now. You hadn’t realized how far gone you were, not until he was slumped in the chair above you, breathing hard, undone, and you were still shaking. Still dripping.
Jack’s staring at you like he might actually black out.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and his thumb catches your wrist, gentle but firm. His eyes are blown wide.
You're so close it hurts.
And when his hand finally slips from your hair, gentle now, and cups your cheek like he can’t believe what just happened—like you’re something holy—you swear you could come just from that.
“Shit,” the sight of you punches the air out of him.
He swallows thickly as his breaths slowly even out. “Did you—?”
You shake your head, helpless.
“You’ve been touching yourself this whole time and you didn’t let go?” Jack’s voice is low now. His thumb brushes across your cheek again, and you lean into it without thinking.
“I wanted to wait,” you whisper. “Wanted—fuck, Jack, I wanted to watch you first.”
His hand cups your jaw fully now, holding you there.
Framing you in his hand, fragile and obscene.
“What the fuck are you waiting for, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “Go on.”
You don’t break eye contact. You press your hand down harder and slide your fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear, and when your fingertips meet bare skin, you gasp again, eyes fluttering.
He leans back slightly in the chair, giving you room to breathe, to move. Not far. Just enough. He wants to see.
“Jesus, look at you,” he murmurs, voice so low it barely reaches. “Touching yourself right in front of me. Dripping for me. You’re fucking unbelievable.”
You whimper, breath hitching as your fingers work in small, fast circles that make your thighs twitch. You try to stay quiet, but a sound slips anyway, soft and desperate, as your hips roll forward into your palm.
His eyes never leave you.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs in awe. “Fuck—you can hear how wet you are.”
Your knees shuffle wider on instinct. The floor digs in, but you barely notice it. You’re trembling now—nerves so tight it feels like, somehow, they all might snap at once.
He leans forward now, watching every twitch of your body.
“Doing so good for me,” Jack whispers, and his voice shivers through you, straight to your core. “You’re perfect, you know that? You look so pretty like this. Taking care of yourself like this. Right after taking care of me. Look at you.”
You cry out softly, a broken sound at the back of your throat. You don’t even try to muffle it this time. You want him to hear. You want to give him something more to praise.
“That’s it,” he breathes, leaning in slightly, his hand curling around your neck now. “You close?”
You nod, desperate, frantic.
“Let go,” he says, like it’s a blessing. “Come for me, honey. Give it to me.”
And you do.
The coil snaps inside you so fast it knocks the air out of your lungs.
Your mouth falls open, fingers still working through the waves as heat crashes through you in full-body spasms. You cling to his thigh with your free hand, nails digging in, gasping out his name again and again as the orgasm hits, hand moving through it, prolonging the pleasure, dragging it out.
You bury your face against his thigh, half-sobbing, shaking so hard your knees slip an inch on the floor.
“Fuck, kid,” he breathes. “That’s my girl. Fuck, look at you. So fucking beautiful like this.”
Jack’s hand finds your hair again. His thumb strokes the back of your neck.
You hear him murmur something above you, something soft and reverent and full of heat, but your blood is rushing too loudly in your ears to catch it all.
He tilts your chin up again, and when he looks at you, there’s no teasing. Just full, open pride.
“You should see yourself right now,” Jack murmurs. “Fucking radiant. I should frame you.”
Static fades from your sight and you slowly dial back into reality.
Eyes blinking—dare you say dumbly—up at him, ragged inhales racking your frame, you huff a small laugh.
Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x fem!grad student!reader
Summary: You were not Robby’s biggest fan and finding out the saddest man in your bar fucks was absolutely not going to change your opinion of him. Absolutely not.
Rating: Explicit (E)
Word Count: 17k
Tags/Warnings: angst, depression, implication of suicidal ideation, description of injury, praise kink, mediocrely written smut, some lite humor, the tone is actually not that depressing I pinky swear, pathetic bar patron to remarkable lover trope (we all know that common trope).
Author's Note: As per the poll, I come to deliver grad student/bar tender dealing with pathetic Robby. Please comment with your thoughts and feelings, I yearn for the reactions. I’m not the most proud of the smut, but I’m trying to get better at writing it. Idk hope it’s enjoyable enough.
Pls note this has not really been proofread. And I'm incapable of writing something short. soz.
-- -- --
You winced as one of your least favorite regulars walked in. It probably wasn’t a fair group to put the poor man in, especially when ugly-ass-Hawaiian-shirt-guy called your coworker a cunt and then threw up on the floor of the bathroom, missing the toilet by a solid meter. There was also the guy who insisted that he was such a successful lover, no one could stomach to call him back in case they became addicted.
But Dr. Robinavitch—Robby as he insisted he be called—was a maudlin drunk. By the end of the night you were always a little worried to let him go home alone in case he did something he couldn’t take back. He tipped well, though, so that was something. He had been coming in more sporadically since July. One night, when he was more tipsy than drunk, he implied something had occurred and he began seeking help.
Tonight he looked more alert. Sometimes, when he came in, he wore the world on his shoulders. At least tonight you were greeted with a semi-convincing smile.
“Dr. Robby,” you greeted. You’d stopped asking how his day was months ago.
“How has your shift been?” He asked you.
“Not bad, only have another hours or so before I clock out,” you replied.
The bar was slow tonight. Despite how abysmal the tips were, you preferred it slow. It allowed you to read, or grade, or write while patrons largely entertained themselves. Aimless small talk wasn’t your forte, though you’d certainly improved over the course of this job. Thankfully, the dive bar seemed to attract the kinds of people who wanted to be left alone with their thoughts.
“Busy week?” He asked.
“No more than others. Want your usual?” You asked deflecting his question about your life outside these walls.
A few weeks ago, the last night Robby had truly been wasted (so much so, you cut him off) he’d caught you in a moment of weakness and you’d told him about your PhD work. Despite his normally depressive drunk state, he perked up and began asking you question after question. It seemed to raise his spirits, so you acquiesced assuming he’d forget by the next morning.
His brain was a steel trap, as evidenced by the fact he’d ask about your PhD, either explicitly or in a roundabout way the following half dozen times he came in. He rarely got shit-faced anymore. Most times, he tended to stay on the right side of tipsy. It certainly seemed like he was trying to have a better relationship with alcohol.
In fact, a couple visits previous, you and a coworker watched amazed as he flirted with and then subsequently took home a woman sitting next to him at the bar. It had been live texted in the bartender groups chat to a mixture of awe, surprise, and happiness. Dr. Robby was something of a local legend in his sad but overall non-troublesome behavior. He just liked to talk when drunk and you really didn’t like to talk to drunk people.
Bartending paid well, and needs must.
“Just a rum and coke,” he said settling in on his usual bar stool. It sat off to the side and gave the occupant an easy view of the bar, patio, and front door.
“Got it,” you replied ringing him up. “Tab?”
“Not tonight,” Robby said.
You hoped your surprise didn’t show on your face, but you knew you had a terrible poker face. Looks like the group chat would be getting new information on the bizarre man. Most of your coworkers liked Robby a lot, he was colloquially known as Sad Paddington Bear. Tipping well and not being a menace made him a perfect patron. You were just a little pickier than most, with your days being spent on campus with academics and undergrads—by the time you came to this job your threshold for unique characters had been reached.
Sometimes you felt bad for how unfriendly and uncurious you could be with patrons. Many of your regulars were fun to chat with. They had fascinating lives and stories. You suspected Robby would be one if he got out of his drink. But no one normal goes to get a PhD—including yourself—so you just did not have it in you for Robby’s particular brand of quirky.
“You look surprised,” Robby commented as he handed over his card.
“I don’t look like anything,” you attempted to lie.
Robby snorted, “Every thought you have is written on your face. It’s why I know you don’t like me.”
“I like you fine,” you replied sliding over the card and receipt. “You tip well, who wouldn’t like that?”
“So that’s why it always looks like you sucked on a lemon when I walked in?” He inquires signing the check.
“Maybe I just enjoy snacking on lemons,” you said moving behind the bar and beginning to mix his drink. You made a mental note to work on your ability to control your face. It really was a problem.
“I think that would be more peculiar than not liking me,” Robby told you, sliding the check back over.
He was one of three people currently sitting at the bar, so after you handed him his drink, you glanced at his receipt.
“Is tipping 100% trying to get me to like you more?”
“Yes,” he replied simply, taking a small sip. “Knew you didn’t like me.”
“I don’t like many people, Dr. Robinavitch. I fear you’re not unique. I’m very much the problem here.”
“And yet, for some reason I doubt that. You seem perfectly pleasant to me.”
You couldn’t help the disbelieving snort that his comment elicited. “Might want to get your eyes checked, if that’s what you’re seeing.”
“I see just fine. It’s reading that I need the glasses for,” he stated.
It was unnerving, being stared at by Robby. His eyes were a deep brown and they seemed to have the uncanny ability to stare through you. It made the hair on your neck stand on end. Being watched was fine by you. Lecturing in front of massive classrooms meant public speaking, being perceived, and observed phased you very little. Robby was not observing you. He seemed to be studying you, and that was more than a little uncomfortable.
“Whatever you say,” you replied a little uncomfortable.
“I’ll get you to like me,” he said, an almost charming smile graced his face. It still seemed a little sad.
“Or maybe you need to be okay with the fact you’re not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m certainly not.”
“I think you underestimate yourself.”
“I think you overestimate yourself. I can’t believe you got that smoking hot woman to go home with you.”
“Paying attention to me, then?” He asked. Clearly, it was an attempt to sound suave, but it missed the mark and sounded cheesy.
“The group chat with all the bartenders was very proud of you.”
“And what about you?”
“I wondered if you were too old to get hard on your own and if you popped a sildenafil on your way out.”
“Ouch,” Robby responded but he didn’t sound particularly hurt.
Another patron walked in and you happily took the opportunity to leave the disconsolate aura Robby seemed to emanate around him. All too fast, the patron paid and you got them their drink. Your book was back by Robby. When you glanced at him, he had plucked it from behind the bar and was reading it.
“Have a sudden craving to learn about reform politics in the American southwest?” You asked.
“It’s a well written book,” Robby commented.
“It is, one of the better books I’ve read this semester.”
“I like your notes in the margin; lots of interesting thoughts and connections.”
“Uh-huh.” You gently took the book from his hands and was about to walk away when he asked with a forced causal tone,
“Do you still have that office on the third floor of the social science building?”
You paused. “Why do you know what floor my office is on?”
“You mentioned once your window looks over the duck pond and the statue of the naked guy with the sword,” he said. “Third floor lines up with that.”
You blinked. “I mentioned that months ago.”
He shrugged. “I remember things.”
You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure how to. Most patrons forgot your name by their second drink. Robby remembered throwaway comments at 1AM while half-drunk. It was certainly a little odd, but no one else in your life seemed to pay that much attention to what you said.
“So do you like it better there than your old one?” he asked.
You stared. “My…old one?”
