richeeee i lich rally just started widows bay and then opened ur blog to see ur watching it… if u wrote for it id be ecstatic
Tom Loftis having the hots for you is extremely entertaining because he's not a little bit subtle, even though he believes he is.
Tom's a lonely man who's gone so long without being touched that your kindness starts feeling indecent to him before you've done anything even slightly sexual. He tries very hard to behave normally around you. Living on Widow's Bay, he'd say he's actually the best at behaving normally.
Living on Widow's Bay, it's not hard to be the best at behaving normally.
Unfortunately, you're beautiful, and, again, you're very kind. He wishes he could write it off as polite tolerance, as he did the first time he met you.
But your...pleasantries follow him home. It's hard to ignore the way your hands feel when you squeeze his bicep goodbye. That shouldn't be an acceptable way to say goodbye to someone, but he allows it when it's you.
...Tom's got enough to worry about when it comes to this fucking island, he really can't deal with trying to deny his body an erection when you have your fingers brush his when you hand him a cup of coffee.
It's not your fault his mind immediately produces several thoughts that have no business accompanying a beverage! Let that be known. It's why he doesn't blame you for not realizing he's started anticipating your touch. He shouldn't.
He should...Tom shouldn't place himself in situations where it might happen. Standing too close when you're both looking over something is wrong. Getting the shivers when your straighten his collar is wrong.
...Going home and replaying your more than innocent contact while he's palming himself is the wrongest. The most wrong.
Seriously, all you did was remove lint from his fucking coat! What's wrong with him?
"You're a good man, Mr. Mayor."
"Oh, thank you! I, uh, I try my best."
Would you still speak to him in that voice if he had one hand between your thighs? Would you call him Tom as he fucks you? Or would you stick to Mr. Mayor to make his face burn with the rest of him?
"Haha. That's all we can do, right?"
Tom's genuinely ashamed of these thoughts. It's one thing to simply be attracted to you, which, come on, that's a little too easy to be. It's just also a little too easy to feed them constantly.
Wanting you, it's become inseparable from wanting comfort, and with everything happening on this Godforsaken island, can you blame him?
...Tom blames Tom. But Tom begins imagining a life he thought he wouldn't have with anybody but Lauren. He wants your mouth. Your body, but he also wants to come home exhausted and find you in his kitchen.
He wants your feet in his lap, even though he hasn't seen them yet. Or, he might've gotten a peek at them at the Inaugural Swim,
Tom Loftis x reader thoughts (because I am once again smitten by a pathetic middle aged man with a deep sadness in his eyes)
Thinking about Tom overhearing you giggling with your friend about "the cute mayor" while visiting the town hall after moving to the island.
He would be absolutely smitten, smiling like a fool at the notion that someone beautiful like you would find him cute.
He would find himself eagerly looking for you in the hall, hoping you'd have another form to fill out or a letter to be notarized, any excuse to feel those butterflies in his stomach when you smile at him.
He'd try to be sauve, not sure what someone like you would even find interesting beyond his memorized list of fun facts about the island. But of course he'd stumble over his words a little, awkwardly trying to convince himself more than you that this quaint little town is actually quite charming.
He finally asks you to grab a coffee, a latte to be precise, touting the new espresso machine he convinced them to buy. He visibly blushes when you say 'yes' and again when you let your fingertips brush over his hand at the table.
The coffee date turned into a long walk on the beach, talking and laughing and getting to know each other, which has since turned into talking late into the night in the passenger seat of his old jeep.
He'd been on a handful of dates over the last decade, some more memorable than others, but ultimately all forgettable in the end. But things felt different with you, they felt exciting but also comfortable, safe.
He offered to give you a ride home but of course didn't try to invite himself inside. He stares ahead at the empty road, the streetlight casting a warm glow on your face. The tension is palpable, Tom's hesitation all but written on his forehead.
So you decide to be brave, for both your sake, and lean across the console to kiss his cheek. His skin immediately flushes, his eyes wide with surprise.
He hesitates for a moment before finally facing you, reaching out to gingerly tuck your hair behind your ear. He wants to badly to be a romantic.
He slowly closes the distance between you, eyes nervously darting back and forth between your own and your lips. And finally, for once in his life, he actually decides to live a little and presses his lips against yours. You can practically feel the giggle of excitement he tries to stifle.
And within a moment, you're both panting and moaning into each other's mouths. Tom's hands tangle in your hair, his tongue desperately wrestling against yours, swallowing every breath and every moan as if he was ravenous, a man starved of affection for over a decade.
Anon asked: "Flirting or trying to with her? Those early days? Maybe she works at town hall with him!"
(They had multiple great ideas in one message, so I'll break them up like this 😘)
"Knock knock." You smiled at Tom, standing in the open doorway of his office. The tension is palpable as he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"He's worried about that writer coming tomorrow." Dale whispers loudly as he walks past you down the hall.
"God forbid I try to do something good for this island!" Tom half shouts, clearly not wanting to actually invite him in with his rebuttal.
He presses his lips together and lifts his brows, offering you a forced smile in acknowledgement.
"I can come back."
He lets out a heavy sigh before standing up to usher you into his office, closing the door behind you.
"No, no, I'm sorry. It's just-"
"You're worried about the writer coming tomorrow." you finish the sentence for him with Dale's exact words, earning yourself a chuckle. You can't help but smile at the small relief it seems to bring him.
"Yes, well, it's a big deal! It's the New York Times!" He sits back down at his desk, staring off into the distance behind you but at nothing in particular. " And God knows we need it. Just one article to draw interest and Widow's Bay could really become something."
"But the locals don't seem to want that. Or maybe care if it becomes something." you offer to acknowledge his frustration.
"I don't get it. It's like they're living in a completely different world."
You walk around to his side of the desk, leaning back against the edge as you face him.
"It would just be nice to not have to fight some pointless battle every damn step of the way. Trying to do something nice for this goddamn town shouldn't feel like a Herculean task!"
You reach out to touch his arm, a gesture of comfort.
"Your heart is in the right place, Tom. They'll come around."
His cheeks flush as your touch lingers on his bicep for a beat too long to ignore.
"I just.." his voice trails off as he swallows a flustered thought, the blush spreading up to the tips of his ears now. "It would just be nice to be appreciated for once instead." he mutters.
"Well I for one appreciate you, Tom." Your voice is sincere, and perhaps that is what catches him off guard. He shakes his head, unsure how to respond in any way other than refusing to accept your kindness.
"I've hardly accomplished anything for you to appreciate, or anyone for that matter." He scoffs.
You watch as his brows furrow, the well worn frown lines around his mouth becoming more noticeable.
"Why would you need to accomplish anything to be appreciated?" The question is genuine, and you can tell that it makes him uncomfortable as he shifts in his chair.
"You don't have to do this." he laughs. "It's a thankless job, I knew that." He stands up, his tall, lean frame towering over you. He holds your gaze for a moment, a pang of hesitant want flashes in his eyes before he turns to step away.
"I meant it." You reach out and grab his hand, his eyes flicking down to as if to check that he wasn't imagining your touch. "I appreciate you."
"That's.. that's kind of you." He smiles awkwardly, clearly trying to calculate his next move as if his mind went suddenly blank.
With a sudden burst of bravery and nerve, you reach up to gently kiss his cheek. His skin is burning hot and a little rough with stubble under your lips. You watch his eyes widen in disbelief.