“The one you hated because the fluorescent light buzzed and flickered. You said it gave you headaches.”
You let out a slow breath. “Why do you remember that?”
He took a sip as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You were annoyed. You get more animated when you’re annoyed. It was interesting.”
“That’s not creepy at all,” you said flatly.
He looked mildly alarmed. “Was that creepy?”
“Yes.”
He grimaced. “Okay. Sorry. I just…listen.”
“To everything.”
“Well, yeah.” He hesitated. “You’re…” He trailed off.
“I what?” you asked cautiously.
“You’re the only person who talks to me like I’m not about to break or some shit, like I’m not some sad old man. You don’t like me enough to coddle me.”
You almost said you do think he’s sad, but stopped yourself. Something about the way he stared down at his drink made you uncomfortable. Apparently your stare and subsequent silence elicited a change in tactics.
“So,” he said, brightening with forced cheerfulness. “Conference are coming up, right? You said you hate them. Are you going to that one in—Chicago? MPSA?”
You frowned. “How do you even know when MPSA is?”
“You were complaining about airfare once.”
“That was in February.”
“It was a compelling rant.”
You gave him a look. “Robby. I don’t even tell my friends this stuff.”
He blinked. “We could be friends?”
“Don’t make this weird.”
He deflated slightly but nodded. “Okay. Sorry.” He was quiet for a beat. Then, softer: “I just, like talking to you. Makes it easier to not get drunk.”
You froze, not sure what to do with that.
He immediately panicked at your silence. “You don’t have to! I’m not trying to pry, I swear. Just, I like knowing how your brain works.”
“You say that like it’s a normal thing to say.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
He considered that. “Oh.”
You shook your head. “Robby, I’m not that interesting.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, almost offended. “You’re the most interesting part of my day.”
He realized what he’d said the moment it left his mouth. His eyes widened just slightly, like he wanted to catch the words and shove them back in.
You stared at him.
He took a quick, embarrassed sip of his drink. “That sounded less pathetic in my head.”
“I really doubt that,” you said.
He groaned quietly into his glass. “I’m going to die alone.”
“That feels dramatic.”
“Statistically accurate,” he muttered back.
Despite yourself, you snorted. “There’s no statistically valid way you could even determine that. It would be based on superficial evidence and the endogeneity would render the model completely pointless.”
He looked up, “What is endogeneity?”
“I am not giving you a stats lecture. Aren’t you a doctor. Shouldn’t you know stats?”
“No. I do calculations for drugs and chemical reactions to drugs. I don’t deal with probabilities. At least not like you do.”
“So how do you read case studies or evaluate the veracity of research?”
“Evaluate the veracity of research?”
“Yes, Dr. Robinavitch. If you don’t understand stats then how do you know if the research paper you’re reading is bullshit?”
“Well, it got published didn’t it?”
You felt your eye twitch. “I’ve never been more concerned for the medical profession than I am at this moment. This is why you guys stole “Doctor” from us, because you wanted to appear more like experts.”
“I think we had the title first.”
“I think you should check your facts. Academics were called doctor during the Middle Ages. Medical professionals started using it when they also spent time grave robbing.”
“You’re very passionate about this,” he commented.
“Yeah well,” you took a breath. “Respect is important.”
“So should I call you doctor?”
“I’d have to defend my dissertation first.”
“What’s your dissertation about?”
“Do you want another drink?” You asked ignoring his question.
“Nope,” he replied. “What’s your dissertation about?”
Letting out a harsh breath you said, “Local interest groups and how to encourage people to get involved in local politics.”
“Sounds fascinating,” he said.
“It does not,” you laughed.
“You can’t tell me what I do or don’t find interesting,” he shot back.
“You would be the first non-political scientist to find anything I do interesting.”
“Their loss.”
You stared at him and he held steady under your gaze. Normally, he’d cringe away. According to your students, you had a severe look that would render anyone hesitant and nervous. But Robby idly sipped his drink and kept looking back at you.
“You’re so weird,” you settled with saying.
“You’re not the first to say and I doubt you’ll be the last.”
With narrowed eyes, you turned and began cleaning up your station. You really just wanted to go home.
-- -- --
You were off this week, trying to meet a couple of important deadlines. It meant most evenings were spent on campus in your cramped but homey cubicle staring at numbers you could barely differentiate anymore. In high school you would have given anything to not do math, now you coded complex statistical models and calculated matrix algebra and derivatives. High school you would be devestated.
But current you, the one who was currently sitting in a too-cold-office space with a sweatshirt and a blanket, was fascinating by the results of your field experiment. It’s why you didn’t notice a group text erupting on your phone.
Priya: Sad Paddington Bear came in and asked about our favorite grumpy PhD student.
Rachel: he looked so sad when we told him she was off this week. apparently our girl has an admirer.
Priya: HOLY SHIT!!! He’s flirting with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Again!!!! He’s failing miserably and she seems charmed by it.
Oliver: I can’t believe I’m not there for this. Tell me everything!!!!!!!!
Rachel: she’s probably in her forties if I had to guess. he asked her name and if he could buy “the most beautiful woman in the bar” a drink. it was painfully cheesy
Oliver: did it work?????
Rachel: they’re talking rn!!!!!!!!!!!
Priya: I still can’t believe he has game.
Tanner: Hello all, this group chat is meant for work conversation only.
Priya: Fuck off, Tanner.
Rachel: fuck off tanner
Oliver: you’re a kill joy, tan
Rachel: THEYRE LEAVING TOGETHER. I REPEAT. THEY ARE LEAVING TOGETHER. SPB FUCKS!!!!!
Tanner: I am amazed Sad Paddington Bear has it in him. Guess he cannot count on impressing our grumpy coworker.
You: Fuck off Tanner, you dickhead.
Tanner: Case and point
Oliver: really changed your tune about the group chat there now that we are discussing how Paddington Bear fucks.
Tanner: It is work relevant.
You grumbled at your phone and tossed it in your backpack so it wouldn’t taunt you. So what if you were once again faced with the reality that Robby had game? You didn’t like Robby. He was sad and weird and paid way too much attention to you. Though, the attention he paid didn’t feel creepy so much as intense. He remembered things about you that most of your closest friends couldn’t recall. Not that you blamed them, you just lived in a niche world.
Robby fucking was in no way relevant to the edits you were making to your research nor did it help ease the exhaustion settling on your shoulders. You hadn’t been fucked well basically since you started the PhD program four years ago. It was an itch no one had been good enough to scratch. You briefly wondered if Robby was good in bed; probably not, you decided.
-- -- --
Robby was already at the bar when you clocked in. You were covering for Priya who went home sick, so it was only a couple hours until last call. Robby stared blearily at his empty cup; he didn’t even notice you walk in. Glancing at his tab you saw he had far out ordered his new normal. He was sitting four double gin and tonics deep; a large number for someone whose tab was only opened a little over an hour ago.
“You’re here,” he said syrupily. Robby never slurred, but he did manage to sound sleepy and sickly sweet at times.
“What happened to a healthier relationship with alcohol?” You asked sliding a glass of water with a straw in front of him and taking the mostly empty G&T away.
“I was drinking that,” he grumbled.
“I’ll take if off your tab,” you replied gesturing to the water.
He leaned down and took a drink from the straw. For some reason straws always got the drunk people to drink water. You likened it to a baby with a pacifier. Robby looked particularly sad tonight. You hoped he wasn’t going to talk your ear off. You weren’t sure how to square the man who took home, by all accounts, absolute bombshells, when he was now wasted on G&Ts in front of you.
“You’re my favorite,” he said. He took another drink.
“I’m literally the meanest person here,” you responded. “You have got to fix your self esteem.”
“Esteem is fine,” he replied.
You snorted. “People with healthy self esteem’s don’t gravitate towards people that are mean to them. I thought you said you were seeing someone professionally.”
“Stopped,” he mumbled.
“Healthy.”
“I’m fine,” he replied, his grin was goofy but his eyes were sad.
“Uh-huh,” you knew you sounded unconvinced.
“Do you know what my favorite thing about you is?” Robby asked apropos of nothing.
“No, and I don’t really care,” you sighed, as you began washing cups. You wished he didn’t insist on sitting by the good water spout so you could dishes in peace.
“You don’t lie to protect anyone’s feelings.”
That wasn’t exclusively true. You were far more tactful with your students than adult men at a bar you worked at to make your car payment hurt less.
“Not anyone here, that’s true,” you said.
“I lie all the time,” he announced. “I’m good at it to.”
“What do you lie about?” You asked disbelievingly. Immediately you wished you hadn’t said anything.
“That I’m fine,” he sighed. “I’m not fine. As demonstrated by the fact I’m shit faced on a Tuesday at…” he looked at his watched for longer than a sober man would need, “nine-twenty-seven pm.”
“No offense, Robby. If that’s what you’re lying about, you’re a shit liar.”
“No one else seems to have picked up on it,” he grumbled.
“Don’t you have friends or family?”
“Parents died when I was little. Raised my Bubbe, grandmother. Was the only person to sit shiva for her when she died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” you replied. “It must have been lonely to grieve like that for her.”
“You know what sitting shiva means?”
“I have met a Jewish person, before yes. I do live in Pittsburgh, you know,” you replied.
“You’re full of surprises,” Robby declared.
“I certainly am not,” you scoffed. Robby just shrugged and went silent. Eventually he said,
“All of her family had already passed and then it was just me. Sitting in the empty house watching distant family members and friends I barely knew putter around while I sat and stared. Seven days of nothing.”
“What about your friends?”
He just shrugged.
“Surely in your many years on this earth you’ve picked up a friend or two.”
“Sure, but I’m great at pushing them away. After Adamson died, after I all but killed him, there was no one willing to put up with me.”
“Adamson?”
“Mentor.” Robby said. “Incredible man. Changed the way I looked at the world. Showed me how to be a good doctor and good man. I think I’ve lost both since he passed.”
“How did he die?” You asked, quietly.
“COVID. I made the choice to take him off the ventilator because someone younger needed it. She died, too. Some fucking doctor I am,” Robby said acidicly. It was a tone of voice that surprised you.
“What a goddamn bitch of a situation,” you told him. “I’m sorry you were put in that position.”
“Maybe if I had been a better doctor…” Robby trailed off.
“What? You could have bare knuckle boxed death and won?” You asked, leaning a hip against the bar in front of him. “Way I see it, instead of death taking them easily, it had to fight you tooth and nail for it.”
“Still won.”
“Always will in the end,” you replied shrugging.
“Then maybe there isnt a point.”
“To being a doctor?” You asked.
“That, or keeping going. What’s the point if we all die?”
“Christ.”
“Sorry.”
“You apologize too much.”
“You sound like Jack.”
“Friend?”
“We used to be close,” Robby mumbled.
This was certainly more desolate that you really had the energy for.
“Dude,” you said before you could stop yourself. It was really none of your business. “You seem to be moderately intelligent, so you should know that you can stop pushing away your friends. I’m sure it’s not easy but it’s not a fact of life. Take some agency instead of letting things just happen to you.”
If anything he curled in deeper to himself and you immediately felt a wave of guilt and worry wash over you. When Robby got like this you always had half a mind to call in a welfare check on him when he got home. Maybe you shouldn’t be kicking a man while he’s down.
“See,” he said, a thick emotion in his voice. “No coddling from you.”
“Give me your phone,” you said.
He handed it over without question.
“Give me the password and someone to call for you.”
Robby gave you his four digit code. And said, “Jack, I guess. Don’t think he’s working tonight.”
You scrolled through his contacts (most of which had the Dr. prefix attached to them) and hit call. Almost immediately the phone picked up.
“You good, brother? You don’t normally call this late,” a deep male voice said.
“Uh, yeah. Not Robby. I’m a bartender at Solomon’s on tenth. Robby’s…” you weren’t sure how to say it, “not good? I managed to get him to give me your name. You able to come grab him?”
“Is he okay? Physically?” The man, Jack, asked. You could hear rustling on the other end and a metallic click before hurried footsteps.
“Yes, physically he’s fine. I’m not thrilled with the idea of him going home alone,” you replied. Turning away from Robby so he could see your mouth or hear you—though by the distant look in his eyes you doubted he was listening. “He’s talking a lot about Adamson and death. He is pretty wasted.”
“Fuck,” Jack hissed. “I know it’s not your job, but can you try and keep him there and mostly alive? I’m like twenty minutes away.”
“I can do that. I’ll try and sober him up some.”
“Thank you. Thank you,” Jack said.
You hung up and disappeared in the back where you knew the staff kept a shitty water kettle for the coffee part of Irish coffees. You quickly grabbed some fries from the kitchen and brewed a cup of coffee. When you came back, Robby was slumped against the bar.
“Rise and shine, sad boy. You need to eat and drink this,” you said placing the food and coffee in front of him. The water was almost empty so you refilled that as well.
“I’m good.”
“Eat the fries and drink the fucking coffee,” you snapped. “I’m trying to help you.”
“You don’t like me,” he shot back.
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t have to like you to want you to be okay,” you replied flicking his forehead lightly.
“Asshole,” he grumbled sitting up and taking a sip of coffee. He coughed at the bitter taste.
“Sorry we don’t have anything good.”
“Probably for the best.”
You continued working while keeping an eye on Robby. He drank the coffee and ate the fries, slowly he was looking a little better when the door opened and a sturdy man in a US Army sweatshirt limped in. He had close cropped grey and silver hair. His facial expression was frantic and worried, but relaxed when he spied Robby stooped at the bar picking at the last couple fries.
“You look like shit,” you heard the man say.
“Normally that’s her line,” Robby said loosely. He lazily pointed at you. There wasn’t a legitimate reason you could avoid the pair, so you walked over.
“You’re the one that called?” Jack asked.
“Yes,” you replied introducing yourself.
“Oh, you’re that bartender,” Jack realized.
“Which one?” You inquired.
“He likes you.”
“He shouldn’t. I’m mean.”
“He’s fucked up that way,” Jack said. “Thank you, for taking care of him.”
“Just doing my job,” you said.
Jack snorted. “It’s not. Can I pay out his tab?”
“Don’t worry about it, the system will close it out,” you replied. “Just get him home safe.”
“Will do and thank you again,” Jack said pulling Robby to his feet. The pair ambled out into the chilly winter air and you couldn’t help but feel the lack of Robby’s presence haunting the edge of your bar.
-- -- --
It had been over two months since you’ve seen Robby. Most of you didn’t think about him. Regulars disappeared all the time. Regulars who seemed one bad day away from throwing themselves in the river also disappeared but you were hopeful his water logged body wouldn’t be found based on Jack’s presence. You had a sneaking suspicion that Robby’s view of his friendship was muddied by his lack of self esteem. If Jack wasn’t a friend you weren’t sure what else he could be.
Campus was close to the major hospital in the area. It was a good thing too, since the thin sheet of ice that coated all the sidewalks had sent many an undergrad to the clinic with a twisted ankle. You were hesitantly walking down a set of concrete steps after your lecture when an undergrad rushed by you and knocked you over.
You felt your feet fly out from under you and the hard crack of icy concrete on your elbow and you slid down the stairs. There was a distance “Sorry!” as the undergrad ran off.
“Fuck,” you managed trying to sit up. Your vision swam and you felt something warm and stick on the side of your face.
“Holy shit,” a voice said. You recognized her as one of the students from your class. “Professor? Are you okay?”
“Sure,” you said, trying to sit up again.
“Okay, maybe don’t do that. Your head is bleeding a lot. Ryan! Ryan, call 911. I think she needs an ambulance.”
“I’m fine,” you grumbled.
You started to take stock of your body now that the initial shock of the fall had worn off. Your leg was curled awkwardly under your body and with a heave, you managed to get it in front of you. Your legs felt fine, though there was a rip in your favorite pair of pants and blood seeping out of a gash in your leg. Trying to move your left arm sent nauseating pain through your body, so you kept it firmly tucked against you. With your non injured hand you tried to feel for whatever wound was on your head.
“Okay, definitely don’t do that,” your student said. “You’re covered in dirty ice, you’ll give yourself an infection. Ryan went to grab someone from the department too.”
As if on cue, you heard the slamming of footsteps behind you and the familiar voice of the graduate program director going, “Oh fuck. Are you all right?”
You were lying flat on your back in the icy concrete. In what world were you all right?
“The ambulance is here,” another voice said. The cloudy afternoon was beginning to get dimmer. Fuck, your head hurt. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to close your eyes for a minute.
The next time you came to, it felt like the world was moving. There were bright lights, loud voices and an incessant squeaking that made you want to cover your ears. Slowly, the rest of your body came back into focus and you heard a familiar voice say,
“Any LOC?”
A female voice behind you answered, “She’s been in and out since we picked her up. Oriented at first but lost consciousness before we got there.”
“Fuck off, I’m fine,” you hissed, very much not fine.
“I’ll take grumpy and incorrect over unconscious,” the voice said. “Okay, roll her to the bed and we’ll transfer on three. One…two..three.”
For a moment you felt yourself lift and then land on a less comfortable bed. The surface was harder, covered with that weird hospital paper, and colder than the gurney. Your eyes were still closed, but the lights above you were so bright you could feel them—white heat buzzing against your eyelids like someone pressing flashbulbs to your face.
Then came the hands.
One on your wrist. Another pushing up your sleeve. Cold pads sticking to your chest, your sweater no longer covering your tank top. Fingers checking your jaw. Gloves brushing your ribs. Something tight wrapped around your arm. Something else snapping against your ankle.
Too much.
Too many.
Your skin crawled under every point of contact. You tried to jerk away, but your body wouldn’t cooperate.
“This is worse than falling,” you said, and even you could hear the pitch of panic creeping into your voice. “Seriously—stop—just—”
“Mel, keep her talking and calm,” a voice said somewhere near your head. You knew that voice. You just couldn’t get your brain to land on the name.
“Hi there,” a woman said gently from your right. “I’m Mel. You’re okay, you’re at the hospital.”
Hospital. Right. You knew that. But it didn’t help. The beeping. The fluorescent hum. The rustle of paper gowns and gloves. Every sound was too loud. Every light was too sharp. Every hand on you felt like sandpaper over raw nerves.
“I want people to stop touching me,” you groaned, trying to pull your arm in, but someone grabbed your wrist before you got far. The movement sent agony lancing up your arm and you gasped, vision flashing white. “Fucking—ow—stop, stop—”
“Okay, arm fracture, careful,” Mel warned the nurse.
But the hands didn’t stop. They shifted instead—someone pressing down on your shoulder, another holding your chin steady as a light was shined in your eyes. You recoiled instinctively.
You hated this.
Too many people, too close, pinning you to a table like you were something to be restrained and examined. Every nerve ending screamed. Every second of it made your heart slam against your ribs, desperate for space, for air, for control.
“Hey,” Mel said softly, noticing the way your breathing hitched. “You’re safe. I know it feels like a lot. We’re just getting your vitals and making sure you’re stable.”
“This is not stable,” you snapped. You could hear yourself starting to spiral but couldn’t stop. “This is the opposite of stable. Get your fucking hands off—”
You heard your name.
Your eyes dragged to the sound.
Robby.
Standing at the foot of the bed, chart in hand, eyes on you. He looked, your sluggish brain struggled for the right word, not bad. He wore dark scrubs, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Everyone seemed to be responding to him. You closed your eyes as the room began to spin.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did. Even as your chest heaved and your hands balled into fists.
“No one is going to hurt you,” he said, voice even. Almost detached. “They’re doing their jobs. Let them get what they need, and I’ll make them back off.”
You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him he didn’t get to manage you. You wanted to shove every hand away and rip off every wire and bolt out of the room. The panic sat high in your throat like you were going to choke on it.
The lights were too bright. The voices were too loud. The touches were too much.
“Fuck,” you whispered, and hated how small it sounded.
“We’ve got you,” he said. “Just breathe.”
You inhaled shakily.
Hand rested on your ankle. The room was still chaos. The light still pierced through your eyelids. Everything was too much, but if you focused on the warm hand that settled on your bare ankle it was almost bearable. Gritting your teeth, you tried to block out everything else except his touch. When you were more coherent, you would find the irony of relying on Robby amusing.
“Mel, give me next steps,” he said, hand still in place.
The doctor stood on your right, her tone soft and low—surprisingly rich, like honey poured into warm tea. “Head lac needs irrigation and staples. Bleeding’s controlled. Pupils equal, reactive, but she’s photosensitive. GCS is fourteen—dropped once en route but came back up. Left arm—obvious deformity, likely distal radius or ulna fracture, maybe both. Possible sprain or hairline fracture in the lateral malleolus on the left ankle—she’s guarding it.”
“She guarding everything,” one of the nurses muttered, adjusting the leads stuck to your chest.
“No shit,” you snapped. “Maybe stop poking me like I’m a Thanksgiving turkey.”
Mel hummed, sounding amused rather than offended. “Conversational. Good sign.”
“She’s always like this,” Robby said, almost under his breath.
You glared at him. “I am not.”
His mouth barely twitched. “CT ordered?”
“Waiting on transport,” Mel said. “Do you want C-spine? She denied neck pain, full range of motion at the scene.”
Robby glanced at you again, his eyes scanning your posture. You realized he was checking the subtle ways you moved—or didn’t. “No collar yet. If her pain spikes or she reports new symptoms, we’ll immobilize. For now, keep her semi-upright so she doesn’t pass out.”
“I can hear you, you know,” you muttered. “I’m not a mannequin.”
“Unfortunately,” Robby murmured, dry.