"Perhaps it's more than just appreciation." You smile coyly, glancing over to make sure the door was closed. He follows your gaze to the door and back, carefully setting down his organizer to give you his undivided attention.
He takes your face in his hands, his thumb gently caressing your cheek as he studied your features for a moment. He looks at you as if he's trying to find some logical fallacy in what surely must be a dream.
But the discovery never comes, only a rush of desire as he finally throws caution to the wind and presses his lips against yours. He's hesitant at first, a million thoughts racing through his mind as he inhales sharply through his nose, stepping closer but not yet fully closing the gap.
He pulls back after a moment, eyes frantically searching for confirmation that what he just did was okay, was reciprocal.
"I'm.. I'm sorry, I don't know what-"
You stop him before he can start to spiral again, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him once more. He melts into your touch, his hands instinctively finding your waist as he walks you back to sit up on his desk.
He rests his hands on your knees, running them up your thighs and then pushing them apart gently, just enough to make room for him to stand between them. The kiss grows hungrier, his tongue slipping between your lips to find your own.
summary: Grant finds himself a stray outside his restaurant. aka a little hurt/comfort
Grant lived to serve.
That was one of the first things he told you. His entire livelihood revolves around hospitality. Back in Boston, it was easy for the regulars and tourists to come in and ask for Grant in the back, making small talk with the man until he was desperately needed in the kitchen again. A constant back and forth, a dance if you will.
The waltz had followed him here to Pittsburgh, although the locals here were less pushy compared to the northeast.
"S'good?"
"Mmm"
You're sat perched on his desk, ramekin in lap while heartily munching away at a potpie he whipped up. One of the specials of the day, nothing fancy, just something to give you comfort cause god knows you looked like you needed it.
The restaurant was at its peak rush hour when Grant led you through the crowded floor, past the kitchen and into his back office. The curious eyes of his team (more family than anything) isn't lost on him.
Hell, when was the last time he entertained a passing fancy at his big ol' age? Maybe he was feeling spontaneous tonight, or maybe it was out of pity with the way you were listlessly standing out on the sidewalk.
"M'glad you like it."
"bussin'"
Bussin. Grant barks out a laugh. He heard one of his line cooks say that before, apparently it means good. Your generation has the strangest lingo. "Now you're just flattering me."
Even as the words leaves his mouth, Grant can't help but to watch as you lick the back of the metal spoon. Your demeanor has changed into something more relaxed, and your cheeks look full. Warm. Squishable.
A tinge of pride wells up inside Grant. He's served hundreds, thousands of people throughout his career. Yet watching you, in his safe space, savoring something he created...
"I'm sorry you have to see me like this. I'm usually more... put together." Grant furrows his eyebrows. Are you seriously apologizing? You literally save lives for a living, take care of others more than yourself huh, that sounds oddly familiar. "Today was rough, and usually I'd have a routine when I get like this, but..."
You hesitate, trailing your words off and shifting on his desk. The look on your face is one that Grant has seen before. On customers, on his team when a critic publishes an unsavory article about the restaurant, in the mirror late at night when his past comes back to haunt him.
"Honey, let me tell you something. As an ex-combat medic, no one who works in healthcare is 'put together'. One of the best in my old unit ran purely on nicotine and monster energy drinks." The snort he pulls out of you is loud and abrupt, it shifts the gloom in the air.
"Give yourself some grace. In a world like this, it doesn't need perfect, it just needs you. Whole, and flawed, and real." Your silence is enough of a response. He's been in your shoes, and how does that saying go about kindred souls? Grant takes the spot next to you, leaving little to no space at all while pressing his thigh against yours. The faint smell of antiseptic and sweat doesn't deter him from leaning closer, watching as your breathe hitches while his heartbeat quickens.
He's unable to look away.
"Listen, when you feel like the everything is too loud, and the weight on your shoulders is crushing that nuturing spirit of yours, just know that my door is always open, 'kay?"
Before Grant could overthink it, he reaches out to gather the crumbs on your bottom lip and pops the pad of his thumb in his mouth. Soft. Plump.
"And I wouldn't mind you around if it means having a competent nurse on standby."
You fluster so pretty. Those tired eyes coming to life and blinking in surprise, your fingers fidgeting with the now empty dish, a gentle smile shining through while giving him a shy nod.
"I need words, honey."
"Okay."
"Atta girl."
Oh, he'll make a regular out of you.
"Hope you saved room for dessert."
an: the concept of Jack calling you 'sweetheart', and Grant calling you 'honey'... 🧎♀️
thinking about how jack abbot's veteran basketball buddies have no idea just how 'active' he is.
! mdni !
you and jack had only been dating for a few months. not long enough for you to have met his group of fellow amputees he's played ball in the park with for the last two decades, but long enough to be smiling widely on his phone lock screen. which jack's oldest friend just happened to see when he checked the time halfway through the first game.
"jesus jack– i think havin' a playboy bunny as your background is considered creepy nowadays." jack shoved at his friends good arm, the other being a prosthesis, "watch it. she's my girlfriend." all the guys that surrounded the bench froze, some mid water sip, some mid re-tie of their shoe.
from that day on, the teasing came flooding in. jack would show up to the park to try and de-stress from a shift at the PTMC only to be met with taunts like, "isn't she a little too young for you old man?" and "didn't know you could still get it up soldier." or "caretaker or girlfriend, abbot?"
his least favorite was literally thrown at him at the picnic tables one morning before they had even started playing. one of the guys tossed jack an orange pill bottle that rattled as it soared threw the air. jack grimaced, knowing what is was before he even heard the jab, "brought these for you my man. just incase y’need some help from 'our little blue friend' when yer with yer young lady."
jack opened his mouth to snap, but a sweet voice that he heard moaning his name and 'oh god im gonna cum!' less than an hour ago, floated into his ears. "jackie?" every vet turned in unison to see your sexy self in a tiny skirt and even tinier tank top walking over to where they stood. jack wasn't expecting to see you till you picked him up later. "sweetheart? what're you doin' here?"
you had a mega watt smile on your face as you reached the table. jack tried to ignore the slack jaws that his buddies were sporting as you smacked a kiss to his lips and rubbed his chest gently. "sorry jackie, but you forgot to put on sunscreen when you left and i can't have you burning up." you pouted as you added, "you know your freckles are extra sensitive in this heat."
jack abbot, military veteran and swat physician, fought a giddy smile as you batted your lashes while worrying over the fact that he could potentially burn up on the public parks basketball black top.
one of the guys coughed a laugh and you turned your attention towards all the weathered veterans that were missing limbs and marred with scars. and just like you had done with jack, you didn't tone your bubbliness down to match whatever hypothetical grief you thought they carried, you just kept that pretty smile on your face. "hi boys! jack has told me sooo much about you all! does anyone else need sunscreen after i apply his?"
you popped off the bottle cap and squirted some onto your hands while brightly introducing yourself, then started to rub the white paste on jacks already pink cheeks to between the creases of his crows feet with a tenderness that made his chest twinge. you had them all say their names one by one and what positions they played on the court.
"back court? that sounds like a tough one, do you play that too jackie?" you asked him innocently while you covered his freckled shoulders that were exposed from his muscle tee, your tongue cutely poking out of the corner of your mouth in concentration.
one of jacks friends opened his mouth with a clearly crude intention at the ready, jack cut him off with a glare. "don't even think about it." jack raised a hand to point at him in warning, not realizing that he still gripped the pills in his hand.
your eyes snagged on the viagra bottle and your brows raised. "what's that?" jack tried to answer but it was too late, the vet with one arm and half a leg cut in swiftly, smuggly. "just a gift from us guys. from a few old timers to another, we thought abbot could benefit from some... alone time assistance." he winked at you.
you frowned in confusion. "but, jack and i have sex all the time."
jack choked on air, eyes widening instantly. "baby! you don't have to—" all the guys started to chuckle, half disbelief half pure amusement. "all the time?" someone chirped. "go on hon, tell us what you mean!"
you cocked your head to the side, truly not understanding that they were goading you. "well, he's never had to use any kind of pills if thats what you're asking. he can do it anywhere, anytime really. which we do"— jacks beet red face was not from sunburn as you started to list out examples on your fingers "—we've done it both of our cars—" his hand clutched at his chest, one guy spat out his water. "—we've done it in a few different elevators—"
the next few guys turned to gawk at jack, he felt faint all of a sudden as you just kept on talking "—oh! one time, i dropped him off thirty minutes early by accident and he was the first one here so we did it up against that tree over—"
"SWEETHEART!" everyone flinched at jack's shout. your pretty eyes simply blinked at him, innocent as a lamb, "w-what jackie?" he started to sputter, brain malfunctioning at the fact that you'd just shared more about his life to these guys than he had in the past twenty years. all the vets started to make their way to the court, patting jack on the back with congratulations and howling with laughter as they went, leaving the two of you alone.
jack exhaled when his heart rate was finally regulated, he didn't want you to know he was slightly mortified, you would've felt terrible. "just... i think they got the picture baby." he chuckled then placed a kiss to your forehead. the timbre of his voice dropped low, raising a suggestive brow as he added "you just had to add the time against the tree, huh?"
you bit your lip as you shrugged sweetly, "what? it's a personal favorite." jack shook his head as he pulled you into a deep kiss, the kind that had led to the tree rendezvous. only when you started to inappropriately paw at him did he pull back. "thanks for the sunscreen and a stroll down memory lane sweetheart." you rubbed in a stray streak of sunscreen on his stubbled chin. " 'course jackie."
jack glanced around to make sure no vets had lingered before he waggled his brows. "how bout you drop me off again tomorrow then? maybe an hour early this time?"
pairing: tom loftis x f!reader
summary: the vacation finally starts to feel like a vacation! that is until Patricia's cocktails comes around and you get to pick between facing a Sea Hag or being possessed.
word count: 6.5k
note: i may have gotten a little carried away with the asks and put part 5 on the backburner but here we have it!! i cannot express enough how much i have adored everyones interactions with this story and my one shots i love u guys forever in case u didnt know!!
{1}{2}{3}{4}
Chapter Five: Caught in the Deep End
The nights on the island were becoming more restless than the last.
I woke with my cheek stamped by the spiral rings of my notebook. The moment I actually fell asleep was a blank space in my memory, one that I could only tie to being incredibly late in the night. I didn’t think much of it, until I went to close the book only to see a thick smear of black ink cut across the bottom of my notes.
I nearly dropped it. The writing wasn't mine–at least, not any version of mine that I remembered.
My neat handwriting stopped midpage halfway through a sentence and below it, the pen strokes became heavy and almost violent. Jagged lines dug so deeply into the paper that I could feel the grooves with my fingertips. Some of the markings—because they didn't resemble any language I’ve ever seen— twisted into things I could only imagine were words or symbols.
Whatever they were, they felt deeply and terribly wrong.
I shut the notebook and like most things this island had forced me to confront, I decided not to think about it for another few hours.
Today was too important for Tom and Patricia.
I packed a small bag for the beach and swung by the Driftwood cafe for a coffee for my walk. It was almost enough to shake the disturbed feeling that lingered in my stomach from this morning. The beach was starting to fill when I arrived. It looked different from when Tom and I had a picnic here just days ago; filled with beach chairs and umbrellas of people waiting for the inaugural swim.
I laid out a towel close enough to the small stage while still getting some sun. Tom made me promise I wouldn’t sit close enough to distract him, but he should have known me better by now.
I could hear the subtle panic in Dale’s voice when they realized they couldn’t get electricity to the speakers all the way over here. Even when Tom arrived and freaked a bit (with more choice words than Dale used), I kept my identity hidden with the simple sunglasses and hat I wore.
But Tom was oblivious even as I stared at him from barely a couple yards away until he finally lowered the binoculars pointed out towards the lighthouse. It was hard to swallow my grin while waiting for him to notice.
I waved, letting it break through.
Tom’s face dropped; blank of the frustration he had with Dale but also blank of anything discernable as his eyes quickly drifted over me head to toe. It was like the plug behind his eyes was yanked out, and I had a hunch as to why, and my grin widened.
“Nice day today.” Tom cleared his throat, looking out on the water.
I raised my brows at him. “Tom.” I deadpanned.
He still didn’t look back at me. “Yep.”
My expression deepened more into suspicion, watching him struggle to refrain from looking back at me.
“You’re acting weird.” I called him out teasingly.
“No I’m not.” he answered so quickly it made me snort out a laugh. “You just look really…nice.”
Even Tom couldn’t resist, letting out a huff of nervous laughter as he rubbed the back of his neck where the redness crept up. I wanted to make fun of him even more, but Dale arrived in the corner of my eye with a microphone whose cord came from nowhere I could see.
Finally, Tom had an excuse to peel away while I still chuckled to myself at how ridiculous he was being.
Tom gave his speech and I listened intently, this moment being one of the only times I’ve really seen him in mayoral action . At its conclusion, I even made sure to cheer just a little louder than the rest of the beach but subtle enough that only Tom would notice and try not to break his composure. The music started and as he descended the stage, he started to remove his watch.
“Do you mind holding this for me?” he asked.
“Why do you think I sat so close to the stage?” I retorted.
He let out a scoff of disbelief. “I can name at least two other reasons and one of them was not to get to hold the watch.”
I rested my chin into my hand once I took it from him, hoping to hide the inevitable heat that rushed up to my face. It was only then that my eyes swept around, feeling someone else's stare, only to find that Rosemary was looking at me with disgust. I did a double take just to confirm.
“I’ve seen a lot of weird things in my day,” Rosemary said through the inhale of her cigarette. “But you two are by far the worst lovesick puppies I’ve ever seen.”
That wasn’t quite meant as a compliment either if I had any guess.
I wordlessly redirected my attention to the water as Tom started his swim. I had my camera ready to go, standing at the edge of my towel to get a few snapshots of the water and the crowd itself. It was such a silly tradition, but I admired the way he went through with it, no questions asked. When I lowered my camera to get a good look at him out by the buoy and his wave back to land, I was even feeling a little prideful myself.
But a small, dark shape poked out from the water just on the other side of the buoy. It could have been a trick of the sunlight shimmering on the ripples of water. It could have been nothing but my own eyes growing tired of me.
I urgently lifted my camera to try and zoom in as much as I could, but whatever I saw was gone and Tom was paddling back to shore.
The closer I looked though, his motions seemed frantic. My legs carried me forward as he neared the shore out of instinct. Then, I heard the thrashing in the water and my heart lurched to my throat. But as soon as I weaved around a small group in front of me, the Sheriff was already helping him stand.