Before you could tell him to fuck off, Mel leaned closer, casting just a little shadow over your face—mercifully blocking the light. Her voice was gentle but matter-of-fact, her cadence a little off in a way that made you think she thought carefully about each word before she spoke. “We’re going to clean your head wound. It might hurt. We’ll be as quick and gentle as we can. Okay?”
Mel was easily becoming your favorite person in the room. She clearly outlined her actions and didn’t attempt to sugarcoat or mollify.
You exhaled slowly. “Fine. Just…please don’t surprise me.”
“I will do my best,” she said seriously, and you believed her.
An alcohol pad touched the edge of the gash at your temple and you jerked instinctively. Pain flared hot, crawling behind your eye.
“Shit—fuck—” you hissed.
“Almost done,” Mel promised, calm as ever.
Hands were still on your arms, wrists, shoulders—but the one on your ankle grounded you. You focused hard on that one, because if you let yourself feel all the others, you were going to come out swinging.
Robby’s thumb moved—just slightly. The smallest shift of pressure. The subtlest reminder to keep you in your body and not desperately trying to escape.
“Transport ready?” he asked without looking away from you.
“Any minute,” someone said from the doorway.
Mel finished cleaning. “She’s going to hate the staples.”
“She hates everything,” Robby said.
“I wouldn’t hate it if you let me sleep again,” you mumbled.
“No sleeping,” he warned automatically.
“You’re the worst doctor I’ve ever met.”
“Get in line,” he said. His tone was flat, but something deep in it—something only someone who had listened to him talk for hours in dim bar lighting—sounded faintly relieved.
You sucked in another breath, trying to brace yourself for whatever fresh hell came next.
And then you heard the gurney being unlocked again.
The CT was better than the trauma room. It was dark. The nurse gave you earplugs and a warm blanket. You were still dizzy and in a lot of pain, but even without Robby’s hand, you felt like panicky.
The nurse took off all your jewelry and removed everything from your pockets. She started an IV in your arm that you barely felt. She rarely spoke unless informing you what was coming next. Despite the loud humming of the machine, you preferred this to everything else.
Eventually the machine began, you moved back and forth through the machine. With your eyes closed and earplugs in, it was easy to let your body calm down.
By the time the test was done and you were wheeled back into the ER proper, you were given an actual room and no longer in the trauma bay. Mel let you keep the earplugs. A new nurse, or maybe a previous one you snapped at, helped you change into a hospital gown and graciously let you keep you underwear on. Small victories.
Mel came back with Robby and slowly stitched your head wound while Robby looked at your leg.
“What happened?” He asked softly. You were calmer, more coherent now.
“Someone knocked me over on some stairs. Gravity did the rest,” you said. “Sorry that I was such a bitch before.”
“You’re fine,” Robby said at the same time Mel replied with,
“You were a bit mean, but it is completely understandable given the circumstances.”
“Dr. King,” Robby sighed. He was about to say something but your giggles stopped him.
“Dr. King?” You asked.
“Call me, Mel.”
“Mel, I think you’re my favorite doctor. Please apologize to all the healthcare workers I was mean to, for me. I know they were just trying to help.”
“I’ll pass it along,” Mel said kindly. “I’m going to put in an order for pain meds and follow up with Ortho. Want me to finish her leg, Dr. Robby?”
“I got it, Mel. Check on South 15 for me,” he directed.
“Got it,” she replied leaving.
“I can dim the lights and use a head lamp if that would be easier?” He asked quietly. “It’s going to take me a bit to stitch this.”
“That would be helpful. My head is throbbing,” you replied.
Robby nodded and clicked off the lights before he washed his hands and gloved up. He slid on a dorky looking headlamp with magnifying glasses on it. You wanted to make a joke but a wave of nausea slammed into you at the sight of the open wound on your leg.
“I need you to stay still,” Robby said softly.
“Sorry, sorry. I looked too closely at my leg. I think I’m going to puke,” you gagged.
He slid over to the cabinet and pulled out a barf bag. You clutched it against your mouth breathing deeply with your eyes clenched closed. Eventually the nausea passed and you thankfully didn’t throw up in front of Robby.
“Do you need anything?”
“You’re being too nice to me, considering I called you a bad doctor,” you replied instead of answering.
“Water? Juice?” He asked ignoring you. Normally that was your move.
“Water, but I’d prefer the leg to be stitched first. If I open my eyes and see it, I might pass out again.”
“So you’re able to explain nuances of statistics and political socialization, but blood gets you?” Robby asked. You felt the pressure of the needle and pull of the thread, but nothing hurt.
“Not blood, blood is fine. The giant open wound on my thigh gets me. I shouldn’t be able to see my own muscles,” you said gagging again at the thought.
“I’ve never seen you break your composure. Even earlier when you were having a hard time,” Robby replied almost sounding amused. “It’s nice to know you’re human, too.”
“When have I ever appeared not human?”
Robby snorted. “I really don’t think you know how people perceive you.”
“Takes one to know one,” you shot back.
Robby let out a humorless chuckle. “Suppose you’re right.”
“Are you…okay?” You asked.
“Getting there,” he said.
He was silent for a minute and you thought that was the end of his statement. It was more than what you thought you’d get. Instead, Robby took a breath and continued,
“That night, Jack, he took me to a treatment facility. I was there for a week and I’ve been doing therapy and group twice a week ever since.”
“Good for you.”
“Apparently a lot go healthcare providers got fucked by COVID,” Robby said conversationally.
“If I got fucked by COVID, I can only imagine you did,” you said humorlessly.
“I owe some of it to you,” he said after a bout of silence.
“What in the world could I have done? I’m just your mean bartender.”
Robby chuckled. “True, but having a stranger you want to like you, call you pathetic and tell you to get your life together…well, I guess it was the kick I needed.”
“So does that mean you admit you have friends now?”
“Yes,” Robby sighed. You smiled.
“Good. I’m glad you’re no longer sad and morose haunting the end of my bar.”
“Instead you’re terrorizing my ER,” he commented. Your eyes were still closed but you could hear the smile in his voice.
“Your ER?”
“I’m the chief attending,” he replied.
“No shit,” you said. “Why would you care if I liked you when you’re impressive and shit.”
“Impressive and shit?”
“Answer the question.”
He sighed. “I think I’ll pass on that one. Anyways, about done with your last stitch.”
You didn’t push, but there was something odd in his voice. “Can I get those pain meds now?”
“Sure thing,” he said warmly. “Your leg is covered if you want to open your eyes.”
You did and there was a low light in the room, but the bright fluorescents were off. Robby smoothed the gauze over your thigh and you felt his warmth even through the latex gloves. He smiled at you as he departed. Shortly thereafter, a nurse came in with pain meds and sleep over took you.
The next time you saw Robby you were still a little high on pain meds which is what you’ll blame for asking,
“Do you still pick up women now that you’re not a drunk?”
“Christ,” he said. He had just entered the room to check on your wound. “Warm a guy before giving him the inquisition.”
“I’m just curious if you’re still a slut now.”
“I wasn’t a slut then,” he protested.
“See I thought it didn’t happen much because it never happened on my shift. But I compared notes. You picked up a lot of women.”
“It was a normal amount,” he defended.
“Sure,” you drawled.
“I might have been a little slutty,” he acknowledged.
“You have hidden depths. I think we misjudged you when naming you Sad Paddington Bear.”
“Sad Paddington Bear?”
“It’s what the bartenders call you. Although maybe we should have called you a sad gigolo.”
“You’re very nosy on pain meds,” he said.
“I really am. Haven’t been on them before. Lot nicer than feeling all the cuts and scraps on my body.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Stiff, sore, probably embarrassed when my heads back on normal.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Robby replied with a hand lightly resting on your knee. He seemed to realize what he was doing and removed his hand.
“When can I leave?” You asked. “I want to be in my own bed.”
“You’ll need another neuro test before I feel comfortable letting you go,” he said. “Do you have someone to stay with you? Friend? Family? …Partner?”
“I’ll call a friend. Family is in a different state. And no partner. Who knows, maybe I’m a slut too,” you said.
You watched his lips quirk up. “You don’t like people enough to be a slut.”
You snorted. “That is so accurate. Having someone sweaty uselessly humping me is so boring.”
“Uselessly?”
Once again, you’d like to thank the pain meds for your loose lips. “Let’s just say, it’s been a real lack of skill in my bedroom from other humans. My vibrator? Astounding. She does great work.”
Robby cleared his throat as color washed over his cheeks. “Right, well—“
“If you’re a slut, it stands to reason that you probably wouldn’t be useless,” you thought out loud.
“Okay, looks like we should dial back the pain meds,” Robby said.
“So you are useless?”
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” he stated.
“Absolute babes went home with you apparently more than once. That must mean something,” you mumbled.
“You’re killing me,” Robby groaned.
“Where do you pick up women now that you don’t drink.”
“It’s really none of your business,” he tried to say. You continued talking,
“Coffee shop? I feel like you’d have a coffee shop you go to now.”
He did have a coffee shop he went to now and he didn’t like that you were able to puzzle that out so quickly while on pain meds.
“Look, I think we’re off track here,” Robby tried again.
“You’re hot, you know that?”
Robby cleared his throat and rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I think I’ll send Mel in.”
“I’m just going to keep talking like this. Because for the first time in my life I cannot figure out how to shut up,” you stated. Distantly, you knew you’d be horrified by this later. But it wasn’t later. And the words kept coming.
Robby sighed and sat down next to you. “I’m not going to answer your questions.”
“That’s fine. Your prerogative.”
“So it seems we’re at an impass,” he stated.
“Apparently,” you said. “Although, I do have something to confess.”
“Is it going to make me uncomfortable as your current healthcare provider?” Robby asked tiredly. You snorted.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“All right, go ahead.”
“I don’t like you as a drunk, but as a doctor dealing with me on pain meds, I find you surprisingly charming. Long suffering, for sure, but charming too.”
“That is the meanest compliment I’ve received,” Robby half laughed, disbelievingly.
“It wasn’t meant to be mean!” You protested. “God these meds are fucking with me.”
Robby patted your hand and said, “Once the meds wear off and we check your brain again, I’ll discharge you. I…I am going to write down my number and if you feel comfortable, I just want you to let me know you’re okay.”
“Is this how you picked up the women?” You asked conspiratorially.
“No,” he said. Then almost to himself, added, “This is such a strange version of you.”
“Oh I know. I’m going to be mortified tomorrow.”
Robby snorted. “I’m putting my number in your discharge paperwork, okay?”
“Whatever you say, Dr. Robby. I think I might sleep again.”
“Probably a good call for both of us.”
-- -- --
It was two days post-discharge when the memory of your pain‐medicated encounter with Robby came swimming back.
“Oh fuck,” you groaned.
You were sitting on your couch with your leg propped on pillows and your arm in a sling, still in ratty pajamas you hadn’t changed out of since getting home. A dull ache radiated from every bruise and stitch, and the concussion made the world feel slightly tilted. But none of that compared to the slow, creeping horror pooling in your gut as you remembered exactly what you’d said to him.