My eyes drifted down to his leg where a small scratch was now embedded in his calf and my head snapped back up to his face. Tom was white as a ghost, even for New England standards. He started for the stage and walked right by me.
“Tom—“
But he didn’t hear me and I turned to quickly follow in his steps, his watch still in my hands. He was disappearing towards the treeline now and I worriedly glanced back at my stuff, only hesitating a second before I decided to follow him.
“Tom!” I called again.
The sand turned into a blend of dirt and pine needles on the small path to the parking lot. I finally caught up to him as he reached his car.
“I’m sorry.” Tom sharply breathed. “I’m sorry.”
He opened his trunk to reach for a towel, and it gave me a good opportunity to look at his leg.
“What the hell happened?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
Tom moved with uneven movements as he dried himself off. I stood there feeling absolutely helpless. I’ve never seen him like this before, not even when we spent that night at the inn.
“Nothing. I’m fine.” he answered briskly, running the towel over his face and briefly pausing. “I—I just have to go do something.”
He couldn’t look at me and before, I assumed it was because we were flirting a bit but now, I knew something was off. This wasn’t something I could easily break through.
“Can I help? You’re bleeding, Tom–” I winced, looking at his leg.
Tom took off the long sleeve swim shirt he wore, and against my better judgement, I felt a little flustered and looked to the ground. When I peaked though, I saw a bandage falling off his arm revealing another scratch just before he could throw on another dry shirt. My heart sank.
“Alright, that’s enough,” I frowned, voice coming out sharper than intended. I felt a slight tinge of guilt as he briefly shut his eyes in defeat. “What is going on? What made this the point where you start keeping secrets?”
That got his attention; his shoulders sagged and for a second, I thought he might tell me. I felt pathetic begging for an ounce of his honesty or even just a sound of acknowledgement. This wasn’t how I normally was and for him to drive me to that point was teetering on the edge of the supernatural occurrences here.
“I’m sorry.”
The hope deflated in me. “That isn’t an answer.”
“I know.” he sighed, jaw working through the tension that built. “I promise I’ll find you at Patricia’s cocktails later.” He didn’t even seem convinced of that answer himself.
I couldn’t fully believe it either. With how hastily Tom got into the drivers side and peeled off without so much as looking back, I was stuck with the weight of the pit forming in my stomach.
I didn’t even get to give him back his watch.
Wyck’s conversation with me yesterday echoed in my conscience as I packed my things from the beach. I would never agree with him or his opinions towards Tom, but for some reason when one terrible feeling caught me off guard, the rest of them rushed in. I wanted to believe something else was going on. Or maybe I was too strung out from reality that I missed the obvious sign that Tom may just want to put distance between us.
For the first time since coming here, I felt shut out from this island.
~
The Salty Whale was almost entirely deserted, save for me, Rosemary, Ruth, Dale, and the town’s one and only doctor apparently. Patricia’s choice of decor with the small stick figures made up of twigs and tied with twine was—well, it was a choice.
I tried to go into the kitchen to offer help, only catching a glance of the mess by the fruit bowl before being utterly distracted by Patricia’s head piece.
“No! You can’t be back here!” Patricia yelped, hands waving as she rushed towards me. “You have to be out there because all the good looking people will see you and know this is where the party is!”
“Alright, alright!”
I wanted to urge her to come out from the kitchen, since I didn’t imagine Ruth or the doctor would be interested in dancing with me. But I knew it would be futile. As I took a seat at the bar, the kitchen doors burst open again, this time with Patricia carrying a tray of food. Her eyes were wildly scanning the rest of the room, and I pulled one of the barstools out of the way before she could knock into it.
“Also, I called your stupid boyf—I’m sorry, he’s not stupid—but I called Tom and he didn’t answer. Rang all the way to voicemail.” Patricia scoffed, arms flopping down to her sides. “So there’s that.”
I spun in my seat, trying to track her as she paced back to the kitchen. “Wait, Patricia—!”
But she already disappeared before I could finish my sentence. I gave up, sighing as I faced the bar again, with nothing but me and my glass of wine to fill the void. Rosemary exited the kitchen through the wooden door that didn’t seem to stop swinging on its hinges, her eyebrows raised high in her forehead.
“I can’t do anything right today.” she sighed.
“You’re telling me,” I muttered, sipping my wine. “Patricia not letting you help anymore?” I asked her.
She indulged me and took a seat at the open barstool next to me. “I tried to raise my concerns.” Rosemary began, meeting the bartender halfway with a drink he already made for her. “Why don’t you go back there? Maybe tell her to go easy on the punch?”
I shook my head while mid sip of my wine. “Nope. She insisted I stay out here because I can attract good looking people apparently.”
I wish that were true, but the one person I wanted here had no signs of showing up. My eyes drifted up to the clock above the kitchen door, showing it was half past seven. The emptiness grew and I looked back down at the bar top with a frown.
“Oh, stop pouting.” Rosemary scolded, her voice nearly giving out. “Loftis won’t be coming.”
I narrowed my eyes on her. “How do you know?”
I felt a little brash now that I admitted I was pouting and that he was the reason. But Rosemary’s certainty threw me off even more.
“Because he’s gotta hide from the Sea Hag.” she said like it was obvious, picking up a handful of peanuts. “If he follows the rules and stays hidden for the next seventy two hours, his wounds will heal and she’ll lose his scent.”
“Oh my god.” I sighed, forehead falling into my hands.
Just when I thought there would be a sane and logical reasoning –such as Tom simply not being interested anymore– Rosemary takes the Wyck route. At this point, I was already planning out when I’d pack my bags and hit the ferry early tomorrow morning. But that instinct felt hollow, unfinished from the small chance Rosemary might have been right. It was a small speck of belief, one that could be snuffed out if I thought about it any longer.
“Or Tom isn’t ready to date and that’s just that. There doesn’t need to be some ghost story made up for everything.” I retorted, snuffing out that belief.
Rosemary shook her head, pulling out her back of cigarettes and started to make way to the exit sign in the back. “Loftis has never been ready to date.” she scoffed. “Not like he’ll get the chance to try if he’s dead though.”
“Jesus Christ, Rosemary!” I gawked, watching as she glided out for her smoke break. “That isn’t helping!”
By Patricia’s third time bursting from the kitchen, looking more frantic than the last, I finally jumped up from my seat, trying not to think of Sea Hags or being rejected. I never even thought my dating life would come to saying those things in the same sentence. People slowly started to trickle in and the music started to play. An ad played over the song though, and I immediately spotted her ready to rip Dale's throat out.
“Patricia,” I said calmly, placing my hand on her shoulders. “I will use my log in. No ads. No worries.”
A smile wrenched its way onto her face, and finally, she nodded in agreement, before returning to draw in more guests. Dale looked a bit offended when I took over the computer to login to my account, but Patricia was more my priority right now. Someone here needed to have a good night and it ought to be her.
“I don’t know how you can keep a straight face when she has that thing on her head.”
I looked up from the computer and sighed. Patricia’s headpiece had yet to actually scare anyone off, I suppose.
“I am being a good friend.” I answered shortly. “And because Rosemary apparently tried to tell her and it didn’t go well.”
Dale resumed his DJ activities but not before calling my name again.
“You left your camera on the beach by the way,” he said, eyes on the computer while he held out my camera.
My eyes widened slightly and I grabbed it, trying to remember when I even managed to forget it. I aggressively thanked him a dozen times before I made my way back to my seat at the bar. I looked out at the space behind me as Patricia started to dance. I sighed to myself and hoped more people would arrive for her sake.
With another glass filled, I quickly turned on my camera out of curiosity to see how the photos turned out today. I wasn’t quite ready to dance, so I opted to take some more for the event tonight as well once I deleted a few. I mindlessly skipped through the pictures of the beach, the lighthouse, and the crowd that watched Tom–whose pictures made my throat run dry whenever they came up.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
Just before I could switch back to start taking more, my eyes caught a slight discrepancy in one of the photos where Tom was out by the buoy. A smudge, maybe. I brought it closer to my face, eyebrows angled down in intense focus. I zoomed in with the settings, my blood turning thicker by the second.
My lips parted to make way for the slightest gasp as I realized the smudge was in fact real and the shape of a face became clear within it; a head in the water that Tom’s face was clearly written in horror from. I skipped through each picture, the head sinking lower and Tom starting to paddle.
How did I not notice these earlier?
Rosemary being right dawned on me with a sickening twist in my chest. I didn’t want to believe it, but my heart was racing like the truth was already at my heels. Others started to trickle in, per Patricia’s haggling. But then Rosemary came back in from her smoke break, staring at the rest of the room with something close to disappointment– until she saw me and the crazy look in my eyes rushing up to her.
“Rosemary!” She jumped and she did not look like someone who easily jumped. “What’s Tom’s address?”
She sighed, shaking her head at me. “I know you’re new here, hun, but don’t go thinking you can just go take down a Sea Hag–”
“Rosemary!” I shrieked, the panic creeping down my limbs.
“Alright!”
Rosemary jotted down Tom’s address on a napkin.
“It’s your funeral too,” was all she said.
I took one glance at Patricia as more and more people arrived. I felt guilty leaving but at least I could do so knowing that her party started to kick off. If this were all some twisted story that turned out not to be real, then I’d leave tomorrow and never look back.
I snuck out through the crowd which amassed quite quickly and outside into the nearly empty parking lot. Cold air rushed inland and over my skin. I stood frantically looking around, the silence becoming more apparent save for the faint bass of Dale’s DJ set up. One hand clenched the napkin while the other still held my camera. My shoulders sagged and I let out a breath that appeared thinly in the air as my heart rate lowered.
“What the hell am I doing?” I whispered.
I felt silly the more I thought about it; I was chasing a ghost story. My years of interviewing, editing, and reporting unraveled in a heap of shreds before me and it left me momentarily defeated. I started to doubt everything these past few days. How could I believe the Sea Hag over any other plausible option?
But just as my mind started to spiral, a pair of headlights came veering up the road. I held up my hand to shield my eyes as the white truck skidded to a halt on the gravel parking lot.
It took my eyes a moment to adjust as I stepped out of the way, surprised to see Wyck behind the wheel.
“Is Loftis here?!” he called out.
I frowned. “No. Let me guess, there’s a Sea Hag after him?”
“That’s old news, sweetheart. Get in!”
My jaw hung open. I wanted to scold Wyck but I was more focused on blindly hopping in and going against my better judgement. Something shifted somewhere between my parking lot thoughts and Wyck arriving; I knew that everything I had seen this week was real. I even fought Tom about how real it was. I couldn’t stop fighting now when it put him in danger.
My silence must have been unnerving because I caught Wyck staring at me.
“Starting to believe me?” he asked.
I suddenly became aware of how fast this truck was going and just how unsteady it felt over every bump in the road. The turns made me clutch the sides of my seat.
“I’ll let you know when we get there.”
Wyck started to talk about the Sea Hag and how its hunt happened in the first place. I half listened, my heart beat racing in my ears.
The quaint house with a simple porch light came into view as we turned down a long driveway. Everything looked ordinary; his car in the driveway, curtains drawn, and not a single thing out of place. I didn’t know what I expected, honestly. But Wyck threw his truck into park, my body rocking with the sudden motion, and he jumped out.
Wide eyed, I frantically followed with a slight delay, leaving the truck in time to see him grabbing a shot gun from the bed of the truck.
“Oh my god,” I muttered.
I looked into the bed of the truck, grabbing the most reasonable object I could find in the darkness of the island, coming up with a baseball bat. I tried to mirror Wyck’s intensity as he carried the shot gun towards the house, keeping it clutched and raised ready for any sudden movements.
“Alright, whatever you do, stay behind me, ya hear?” Wyck asked.
“Got it.”
The front door was locked, and Wyck peaked through the windows as we made our way around the back where the door opened on the first try.
“That fucking idiot,” Wyck scolded, shaking his head.
We entered the house and my own heartbeat stilled for a minute to take in the silence. I looked around at everything that seemed in place, but Wyck found something else: wet footprints on the ground. My blood cooled.
It was real.
Wyck spared nothing to being stealthy, marching past the footprints until we reached the carpet and lost their track. My knuckles ached with how tight I clutched the bat, ready to swing around every corner. Wyck took the living room while I went on the opposite side of the house.
As I neared the stairs though, I heard a shuffling sound from the hallway that led behind them.
“Wyck…” I cautiously announced.
The door was cracked into the lit room, exposing black and white tile with a new set of wet foot prints leading in. I heard a sloshing sound that made my stomach churn and I gravitated towards it.
I lifted the bat, ready to swing as I neared the doorway.
My heart thundered in my chest as I poked my head in, exploding at the sight of a ghastly, molted figure with long wet hair. It froze, midway into the bathtub, making the breath catch in my lungs. But for some reason, it paid no mind to me as it resumed its motion. My breath shuddered the moment it decided to ignore me.The gripping, icy feeling I had in my nightmare the other night screamed at me once more. I loathed how familiar it felt and I had to consciously remember I could move—and that I could swing.
“Get away from him!” my voice tore through with my swing.
My blood rushed as I released all my strength into the impact, but the Sea Hag did not budge. In fact, it took my mind too long to register the fact that her jaw was now hanging, barely attached by the soggy, molted skin of her face. My own jaw dropped, and I forgot how to do anything as the Sea Hags gray eyes locked on me. I could have hit a block of clay and did more damage.
But Wyck emerged in the doorway in seconds, shotgun raised.
“Hey!”
The gunshot popped, severing everything within my senses for a split second. It was like a reset button that left my ears ringing and muscles rigid with the bat still clutched in my hands.
Where the Sea Hag once stood as a whole being had instantly become nothing but water and dirt at the floor and the tub. Tom sprung up from the tub, the sounds of his choked air finally reaching my ears as the ringing faded.
I was so relieved to see him there but it barely gave me the strength to lower the bat even in the slightest. My heart wasn’t pounding any less, my breaths becoming more shallow.
Everything started to catch up to me and even as Wyck helped Tom out of the tub, I couldn’t move. Tom was drenched, covered with the remnants of a Sea Hag that I didn’t know existed until today.
“Why is this happening?” Tom asked in defeat towards Wyck.
Wyck didn’t have much of an answer that Tom couldn’t figure out for himself. But they both looked at me and I could feel their stares. I wanted to say something or move, but everything from my throat to my knuckles felt locked up.
“Hey…” Tom croaked.