Are you still a slut?
My vibrator does great work.
You're attractive, you know that?
You dragged your one good hand down your face and wished you could legally induce a coma. For your entire life, you had always been a little socially awkward. Most of the time your sense of humor never quite lined up with everyone else, your grasp of small talk was a battle fought for in awkward silences. Years of forcing yourself to get better at talking finally made you comfortable, but now you wanted to melt into your couch never to see another person again.
“Who was that?” you whispered to no one.
Part of you, the delusional part, hoped maybe you’d hallucinated the whole thing. Maybe it hadn’t been real. Then you glanced at your coffee table. The discharge folder sat there. Hesitantly, you opened the folder and tucked under the business card for the hospital was a Post-It with a phone number and one line written in neat block letters:
PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOU’RE OKAY. —R
“Nope, it was real,” you muttered. “Kill me.”
You tossed the folder back on the table and stared at it like you were afraid it would explode. There were two choices now: one, fake your death or two, be an adult and text the confident and normal version of Robby who had put up with your drug addled word vomit. Option one was very tempting.
You spent the rest of the day alternately sleeping and cringing. Every time you drifted off, your brain generously replayed another snippet of the conversation in 4K quality. It was easy to remember his hand on yours, the way he so effortlessly kept you calm and from panicking. You even recalled his panicked look when you asked him if he was still a slut. Groaning you wondered if you could smother yourself with a pillow. But he had been so kind; his kindness was the only reason you hadn’t absolutely lost your shit.
(Realistically, you knew Mel would have been able to calm you down, but still.)
You stared at your phone.
“You should text him,” a traitorous part of you whispered.
“Absolutely not,” the rest of you replied.
You sat with that for ten minutes.
Then twenty.
Then an hour.
You almost threw a pillow across the room. “Goddammit.”
You grabbed your phone.
Fine.
You’d text him.
One simple, neutral message.
Something mature, like: thanks again for your help.
Something that did not reference slut discourse or vibrators or the fact that you maybe, possibly, kind of liked him.
You typed:
hey. i lived, thanks for the stitches i guess
You stared at it.
You deleted “i guess.”
You added:
and sorry if i was weird. pain meds are evil.
You hovered over “send” for a solid sixty seconds.
Then, daring to breathe, you hit send.
Three seconds later, anxiety punched you in the throat. You threw your phone on the chair next to you hoping you wouldn’t hear it if it buzzed with his response. Painfully, you stood and limped over to your tiny kitchen. Making tea with one hand took double the time it did with two, it meant you were busy for double the time it would have normally distracted you for. Perhaps, you could still unsend the message. You checked the clock. Five minutes had passed. Maybe he wouldn’t respond. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he’d changed his number. Maybe—
You heard your phone buzz. Fuck. For a moment you stared at the chair, and slowly limped over to it, grabbing the offending device and terrified to see the response.
Finally, you grabbed it.
Robby (unknown number):
Hello. I’m glad you are safe. How is your pain level today?
You glared. Of course he was more normal than you were in this situation. That really annoyed you. He was meant to be the one who was awkward and cringey. You eased back onto the couch with your tea and wrote out:
headachy and sore. the stitches itch, too.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Robby: Are you having any new symptoms?
• Worsening headache
• Dizziness
• Nausea
• Vision changes
• Difficulty focusing more than before
You rolled your eyes.
You: you text like a web-md checklist
Robby: That is perhaps the rudest thing you could say to a doctor. I just want to make sure you’re okay.
You: yeah, im fine. thank you for your concern Robby.
stitches are driving me crazy tho
There was a longer pause this time. Then:
Robby: I’m glad you’re better. Have you eaten today?
You: none of your business (yes, a friend brought me soup).
Robby: Sounds like you have good friends. I’m glad you’ve eaten. A good diet and sleep are your best healing assets right now.
You: best healing assets?
Robby: Was that inappropriate?
You: no you just sounded like a dork
Robby: Seems to be something I frequently deal with around you.
You: are you blaming me for your inability to talk to women?
Robby: I can talk to women just fine. Something you have already established.
You: touche. so it’s just me?
Robby: I think it is.
You: do you still think i don’t like you? is that why you’re so weird?
Robby: Partially
You: and the other part?
Robby: I’ll plead the fifth, that. Your stitches should be ready to come out in a week or so. If you don’t want to go to the doctor, I can take them out for you.
If you want, that is.
No pressure.
You: technically pleading the fifth is only something you can only do when dealing with the government, but i’ll allow it since you were very kind to me when i was an absolute nightmare on pain meds.
and that would be very appreciated. ill buy you a coffee as a thanks. and i won’t be mean
Robby: You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.
You: was that a joke?
Robby: Yes, evidently not a good one.
You: i am impressed, nonetheless.
Robby: Please keep me updated on how you’re feeling.
You: i make no promises. im terrible at texting
Robby: I’ve noticed. There has not been a single capitalization this whole time. You’re getting a PhD.
You: if you think about it, getting a phd is really the dumbest thing you could do, so i would argue it’s in character.
Robby: We’ll agree to disagree there.
Texting with Robby was strange. It was strange to communicate with someone you once dreaded seeing. It was very weird for him to offer to take out your stitches for you, saving you a trip to the campus clinic or urgent care; neither option seemed attractive to you.
The next week and a half passed like molasses. Each time you thought your body had improved enough to do an extra chore, or your brain had healed enough to open your laptop, your body aggressively reminded you that rest was still required. Thankfully, a few days into your boredom inducing bed rest, the TV became a viable option again assuming you kept the brightness down and the volume at a tolerable level.
Every so often you would text Robby an update or he would ask for one. You found yourself looking forward to the messages. Not drunk and seeking mental health help, he actually was funny and the maudlin angst had been replaced with the occasional dark joke. One time he sent you the middle finger emoji and you were unironically proud of him.
It wasn’t until the fifth day on bed rest did the occasional text turn into something more.
You: what do i do if the stitches are red and kinda making me nauseous?
Robby: Nauseous because you have a weak stomach or because you think it’s an additional symptom?
You: unclear, kinda been sick all day but i’ve also had a bitch of a headache too
Robby: I’m going to video call. I want to see the wound.
You phone rang a moment after you liked the message. Robby’s face appeared and it looked like he was at home. It was instinctually to search his background looking for any hint of his history that he hadn’t already poured out to your at the bar. He seemed to be sitting on a couch or chair, and behind him was a wall full of vinyl records. There was soft lamp light and the faint hum of music in the background.
“Sorry to bother you so late,” you told him wincing.
“I could have ignored your message,” he replied simply. You wondered if there was ever a world where he would ignore someone who needed him.
“I’ll owe you a whole meal when this is over,” you told him.
“You’re way too poor for me to take you up on that,” he replied, making you snort.
“That is unfortunately correct. Still, I’ll figure out a way to repay you,” you told him.
A faint blush appeared on his cheeks and you couldn’t figure out why he seemed flushed by your words. (Later, upon reflection you would hear the double entendre, but frankly, that was his problem not yours.) Clearing his throat, he said,
“Aim the camera at your wound, please.”
“Okay, I can’t really look at it, so you’ll have to tell me if my camera work is off,” you said.
You moved your phone so it reflected at your lap and the ratty cotton shorts you’d been living in. They barely covered any of your leg, which was useful when you had to change the dressing on your wound. Before it started turning red and weeping, it wasn’t that bad. Now, just looking at it made you sick.
“Can you turn on your phone flash light or make it brighter?” Robby asked.
“Sure thing,” You said, turning on your phone’s flashlight.
“Is it warm?”
“Yeah.”
“Does it throb?”
“No,” you replied.
“Are you running a fever?”
“How the fuck would I know?” you asked.
“Do you not have a thermometer?” he asked. For the first time, you heard a hint of exasperation in his voice. It made you smile.
“Maybe? My mom sent me a care package when I got the flu a few months ago. Let me see,” you told him, turning the phone back to your face.
You eased off the couch and limped to your kitchen where you shoved the box your mom had sent. Propping up your phone against the kitchen backsplash, you rummaged through the box and to your surprise, found a thermometer. It was the basic kind you put under your tongue.
“Gotta love a woman who can’t express her love with words and instead sends a care package to her adult daughter in her thirties,” you said, popping the cap off the thermometer and sticking it under your tongue.
You hadn’t glanced at your phone since aiming it at your leg in fear you’d see something that would make your stomach churn even more than it already was. Now, propped up, you could see that Robby slid on his reading glasses and to your shock and horror, he looked hot. So attractive in fact, you almost let the thermometer slip out of your mouth.
His rugged, slightly scraggly beard was reminiscent of how you’d seen him at the bar, but this time it was due to him rubbing his hand through the hair as he waited for you to measure your fever. Something about the addition of the glasses brought into focus how his narrow face was actually quite enticing. You briefly wondered what his beard would feel like between your legs.
“Christ,” you said without realizing that he could obviously hear and see you.
“Are you okay? You seemed freaked out,” Robby replied. “Is your temperature high?”
Thankfully, the thermometer beeped loudly, giving you a chance to pull it out of your mouth and look at it. “99.6.”
“Not too bad. You sure you’re good?”
“I am a bit freaked about the leg,” you said. It wasn’t a lie, but certainly wasn’t the whole truth. You briefly the revisited the idea of smothering yourself. What happened when you hit your head that made you think Robby was attractive?
“It certainly looks inflamed. I would do a good clean and put some antibiotic cream on it.”
“And what if cleaning it makes me gag?”
“Then I guess we’ll have to amputate,” he said.
You stared at him. “I’m annoyed that I found that funny.”
“And yet, you didn’t laugh.”
“Well, the annoyance won out in the end.”
Robby snorted. “Do you need me to come over and help clean it?”
“I can’t ask you to do that. Plus, I don’t think I’ve annoyed my friends enough about this yet. Why bother the very nice doctor when I could bug my friends?”
“So I’ve graduated from Sad Paddington Bear to very nice doctor?”
“Congratulations. It does not come with a pay increase. But what can you do? The economy is in shambles.”
He snorted and shook his head. “I want you to send me an update on your leg tomorrow, please. If it gets worse you’ll need to go to urgent care.”
“Ugh, anything but that,” you complained. “It’s terrible there.”
“And yet so much better than sepsis,” he replied.
“I dunno, juries out,” you grumbled limping back to the couch.
“How is your head?”
“Hurts and I can barely do anything. I can watch TV if I don’t look directly at the screen, so that’s something. Mainly listening to audiobooks of shit I’ve already read.”
You settled back onto your couch and buried yourself back under the covers you had created your nest from. The view of your camera caught the warmth of your couch and some of the quirky decor including the art print of a woman leading a man on a leash with “This Ain’t My First Rodeo” painted above it. Angling the camera away from the slightly inappropriate art work, you felt better with the section of wall that was now showing. It was a corner of your diploma and photo from a christmas party with your friends. Much more appropriate.
“What have you been listening to?”
“A lot of comedy and re-listening to my favorite book series. My entertainment is purely escapism since I spend most of my day reading, writing, or doing math about politics,” you told him.
“You’ll have to send me suggestions. Nothing I’ve read recently has kept much of my attention,” he replied.
You then delved into details of your favorite book series. The conversation spiraled from books to television to the records Robby had on current rotation. More than that, he asked questions about your PhD, hesitantly, and you answered. It didn’t feel like a weird overreach anymore. Robby really was intelligent and normal when not drunk or tipsy. You almost felt proud of him. By the time the phone call ended, you felt calmer about your leg and less worked up over the boredom.
You chose not to think about it too much.
-- -- --
When the stitches were due to come out, you almost didn’t text Robby. It felt like an imposition. Over the past day or so you felt tremendously better. Your head was no longer one overstimulation away from a migraine, you could feel your brain fog lifting, and movement didn’t hurt much. Everything was still a little sensitive, but the real annoyance was how bored and pent up you were. Still, the relief from getting the stitches removed almost didn’t beat the feeling of taking advantage of Robby.
Robby: Can I come by after my shift ends to take out your stitches? I want to look at everything and make sure it’s healing well.
You: you don’t have to
but yes please
if i think about having thread in my body too long it kinda freaks me out
Robby: Please send me your address. I’ll be by around 7:30 or 8:00pm.
You: you text like an octogenarian. here’s my address.
Robby: Octogenarians don’t text.
You: tell that to my grandma. she’s a whiz with those me-mojis or whatever the fuck they are.
Robby: That is not a real thing. I think you’re messing with me.
You: i am not. but regardless. see you tonight. and thank you again!
Robby: It really is not a problem. I want to do this.
You tried not to let that go to your head. It was weird someone liking you the way Robby did. Most people, even romantic prospects tended to tolerate your rough personality and busy schedule. Your friends were a niche group of individuals far more focused on their careers.
This was new. This wasn’t bad.
At 7:45 you heard a knock at your door. Slowly, only due to your leg—not anything else at all, you made your way to the door. You had slightly tidied up throughout the day. Being couch bound had made your living room a bit of a war zone. Now you had your laundry going and you’d even managed to load your dishwasher.
Opening the door to Robby was strange. You had seen him in exactly two places and now he was walking into your apartment. He even walked like a new person now. He didn’t slouch or slump or plod. He still had abysmal posture, but there was a surety that had replaced the downtrodden-ness of his person.
He wore dark cargo pants, a black scrub top with a navy blue long sleeved shirt underneath. Said shirt was pushed up to just below his elbows and your eyes focused on his forearms before finally stepping back and letting him into your space.
“Can I get you something to drink?” You asked.
“I don’t drink anymore,” he said.
“Congrats. I don’t drink at all. I have about five flavors of sparkling water and generic sprite,” you replied, shutting and locking the door. “I also make a mean hot chocolate.”
“I’m good for now,” he said. “Where do you want to do this?”
“Shouldn’t that be your call?”
“I just need to wash my hands,” he replied, shrugging. His hands were in his pockets.
“Then let’s do the living room. I’m still a little sore,” you told him. “Kitchen is right there. I even have out my Christmas hand soap.”
You pointed at the kitchen in the very open concept front part of your apartment. There was a small hallway just to the right of your front door that held a small hallway where your bathroom, washing closet, and bedroom door opened.
Your living room was a surprisingly decent size for your rent. It was big enough for a couch, bookshelves and your desk. Your kitchen was narrow, and looked even more so with Robby’s broad frame standing in front of your sink. He thoroughly washed his hands and dried them on a paper towel.
Sitting on the edge of your couch, you watch as he pulled over his backpack and grabbed a smattering of tools. There were scissors, hemostats, and various cleaning wipes and creams.
“Can I sit here?” Robby asked pointing to your coffee table. It was one of the few expensive things you owned.
“Yeah, she’s study enough,” you replied.
Robby sat down. Your shorts were plenty short and you found yourself curious how he was going to do this. He seemed confident and self assured. Dr. Robby was a man who wasn’t cowed by his snarky and too-mean bar tender.
“I’m going to slightly readjust you and put your leg on my lap, is that okay?” Robby asked sliding on his ready glass.
“Yes,” you said breathlessly. He glanced up at your tone and lightly put a hand on your knee.
“Don’t panic. This will be over quickly.”
Interesting, he read the slightly shocked and a tiny bit horny reaction you had to worried. You couldn’t help but be a little grateful. Not trusting your voice, you just nodded at him. He gingerly lifted your socked foot and put it in his lap. The fabric of his pants was scratchy against your skin, but you could fill the heat of his legs burning through.
“This has healed well,” Robby replied. He’d donned gloves at some point after putting your leg in his lap and was manually inspecting the wound. You stared up at the ceiling mostly to keep from seeing the stitches but an added benefit was not seeing Robby.
“Oh yeah, this looks great. You should be fine after we get the stitches out,” he said. You just hummed not trusting your voice.
The sensation of removing the stitches far outweighed any pleasantness from having Robby’s hands on your skin. You tried to focus on way his hand gripped your thigh or the way you could feel his stomach against your foot. Instead when you felt a thread pull through you shuddered and tried not to gag.
“Do you need a break?”
“No, I need you to finish this as quick as possible,” you said.
“Yes ma’am.”
He continued his ministrations and you desperately tried to focus on the subtle smell of his cologne. Or the growing yearning in your stomach for him to push you down on the couch and fuck you within an inch of your life.
That had been a startling realization but one that felt like it was always meant to happen. Another thread pulled through your skin and you heard yourself whine sharply. Not even horniess was getting your through this.
After the last thread was pulled from your leg, resulting in a twitch at the awful feeling, Robby took off his gloves and began putting his tools back in the backpack. Your leg was still in his lap.
“I was going to order dinner, if you want to stay,” you heard yourself say. “I can even watch a full episode of TV now.”
Robby snorted. And then said, “I would love to stay. Mainly to make sure you don’t look at your leg and pass out.”
“I think I’ll be fine,” you laughed.
"You didn't look down once that whole time," he said.
"And therefore, didn't pass out."
You managed to open your phone and scroll through the different food options. Your stomach was in shambles from the feeling of getting stitches removed, so picked the deli down the street. Handing the phone to Robby you had him pick his meal.
When he handed the phone back, he had already ordered and paid with his card details. You scowled at him.
"This was meant to pay you back for your kindness."
"It would feel unethical. I know how much grad students makes."
He had since moved to the opposite corner of the couch. From your propped up position, he looked a little tired, but more than that he looked amused. He was laughing at you. It ranckled you. But it also made you a little happy: sad, drunk Robby would never have laughed at you.
While waiting for the food, you both chatted about his work, your students, how taking time off has put you seriously behind and your unread emails are closer to 1,000 than not. Once the food arrive, you both tucked in.
Eventually, Robby asked,
“What’s the hardest thing about the whole PhD thing?”
It felt like a natural question from the previous conversation, so you didn't think twice about answering it.
“Having to not take criticism personally. Anything I finish, make progress on, or whatever gets critiqued and criticized and studied until it feels absolutely useless. But that’s just how it works—it’s how we make sure our research is the most accurate and representative of the world,” you said shrugging. “What about being a doctor? What’s the hardest thing about that.”
“Oh that’s easy, not being able to save everyone,” Robby told you.
“Yeah, I can imagine that would be difficult to contend with.”
“So does no one tell you “good job” or encourages you?”
“Not in so many words. One time I had a bit of a breakdown and planned on dropping out. My advisor said that would “be a waste” so it’s not like people are needlessly mean.”
“You make so much more sense now,” Robby said shaking his head.
“The fuck does that mean?” You said lightly kicking his thigh with your good foot. He grabbed your ankle and stretched it out over his lap. The movement made you tense but, frankly, you wanted this to continue so you forced yourself to relax.
“You’re one of the most tightly wound people I’ve ever met,” Robby laughed.
“I think that’s the pot calling the kettle black,” you grumbled. Hesitantly, you stretched out your bad leg and crossed it over your good one still rest on Robby’s thighs.
“Perhaps that’s why I know,” he said. His hand rested on your ankle and you tried not to stare at the way his hand dwarfed your not-small ankle.
“And what would the good doctor recommend for that? I hate to break it to you, but it’s not like I can call up my parents and ask them to say they’re proud of me and I’m doing a good job.”
“Someone should,” he said quietly. His thumb began to circle the bone of your ankle.
“I think I’ll be fine,” you laughed.
Robby was silent for a moment before saying, “I think you’re very impressive. I think you work very hard. And I’m really honored to know you.”
For an awful minute, you thought you were going to cry. “Knock it off.”
“Make me.”
“If you don’t I’ll make you talk about something even more uncomfortable,” you threatened.
“You can’t make me do anything.”
“Maybe not, but I’ll try.”
“I’ll take the chance,” he laughed. Robby hand drug up and down your leg. You knew it wasn’t smooth—your injury having made sure you missed your monthly waxing appointment—but he didn’t seem to care. Frankly, you refused to let yourself care, even if it danced in the back of your head.
“Brave considering you think I’m mean.”
“You’re not mean,” Robby said, looking over at you.
“Not what you used to think,” you commented.
“True, but I know you better now. You’re just blunt. It’s nice when you get used to it.”
You snorted. “You absolute liar.”
His hand landed on your knee and reached down to flick it. He caught your wrist before you could smack him. Eyes boring into yours, Robby said,
“I’m serious. I think you’re amazing.”
“You do huh?” You asked.
“Clearly.”
“Then why haven’t you done anything about it? I’m not good at schooling my features. You must know how I’m feeling.”
In an instant, Robby’s expression shuttered. “You did pick something uncomfortable.”
“So either this is a personal thing or I am way worse at reading you than I thought. I’m not wildly inclined to believe the latter since my feet are in your lap and I got a special house call for something I could have gone to the clinic for.”
Robby sighed and looked away from you. “It’s a personal thing.”
“Do I get let in on what the personal thing is?”
“I don’t want you to try and talk me out of it. Because you’ll win,” he murmured.
“If it’s not dumb, I won’t. I’m not a starry eyed romantic, Robby. Sometimes people that are attracted to one another shouldn’t do anything. Just because I want you to fuck me into my mattress and maybe also go on a date, doesn’t mean I’m going to do something bad for me or my goals. No offense, you’re not more important than finishing my PhD,” you told him.
He smiled ruefully. “I just am not good enough for you.”
“Oh, that is dumb,” you replied.
“Or maybe you just don’t know how impressive you are,” he challenged.
“Maybe,” you acquiesced. “But maybe not being “good enough” for someone is an archaic measure of comparability and I get to decide what is and is not good for me. Now, if you don’t feel ready for a relationship after everything, that’s different. But if you’re just worried about being…depressed or mentally ill, join the club then.”
“There’s also the age gap,” he added.