It wasn’t until his hands, albeit shaky, reached my arms to lower the bat, that I felt tears swell up in my eyes. Tom’s sorrowful mask became blurry to me. I relinquished my stillness and let the bat fall to the ground, but with that came everything else.
Tom’s face sunk, brows furrowing over the sadness in his eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” Tom pleaded in a whisper, hand coming up to the side of my face.
I fought the tears from spilling. I bit on the inside of my lip, my breaths becoming slightly more uneven than the last and it racked my entire body. I wanted to tell him it was okay and that he had no reason to apologize, maybe add that I wanted to apologize too, but the minute my lips parted something much more indignant crept up my throat.
I couldn’t look up again. I took a deep breath that shuddered my entire frame.
But when Tom’s arms came around me, despite his sleeves sopping wet with whatever remained of the Sea Hag, tears silently flowed down my eyes.
“No, it’s okay.” I finally managed, trying to laugh through it. “I’m fine. You’re fine. I’m being ridiculous!”
I looked up to the ceiling to keep more tears from coming, but Tom pulled back, face twisted up in both awe and confusion. His hand lifted to my jaw, thumb striking away the last of my tears.
“You’re not being ridiculous.” Tom shook his head. “I shouldn’t have put you in this situation.”
“You didn’t.” Wyck interjected, startling the both of us. “She came running out of the Salty Whale already figuring out what was going on. I just found her at the right time.”
Tom did a double take, looking back at me and I weakly smiled, lips faintly trembling still. I could see the guilt he carried still, but Wyck impatiently stood by the door.
“As sweet as this is, we have another problem.”
Someone was frantically calling out over the walkie Tom had in the hallway, and while I couldn’t hear the exact words, something bad happened at Patricia’s cocktails. There were also several voicemails from the Reverend.
We didn’t waste another second lingering in the house after that.
Tom’s hand stayed firmly in mine as we headed out to Wyck’s truck. The tires ripped against the dirt path as we got back on the road back to the Salty Whale. All of us were silent, no one daring to announce their theories as to what may have happened. But as we rounded a corner, the headlights immediately caught a figure in the road that made all of our hearts jump at the same time.
“It’s her.” I said quickly, immediately recognizing her dress.
“Patricia!” Tom called out the window.
She turned around, and the look in her eyes shook me to my core. I didn’t wait before opening the door to jump out and meet her as she walked towards the truck.
“Are you alright?” I asked her frantically.
She shook her head, her stare long drifting away, as if she were looking through me.
“Something bad happened at the party. It went wrong.”
I glanced back at Tom and Wyck, brows furrowing at them, unsure of what to do. But Wyck leaned forward. “You can file that under ‘deal with it the fuck later’” he shrugged.
My lips parted slightly. That wouldn’t have been my first choice of words, but it seemed like the only way to get through with her. Tom and I exchanged a look, both understanding as we ushered Patricia to squeeze into the truck with us. It was a little tight, but something told me Patricia needed that right now. I worriedly looked over at Tom and then back at her, the drive silent except for the road itself.
They headed to the church out of concern for the Reverend.
“Do you want to go back to the inn?” Tom asked.
My head whipped over to face him. I even felt Wyck and Patricia’s gazes follow mine and Tom’s eyes widened, backing off as he leaned back against the door.
“There is no chance I’m leaving your side at this point.” I affirmed.
Tom gulped and nodded. “Alrighty, then.”
The church sat atop a short hill, the outdoor lights just barely framing the building and lighting the entrance. When I slid out of the truck, I stopped and stared at it for a moment as a chill ran up my spine. It was quiet; not even the wind or the cicadas could be heard from the surrounding forest, as if something had scared them too. But we marched on, Tom and Wyck taking the lead. Of course, it was empty, as churches often were in the middle of the night, and the lack of answer from calling out the Reverend’s name started to make me a little more uneasy.
The four of us crept into his office where dozens of papers were scattered around, some pieces catching the flames of a barely lit fire.
It was like an animal tore through every inch of the room.
I didn’t know what I was looking at anymore than they did. Tom walked around the desk with Wyck. I was unsure of where to even take my next step with how cluttered the floors were. Behind me, the door creaked shut. As I glanced around the desk, studying what I could from the lamplight, Tom’s face caught me off guard.
His eyes locked on something behind me. Wyck and Patricia caught on too.
When I turned around, I gasped, my bones jumping out of my skin as I backed into the desk at the sight of Reverend Bryce hanging from the door. It was more jarring how little it struck me at first. Out of everything I’ve seen this week, I think my mind was finally numb to the horrors that started to pile on top of each other. Everything turned to white noise as I stared, none of us able to break away.
I had a feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time we were in this room.
~
The Sheriff came and medics took the body of Reverend Bryce. Patricia hid from Bechir to avoid being questioned about what happened tonight at the party.
I shouldn’t have been surprised when I heard that a grimoire was behind the disaster her evening was. It explained a lot. It wouldn’t dawn on me until later though that Rosemary probably didn’t try hard enough to steer Patricia away from whatever she was doing after witnessing the set up.
Tom spoke with the sheriff while I sat in the back of Wyck’s truck at the bottom of the hill. My dress hung low at my ankles that swayed in the air over the truck bed. Behind me, Patricia was hiding under a wool blanket.
“I think there’s a spider in here.”
“Shh.” I whispered.
“Oh, not a spider,” she whispered back. “But I found some scotch.”
“Gimme that.”
Patricia’s hand peaked out through the blanket, the bottle in hand. I looked at it carefully in the reflection from the lights outside the church. As I studied it, Wyck was coming back from the medics after helping them retrieve Reverend Bryce. In his calloused age, I could see that this was starting to get to him a bit too.
“Is this stuff any good, Wyck?” I asked.
He narrowed his eyes, most likely wondering where I found that, but then took it from my hand to also give it a good look–and a good sip.
“It’s good.” Wyck seethed.
Sighing, I threw back a sip and almost gagged the moment it burned through my esophagus. I coughed, but it only made the pain in my chest worse. After today though, I think it was warranted to remind me I was real and this wasn’t all just one big nightmare.
Speaking of, as the Sheriff finally pulled away with his lights flashing furiously atop his truck, Tom walked back towards me in the shadow it left. Even in the night as the lights started to pull further away from him, I could see the darkness under his bleary eyes. He was still a little damp, but it seemed to be the least of his problems.
Tom took a deep breath as he finally stood before me. I quietly waited, looking up at him with an impossible task of finding the right thing to say.
“God, you must be freezing.” he sighed.
I was subconsciously rubbing my arms, which were exposed in the dress I chose to wear. But I shrugged, realizing it was more of a habit at this point than the cool nights of Widows Bay.
“It’s fine. I am–” I dropped off, my eyes losing focus on the lawn. “I’m fine.”
Tom’s hands reached out to my shoulders, taking over the comforting habit I was too tired to keep up with.
“Would now be a bad time to say how beautiful you look and how sorry I am that I didn't make it tonight?”
I tried to pull back my laughter, my grin drilling into my cheek.
“It’s never a bad time to call a girl beautiful,” I remarked. “But you would be stupid to try and apologize for that with everything that’s happened.”