“I’m an academic. I’ve seen far less ethical relationships than a decade and some change. Not to mention you weren't my dissertation advisor,” you told him.
“For my peace of mind I'm going to ignore that last bit. And try closer to two decades,” he said.
“I’m an old man at heart,” you said back. “Doesn’t change the fact I want you to fuck me into the mattress.”
“I really don’t want you talk me into this,” Robby said quietly.
“Then you need to either tell me you don’t want this, which I’ll respect or you need to get out of your own way. I’m in favor of the latter.”
“Can I ask something first?”
“Always.”
“What changed for you? You really didn’t like me.”
“Valid question,” you said. He still had a grip on your wrist. Gently you pulled out of his grasp and wrapped your hand around his. “I am so picky about people. I always have been. But even more than that, no one normal does a PhD and I deal with those freaks all day. By the time I got to the bar, I was over dealing with everyone, not just you. Frankly, drunk you was a lot. But no one is their best self when they’re drunk. Sober you? He’s still awkward, a little earnest but very charming. Funny and confident too.”
“You are very different than when you’re at the bar,” he said.
“I’ll lay my cards on the table, Robby. I like you. I think you’re very attractive and getting to know you has been fun and I hate getting to know new people. If you’re amenable, I would really love for you to fuck me into my mattress tonight.”
“You’re still injured.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It isn’t a yes.”
“There’s one more episode of Bake Off before I’m caught up. I’m going to lay back down and if by the end of the episode you’re still undecided or the answer is no, I’ll respect that. But don’t take yourself out of the game just because you’re nervous that you’re not good enough of whatever.”
“Okay, yeah,” Robby replied softly.
You released his hand and he placed it back on your legs. Pressing play, you settled back to a prone position on the couch. The distracting pressure of his hands on your legs meant that most of the episode passed without you taking in too much of what was happening.
Periodically, you glanced over at Robby. He seemed deep in thought. His brow was furrowed and while he faced the TV, he seemed to stare at nothing. Sometimes his fingers would trace a pattern on your calves and then go still. At one point, you saw him stare at you from the corner of your eye, in a reminiscent way to how he used to watch you while he was wasted. Instead of feeling annoyed, you settled more deeply into the couch and held out your hand for him without looking. He took it.
The episode ended and you couldn’t help but feel nervous. No one liked being rejected and you hoped that Robby got out of his own way. You wanted him. You knew he wanted you too. It was torture to not crawl into his lap and kiss him within an inch of his life.
“Before you tell me,” you said. “I just want you to know that regardless of your decision, I am proud of the work you’ve put into yourself. And I’m not fibbing when I say you’re incredibly attractive.”
“You are a lot nicer than your give yourself credit for,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“Then what was that?”
“Honesty, dick head.”
He snorted. “My head still isn’t fully on straight.”
“Neither is mine.”
“Sometimes I have really bad days.”
“Okay.”
“Sometimes I can be mean, too.”
“Join the club.”
“But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want this,” he breathed.
“Help me sit up,” you said grabbing at his arm. He helped you move into a sitting position, your arm and leg still a little sore. When you were next to him, you kept your legs draped over his and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. “Is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes with conditions,” he told you.
“Ugh,” you groaned leaning your forehead on his shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re still healing. I’m not going to fuck you into the mattress tonight.”
“But Robby,” you whined. “I just know you’re so good at sex.”
A surprise laugh erupted from him. “Thank you. I’m still not going to fuck you into the mattress. I will however, if you want, if you feel comfortable and up for it, I am more than willing to make sure any humping isn’t…I think the word you used was, useless.”
“Yeah?”
“I knew you would talk me out of it,” he sighed.
“Wanna see my bedroom?” You asked grinning.
“You look very proud of yourself,” he grumbled, pulling you into his lap.
“I’m not joking when I say it’s been years since I’ve had good sex. I just have a good feeling about this.”
“Because you saw me being a slut?”
“Nope, because you’re a doctor and I heard you went home with the same person more than once. That doesn’t happen unless you fuck.”
“You’re so strange,” he laughed, dipping his head closer to yours.
“Good. I don’t want you under the impression I’m normal.”
“Never a risk, trust me,” he laughed.
His nose bumped your cheek as he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your mouth. The press of his lips was electric. You grinned and twisted your head to press your lips against his. It was exactly how you hoped it would be. His lips were soft against yours, but each movement decisive. His hands, so warm and large, held you on your waist and the inside of your thigh.
“You’re so soft,” he mumbled against your lips.
“I’m pleasantly surprised by the beard,” you replied.
“I oil it,” he replied placing kisses down your neck.
“Hot,” you replied, sounding strangled as his sucked gently on your pulse point. You felt goosebumps erupt along your back.
He laughed and his hand that rested on your thigh squeezed. You wished he’d move it up, maybe press against your already throbbing core. Instead he massaged your leg and continued his ministrations against your neck.
“Christ,” you hissed when he nipped at your skin. “Already so good.”
“You’re so responsive for me,” he said. “I’ll bet you make beautiful noises.”
“You’re more talkative than I guessed,” you replied.
He pulled back and you huffed, already missing the contact. “I meant what I said earlier.”
“You’ve said a lot tonight,” you told him, pulling his face back to yours.
“That you’re smart and impressive. That you’re a good researcher,” he said before wrapping a hand around your neck and kissing you harshly. “Since no one else seems willing to tell you, I will. You’re incredible.”
“Don’t you dare,” you whispered.
“Too bad,” he replied.
“Can we move this to my bedroom?” You asked, hoping to distract him.
“Please.”
He helped you stand and took a quick look at your leg. His thumb was gentle as he caressed the red, puckered line on your thigh. Placing a gentle kiss on it made a well of emotion rise to your throat. His hands gripped your waist and he stared up at you from the couch.
“You’re breathtaking,” he whispered.
Caressing his face you said, “You’re going to give me an ego.”
“Someone has to,” he said placing a kiss on your T-shirt covered stomach.
“You’re going to kill me,” he groaned, pulling him up.
“How’s your arm?” He asked, following you through your short hallway.
“A little stiff, but mostly healed.”
“Please promise me that you’ll say something if you’re uncomfortable,” he asked quietly.
“Pinky swear,” you said stopping in front of your bedroom holding out your pinky to him. He laughed, shaking his head, and wrapped his pinky around yours.
Thankfully, your bedroom was mostly clean. There was some laundry waiting to be folded. It was small enough that it was only a couple steps until Robby was prodding you to sit on the bed.
“Can I undress you?” He asked.
“I’m not exactly wearing much,” you said smiling.
“I know, trust me,” he grumbled, grabbing your leg and rubbing his hand up the skin.
“Will you take your shirt off?” You asked still grinning up at him.
“Anything you want,” he said.
Leaning back on the bed, resting on your elbows, you watched as he flushed. He was large in your tiny bedroom. He reached behind him and in one fell swoop, pulled off his scrub shirt and undershirt.
“That was hot,” you said eyeing him.
“Yeah?” He asked, standing in between your legs.
You couldn’t help but run your hands up his torso. Dark hair dusted his chest and down his stomach. It led down to the waistband of his pants. Even his body hair was soft. Without a shadow of a doubt, you knew he oiled this as well. Something about the intentionality of that action made you clench.
Lightly raking your nails down his stomach, you watched as his muscles twitches. His shoulders, just out of reach, were broader than you expected. With ease, you unbuttoned the cargo pants and slid them over his waist.
“I seem to recall trying to undress you,” he said, stepping out of his pants and socks all at once.
“I got distracted,” you saying eyeing his boxer briefs. He was only half hard and already straining against the fabric.
“Maybe I want to be distracted,” he replied tugging at your shirt. You lifted your arms for him, so your T-shirt could be pulled up over your head. You hadn’t worn a bra since being couch bound, so he had an immediate eyeful of your tits. “You’re stunning.”
“Yeah? Prove it?,” you goaded.
He huffed a laugh and pushed you back on the bed lightly, before pulling off your shorts and underwear. He kneeled down on your floor and kissed the inside of your thigh.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. “Already so wet.”
“Wetter than I’ve been in a long time,” you told him. He groaned and closed his eyes.
“I want to touch you,” he breathed.
“Please,” you begged. “I want you to touch me so bad.”
In a move that would live in your brain for the rest of your life, Robby stuck two of his fingers in his mouth to wet them before he ran them up and down your slit. The first finger that slid inside you felt foreign. It had been a long time since anyone had pressed into you. When Robby added his second finger you couldn’t help but gasp out a moan.
“You open up so pretty for me,” Robby breathed. “You’re so good.”
His words did something to you. You knew he was doing it on purpose.
“Shame no one else is willing to get on their knees and worship you like you deserve,” he continued softly. He pressed soft kisses up and down your thigh. “Such a beautiful pussy should be kissed and praised.”
The sound you made when Robby began sucking on your clit in earnest was more of a squeal than anything else. It felt like every nerve was focused on the feeling in between your thighs. His fingers worked in and out of your slowly and with a firm pressure that you felt deep in your stomach. His tongue and mouth were far more impressive than you could have imagined.
“Oh my god, you’re so good at this. What the fuck,” you whined, burying your fingers in his hair. You wanted him pull him closer and grind on his face, but his grip on your hips kept you still.
At some point he added a third finger which made you release a choked laugh. With your good leg, you threw it over his shoulder, allowing his fingers to move deeper and hit your g-spot more effectively. The sensation of him between your thighs was overwhelming and you felt your legs trembling just slightly.
You braved a look between your legs and saw him staring up at him. Even without seeing his face, you knew he was grinning at you. Apparently, Robby was a smug bastard in bed. A particularly strong suck had you arching off the bed calling Robby’s name.
“Stop, stop,” you breathed lightly pushing him away. “I can’t cum twice and I want to come on your cock.”
Robby pulled away from your pussy and was drenched with your fluid. He looked proud of himself when he said,
“You really do make the best noises.”
“You really are good at eating a girl out,” you said breathing heavily. “When I am healed I’m going to suck your brain out of your dick.”
Laughing, Robby stood (his knees let out a massive crack that had you giggling), and laid down next to you in the bed. His hand trailed up your stomach before cupping your tit in his hand. Even if you weren’t particularly sensitive on your tits, having his hands on you was a mesmerizing feeling.
You hummed at his touch and pulled him over into a kiss. Your hand ran up and down his side until your fingers slid under his boxer briefs. Unsurprisingly, he was hot and heavy in your hand. He wasn’t quite as big as you feared, but you were glad he slid that third finger inside you.
“You’re so hard,” you said in between kisses.
“We have to talk over this before we start,” he replied pulling back and removing your hand from his underwear.
“Ugh,” you groaned. “You and your consent and safe sex.”
“Would you rather me force you down and fuck you?” He asked unimpressed.
“Maybe not tonight but we should table that idea for later,” you replied rolling on your side to look at him. His ears were bright red at the thought.
“I think you might kill me.”