Tom nodded remorsefully, also realizing how ridiculous he sounded. “You’re probably right. But still. I blew you off earlier–”
“For good reason.” I interjected, eyes softening up at him as the panic started to write itself back in him. “If you told me then why you were so set on getting out of there, I don’t think I would’ve believed you. I already convinced myself you were just trying to end things up until I checked my camera earlier.”
Immediately, his hands stopped at my shoulders and his brows angled, looking at me like I was crazy.
“Are you kidding me?” Tom questioned. “God, I’ll be lucky if I can beg you to still stay at this point.”
The thought of leaving was a mere whisper in my thoughts after everything that’s transpired. But even if I tried to think about it, it felt impossible to leave. I couldn’t picture a path that didn’t end with me staying and helping them out with whatever was happening.
I shook my head. “You won’t have to. I’m not running away just yet.”
Tom was about to speak, but the blanket started shuffling behind me.
“You know–” Patricia popped up. Tom immediately jumped back from me, a gasp stealing the breath right from his lungs. “It’s probably best you didn’t come or else I would have gotten you two possessed as well.”
Tom was clutching his chest, and all I could do was laugh. It was a laugh stemmed from delirium at this rate, but something that eased the bundle of nerves that sat in the pit of my stomach nonetheless. Patricia nervously tacked on a laugh, but Tom was still catching his breath.
“How long were you under there?!” he cried.
“Since the Sheriff got here.” she answered.
I picked up the bottle again for one last swig and held it out to Tom with a grimace etched on my face.
“I think you need this too.”
Tom didn’t hesitate. Neither did Patricia. We sat there for a little while longer in silence while Wyck continued to talk to the paramedics until they pulled off as well. This place would be a full blown investigation site by tonight, or at least early morning if we’re considering the island’s timing. Before we could all hop back in though, Tom’s hand reached for mine and I looked back, following the subtle tug.
“Yeah?”
He looked me in my eyes. “I-I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go back to the inn.”
I tilted my head at him. “I’ll be fine, Tom.”
“I know, but–” he sighed, clenching his jaw over the words that he seemed to be mulling over. “You could stay with me. I just think it would be much safer until we figure out what’s going on.”
It was a sweet gesture. One I almost said yes to because he was right; it would be much safer. But one thing rose up with a warning sign in my mind.
“I won’t.” I smiled feebly. “Because if I’m going to be sticking around, I don’t want to intrude on what is your son’s home too and be sprung on him like that. I would hate that if I were his age.”
Tom was momentarily caught off guard, and I could see the way his gaze shifted to the ground that he didn’t think of that right away himself. He was trying to think of a back up, but I was already going to make up my mind that the inn would just be better for now.
“She can stay with me.” Patricia chimed in.
I glanced back, seeing a hopeful smile work its way onto her face.
“I actually really like that idea,” I agreed, looking back at Tom.
A look of exasperation befell him but he couldn’t help but agree either. He nodded and we squeezed back into the truck. But just as I hopped in, he paused at the passenger side and looked up at me.
“What?” I chuckled, saving room for him to hop in.
“Nothing.” Tom shook his head, jumping into the truck. “I’m just glad there’s at least an ‘if’ when you talk about sticking around.”
And out of all the terror my body has gone through this week, when I laid my head upon his shoulder, I still felt like I was where I was meant to be…even with Patricia and Wyck squeezed in too.
author's note: i'm sorry this took me so long to post! i had an idea of how i wanted to wrap this up, but i wasn't sure how best to convey it through texts. i've also lowkey been going through a bit of a robby phase...anyway... jack is still my baby and my plan is to post a little 'epilogue' that will hopefully wrap everything in a cute lil bow<3
the sun is finally beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a deep orange and purple glow across the beach. the heat of the day is melting into a cool coastal breeze, which should be nice, but walking back to the car is turning into a massive chore. well, a chore for jack, at least.
you're strolling effortlessly along the boardwalk, your designer sandals, that jack obviously paid for, clicking softly on the wood, completely unbothered. jack, on the other hand, is walking half a step behind you, acting as your personal servant. he's carrying the massive pink canvas beach bag stuffed with your towels and skincare products, a heavy cooler half full of refreshments, the folded up beach umbrella, and even your oversized sun hat that you got tired of wearing five minutes ago. despite the sheer amount of gear draped over his broad shoulders, he moves with a steady pace, not even breaking a sweat.
glancing back at him from behind your sunglasses, you cross your arms as you slow your pace so he can catch up. you look at his hands, both completely full as his fingers grip the straps and handles of your belongings.
"jackieee," you whine, stopping in the middle of the path and turning around to face him. "why arent you holding my hand?"
jack stops in his tracks, looking down at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated disbelief. as you cross your arms to pout, the movement pushes your breasts up, drawing his dark eyes directly to the front of your low cut bikini top. because he had been so meticulous with the sunscreen earlier, your skin is entirely safe from the sun, lacking even a hint of a tan. instead, your breasts look incredibly soft against the bright fabric of your swimsuit, glistening faintly under the remaining sheen of protective cream.
jack stares down, completely mesmerized for a quick minute. his gaze lingers on the smooth swell of your chest, his throat tightening as he remembers the exact feel of his hands rubbing the cream over those curves just an hour ago. the sight of you looking so untouched by the sun, completely preserved by his own hands, hits him with a sudden wave of possessiveness.
he forces his eyes back up to your face, letting out a low, breathless scoff to hide how deeply the sight just affected him. a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he takes in the absolute entitlement radiating from your pout.
"because, princess," jack rumbles, his voice rougher and deeper than before, "im currently carrying every single thing we brought to the beach, most of which belongs to you. unless you want to carry the cooler, i don't exactly have a spare hand."
"i am not carrying a dirty cooler, jack," you huff, tilting your chin up and refusing to budge. "but i still want to hold your hand. you're walking too far away from me."
jack stops in his tracks, looking down at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated disbelief. as you cross your arms to pout.
he takes in the way your lower lip protrudes and the petulant set of your jaw, and for a split second, he almost thinks he sees tears of genuine, bratty frustration glistening in your eyes. the thought is ridiculous, he knows you’re just being dramatic—but it still manages to deflate the last of his resistance.
jack stares at you, completely exasperated by how spoiled you are, yet completely unable to deny you when you look up at him like that, especially with his mind still stuck on how stunning you look.
he lets out a quiet sigh, adjusting the umbrella under his arm just enough to free up exactly one digit.
slowly, he extends his right hand toward you, curling his thumb and three fingers tightly around the handle of the gear, leaving only his thick, pinky finger sticking out in the air.
"this is the best you're getting," he murmurs, raising an eyebrow at you. "take it or leave it."
a massive, victorious smile immediately replaces your pout. you step closer and eagerly wrap your entire hand around his extended pinky finger, squeezing the warm skin tightly. it is a ridiculous way to walk, but the solid anchor of his touch makes you instantly happy. you turn back around and continue walking toward the car, happily tugging him along by his littlest finger while jack just shakes his head behind you, entirely defeated by his favorite brat.
summary: texts between bee and jack during their first shift together after the date
tags/warnings: 18+ mdni, potential ooc, swearing, innuendos/sexual comments, fluff, flirting, pining, use of pet names, age-gap relationship, power dynamics, no use of y/n, indirect talk of losing a patient, see masterlist for more detailed tags
author’s note: so sorry for only one update last week! was busy celebrating the 4th (in a liberal way) and had a bit of writer’s block. but we’re back now enjoy! this chapter is basically pure fluff.