“Pity, this is a lot of fun.”
He laughed pulled you on top of him. You laid half on him, your head pillowed on his chest. Even though you desperately wanted to know what he felt like shoving his cock in you, cuddling with him was certainly very enjoyable in itself.
“How are you feeling?”
“Arm is a little sore. Leg doesn’t hurt. Emotionally, doing great. You?”
“My knees will feel that tomorrow, but I’m also good. Feeling quite amazing, in fact.”
“I’m glad you said yes,” you told him pressing a kiss on his chest.
“I think we both know that I can’t say no to you.” He sighed. Then said, “I’m clean, I get tested regularly. Haven’t had sex since my last test. Happy to show you.”
“I trust you. I haven’t had sex in well over a year with anything other than my vibrator and was good during my last wellness exam.”
“I can’t wait to see you use this vibrator,” he said. “Watching you fall apart is so beautiful. I want to turn your brain off.”
You snorted. “Good luck with that.”
“You don’t think I can?”
“If anyone could, it would be you. I just don’t think my brain ever turns off. Rather annoying.”
Robby’s hand traced light trails up and down your back making you shiver.
“Guess we’ll see.”
“If you take that as a challenge it won’t be sexy,” you complained. “I don’t care about my brain turning off. I care about this, us, feeling you finally fuck me.”
“Finally, huh?”
“Yeah, I’ve got an IUD, there’s condoms in my side table, there’s nothing stopping us,” you complained poking him.
“You’re injured. There’s a lot stopping us.”
“If you bail on me now because you’re worried about hurting me, I’ll never forgive you.”
“Trust me,” he said. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. One taste of you was addicting enough.”
“As much as I want to see you, if I’m on my stomach on the bed, there’s not much of a chance to hurt myself,” you said.
“I like that,” he said.
“I want you on top of me, though,” you grumbled. “And then when my leg and arm are healed I’m going to ride you like a bronco, I swear to Christ.”
“Whenever I imagined this, I have to be honest, this is exactly how I thought you would be,” Robby laughed as he kissed the top of your head. “So stubborn and smart. The best ideas.”
“Robby,” you warned.
He noticed you never truly told him to stop, and you were not someone who shied away from voicing your opinion on something. He slid out from under you and opened the drawer of your side table. There was a nail file, some tissues, a rather sleek looking vibrator, and a small box of condoms. They were barely within their expiration window. He wondered who you bought them for.
Once he slid the condom on, it took a minute for the two of you to find a position that was comfortable. The two of you propped your hips up on some pillows and you reveled in the feeling of Robby’s body hovering over your own.
The first slide of cock against your folds made you whine. When he finally pushed in, you gasped and clenched at your sheets. He was big and from this position, he was firmly pressed on your g-spot. The feeling of him fully sheathed in you made you released tension you had no idea you held in your body.
Hovering over you, caging you with his body, made your nerves dance and tingle. It was not a surprise to you that you liked a man that could push you around, but the feeling of Robby pressing his weight down—even partially—confirmed what you suspected: you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.
“You feel so good around me,” Robby groaned in your ear. “You’re so good for me.”
“Just like that,” you moaned as his slowly pistoned his hips.
“Yeah? Take it. take what I’m giving you, sweetheart. I want you to know how amazing I think you are.”
Each thrust from Robby sent delicious tingles through your body. He braced his forearms by your head and you felt his chest press down on your back. The pressure of him made you groan into the bed. His mouth was by your ear. You could hear each breath, moan, and gasp he let out.
“Don’t muffle those pretty sounds. I want you to fall apart. Let go for me. Be my good girl,” he murmured.
Tomorrow you could be embarrassed by the way your body reacted to Robby calling you good girl, right now you couldn’t hide the tremor it sent through you. Your pussy clenched around him tightly.
“Good girl does it for you?” He asked. You could hear his smile.
“Fuck off,” you grumbled. He slowed in you until he was just lightly grinding against you, making you whine.
“As much as I love your attitude, that isn’t nice. Don’t you want to be good for me? Tell me how you feel. Tell me how I make you feel.”
And suddenly you realized why Robby was so successful with women he slept with. His whispered commands against your ear sent you to another stratosphere. You were confident this man could make you erupt with the power of his words alone.
“You feel so good, Robby,” you panted, trying to grind back onto him but in this position you had no leverage. “You’re so big and I want to feel it forever. Your pressed against me so well and it’s making me crazy. I don’t want this to end.”
“I’m so proud of you for using your words, sweetheart. Do you want me to keep going?”
“Yes, please,” you whined.
His hips began to move again and you released a punched out groan at the renewed friction.
“Feel it,” he commanded. “Feel me inside you.”
“So good,” you mumbled.
“Not as good as you are. You're perfect. Made for me. Made for me to slide into. Made for me to ravish and worship. Every sound you make. Every twitch and tremor. I’m memorizing it. Archiving it. I want to watch you give into the pleasure.”
“Ah, your dirty talk is insane,” you told him as he began to thrust into you more earnestly.
“You bring it out of me sweetheart. You make me crazy. So pretty, so young, so smart. And you’re letting me fuck you. I want you to feel as lucky as I do.”
For a few minutes there was nothing but the sounds of his hips slamming against yours and his quiet pants against your ear. You wrapped you hands around his wrists that were pressed above your shoulders. It was an awkward position, but you needed to hold onto him. Each thrust of his hips and press of his body made soft groans erupt from your mouth. You found yourself wanting to be more vocal for him.
“You’re so perfect under me,” he grunted. “You fit me so well. Such a good girl for me.”
“Fuck,” you hissed. Your body clenched so tightly even Robby’s pace faltered
“Are you getting close, sweetheart?” He almost cooed.
“Yes, please keep going just like that,” you mumbled against the pillow.
“Ah-ah, I want to hear you,” he said, redoubling his efforts.
“Please, Robby,” you said louder. “Keep going. I want to cum on your cock.”
“Do you need me to touch your clit?” He asked.
You nodded. “Yes please.”
You were sure how he managed to hold himself up and also snake a hand under you to rub two thinking fingers along your clit. Frankly, it was none of your business, because the sharp increase in pleasure make your hips buck. Being caught between Robby’s pistoning hips and deft fingers was getting you closer far faster than you expected.
“Jesus Christ, I’m getting close.”
“Yeah? C’mon, then, be a good girl. Cum on my cock for me. I want to feel you clench around me. I want to feel you lose control because of me.”
“Robby,” you whined.
“Don’t you want to be a good girl for me?” He asked. You could hear the breathlessness in his own voice as his hips became a little more frantic.
“Yes,” you moaned.
“Say it.”
“I want to be a good girl for you,” you cried. In this moment you would have done anything he asked you.
It was only a few strokes of his cock and fingers before you felt your body tighten and sparks fly. It was a slow build up at first, it almost crested gently. But once the orgasm hit, your muscles locked up and each continuing rub of his fingers and movement of his hips overwhelmed your body until you were shaking underneath him.
“Such a good girl,” he growled in your ear as he managed to hold back his own orgasm. “Squeezing me so tight. Can’t wait to cum in this pussy.”
It was another two thrust before Robby buried his face in your neck with a long groan, as he lazily fucked you through his own orgasm. Goosebumps erupted down your back as his beard almost tickled you. For a minute, he was sheathed deep inside of you, blanketing your body with his own.
It felt luxurious.
(It felt safe)
You wouldn't have admit that last part out loud, but there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that Robby’s arms would be a safe place to fall. For more than a few minutes, you soaked in the presence of another person against you, appreciating the feeling of his body heat, the scratch of his hair, the puff of his breathing. It was so human and so monumental.
When he went to move, you whined and halfheartedly managed to pull him back down against you, resulting in his deep chuckle. Some of his weight on his knees, he wrapped his arms around your middle and began to place featherlight kisses along your shoulder making you shiver against him.
“You feel so good,” he mumbled against your skin.
“Same,” you sighed, fully blissed out. “I just want to stay like this for a minute.”
“As long as you want, sweetheart,” he said, continuing his kisses. It almost tickles and you can’t help the shudder that travels from your neck through your hips.
“Sweetheart, huh?” You asked. “I think that’s an oxymoron.”
“You’re not very nice to yourself.”
“I’m just well aware of how I come across.”
“I really don’t think you are,” he said frankly. He placed his lips against your ear and whispered, “You don’t seem to know how every time you walk into a room, you absolutely own the place. Or how everyone turns and listens when you talk. You’re competent and commanding, and more than that you're kind.”
You couldn’t help but snort. “Am not.”
“Don’t know what planet you’re living on, but you go out of your way to make sure bar patrons get home safe, you cover shifts when it’s inconvenient, and you called Jack even when you didn’t have to. I owe you a lot for that.”
“You would have been fine,” you protested weakly. “I’m just being a good community member.”
“I don’t know if I would have been. And sweetheart, being a good community member is being kind,” Robby said.
“I just don’t believe you,” you finally said.
“Then I’ll keep saying it until you do. Just like I’ll keep telling you how brilliant you are and how amazing you are. And maybe one day, I’ll hear you say it back.”
“Doubt it.”
“I believe it enough for the both of us,” he said kissing your cheek.
He slowly peeled himself away from you, and almost immediately you missed the weight and warmth. You heard him dispose of the condom and wander into your bathroom. At some point you needed to move, but frankly, you were still boneless after a good fuck and even better orgasm. Feeling the bed dip at Robby’s arrival, you felt him gently run a washcloth between your legs. It was intimate and caring in a way you were unfamiliar with. Vulnerable in a way that made your throat feel scratchy.
“Let me help you readjust,” Robby said, after finishing. You heard the washcloth tossed into your laundry basket.
You let Robby ease you off the mound of pillow propping up your hips. The bad leg was a little stiff, but not painful as you rolled over on your side. It’s the first time you caught a glimpse of Robby. His skin was still flushed and his glasses were perched precariously on his nose. There was a crooked smile on his face as he leaned over and kissed you.
It was his eyes that caught your attention the most. They always held emotion. You had noticed the pain and heartbreak all those nights at the bar. Now, however, slowly laying down next to you, his eyes were soft, creased with a happiness that seemed to be foreign on his face.
“I’m glad you let me talk you into this,” you admitted.
He shifted so you were wrapped in his arms, chest to chest, nose to nose. The blankets were still kicked to the end of the bed, but neither of you felt cold. Brushing you nose with his, he said,
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm. This was very nice. Memorable. I can confirm that you do fuck. And you fuck well,” you announced.
Robby chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips.
“Was that all this was? A fuck?” His voice was vulnerable.
You knew the question was coming, which is why you didn’t stutter over your answer,
“Depends, on if you plan to keep your promise of reminding me how great I am all the time.”
“I think it’s something I could make time for,” he said grinning.
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More of an author's note: I can't remember if I saw the sad paddington bear thing on tumblr or not. If I accidentally stole this from someone let me know and I'll tag and credt. I just couldn't find anything when I looked.