Author's Note: Smut next chapter i promise. also might do a little mood board , also i don't think i would want like a big confession they just at some point make a silent decision but not now there will be angst and yearning beforehand :).
Warning: age gap, face claim (don't have to use to enjoy),cyberattack plot with photographic memory reader
pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4
Jack doesn't remember falling asleep but when he does the house is dimly lit a orange glow in the house
he moved with a groan, sitting more upright as he had slumped further and further on your sofa leaving his neck stiff, wincing in pain he rolled his neck hand grabbing for his phone, turning on his phone met with a screaming white light he turned his head to shield his eyes taking a few seconds to get used to the contrast.
11:08am
jack looked around and saw a small body wrapped in a blanket on the other side of the room, your small breaths hitching as you moved slightly.
jack sat in silence watching you for a few minutes, the sun just peeking in to watch you as well.
jack tried getting up but immediately sitting down wincing in pain and grabbing at his leg
his prosthetic still on, he rolled up his trousers taking it off and massaging his stump. he looked up at you again, watching you sleep a small smile of contempt on his mind on heart.
and in that moment jack decided to stay for a while longer.
you woke to the sun painfully in your eyes, turning away your eyes flickered open slowly blinking the sleep away, your eyes catch jack still there sitting upright eyes closed head hanging slightly back.
your eyes travelled down to his legs or rather 1 leg and a prosthetic leg off to the side kept up by your sofa.
Jack was an amputee?
you sat up, thinking of jacks walk, taking not of how it was uneven at points, how he would shift weight, but you thought that was a quirk of his.
when did he lose it?
how did he lose it?
was it in the military? Highly likely
i want to ask but i don't want to be intrusive, so push the questions out and concluding to that he will tell me in due time if he wants to.
you grab your phone from the table, phone already on low light so it doesn't strain your eyes.
12:50pm
you stand up, heading the kitchen
you take out a mug from your cupboard and from a different one a tea bag and turn on the kettle.
your still waking up, sleep still holding you, your body curved in half, your arms folded on the counter with your head resting on it and your bottom half stretched a bit away.
you felt heat behind you, you shifted your weight from one leg to the other hips moving in unison.
you felt a hand go to your hip first, moving up and down, you moaned in response, in comfort.
you stood upright now taking the kettle and pouring the water in the mug watching the water go from clear to a dark brown.
the hand was still on your hip
you tuck your hair behind your ear, closing your eyes and biting your bottom lip.
another hand reached for your hip, pulling you backwards
into his heat. his embrace. his everything.
he let out a breath as your eyes remained shut, leaning your head back on his chest.
his hands remained on your hips his middle fingers drawing circled around your hip bone, you take this as an opening to close the space of your hips to his, he listens dunking his head down in the nape of your neck and his hand snake around your hip fully taking you in. your hand rests ontop of his arms and another reaches behind you to his hair. not to play with but just to have, to hold.
the quietness of the late morning enveloped the both of you
you needed this.
Jack needed this as well.
You both needed each other
the ride to the hospital was filled with small mutual conversation, everything and nothing was conversed about.
you laugh about finally exchanging numbers
make small talk about the weather
he parks the car and conversation persists
"meet me by the car at the end of your shift ill drop you home"
you halfway across the parking garage when-
"hey Dr. Abbot"
a smiling woman greets him, she wore ER scrubs as well a doctors as well at that, she a few paces behind us, quickly closing the space now, eyes faltering to her badge clipped to the right of her scrub
Dr. Mohan
she was a beautiful woman. a great smile.
"shouldn't you be on day in the hospital right now?" Jack questions
"doesn't night shift start in a couple hours?" she answers, Jack doesn't answer
she parts between you both and you let her stepping right out of her way, letting her take the space.
"your still coming out tomorrow?"
she doesn't even acknowledge you not even a look your used to it and pay no mind
your quiet now face blank, your steps continue next to theirs
"uhh yeah" he says with a tight smile
you enter the hospital now, through the ER
Mohan continues in in conversation about the plans for tomorrow night which you find that other departments were asked to go along. both going towards the lockers.
you dont follow, you turn the corner towards the elevator, pressing the button straight to the depths of the hospital.
Jack continues he conversation with Dr. Mohan at the lockers
he turns to say his goodbyes to you but doesn't see the second body, he scrunches his face before taking off his coat and hanging his stethoscope around his neck. he lets out a heavy breath
"whats wrong?" Dr. Mohan asks curious
"the other person that was walking with us, where did she go?" he askes turning to fully face her now
"Who?" she adds
jack just stares at her, like she has three heads
"Are you serious?" pulling on his stethoscope
"deadly" she says hands up in defence.
he look at her for a few seconds, then moves past her into the ER.
you had only started your shift, when you were pages to the ER for bodies.
you stand around waiting for the charge nurse lena at the nurses station, you watch the ER board looking through the names and reason they there, you scanned it for all of 5 minutes before the Charge nurse came back.
she didnt acknowledge you at first even though she had just walked straight past you and is now facing your complete direction.
"which rooms are the bodies in?" you say nonchalant
she takes a step back clutching her heart
"Jesus kid, you need a bell on you" she hands you a list and you get on with it
by the time your back at the station ready for signage, the doctors and nurses round the area.
"so what? their just turning off the technology to the entire hospital" you hear someone say
"due to the cyberattack at the other hospital, we need to prevent the same to us"
you take a look at the board, nothing changed since you last looked
"do you know when it will happen?" another askes
right on beat the computers all flicker and turn off
"quick someone take a picture of the board"
someone pulls out their phone and takes a snap just before it gone.
"got it!" he exclaims, they all take big sigh, continuing the conversation
"someone get out a whiteboard and pen and get that information down now", the day shift attending Dr. Robby orders
automatically a big whiteboard rolls in, the doctors takes out swipes on phone for the picture but his face falls realising that the pictures aren't there
"there a bit blurry but might be salvageable" he knows they aren't we all know they aren't
you see jack in the crowd he shuts he eyes tight and rubs the back of his neck harshly
"Does anyone remember their patients and room numbers"
everyone looks between themselves murmuring in unison
Jack lets out a big sigh and chuckle and his head falls ending with a shake, you make out a 'jesus christ' from his lips. he looks at Dr. Robby and Dr. Robby looks at him.
"Really no one remembers?" Dr. Robby says it one last hopeless attempt
"I remember" the crowd turns towards you eyes locking on you, your eyes stays locked on Dr. Robby
"What? are you a Doctor or nurse in this department?" he questions,
you confidence doesn't falter however, you know you remember, you could name every single patient, doctor, room, cause
"No i read it when i entered the ER 10 minutes ago"
Dr. Robby Chuckles
"i have a photographic memory"
"Look kid-" he starts
"Roman.P arrival time 5:06pm, complaints of chest pain and nausea he is assigned to Dr. Javadi in room 7 pending a CT scan, has no consults or notes. " Dr. javadi you presume nods along,
"thats correct" she shouts
you carry on
"Samantha.U arrival time 5:18pm, complaints of headache and skin blisters he is assigned to Dr.Langdon in room 3 an blood test results completed and waiting to be picked up has a consult with dermatology and infection dieseases notes: family have been contacted and is en route"
Dr. Langdon gives small nod in approvement and runs off to you believe to go pick up those finished labs.
"no no, no need" a nurse hand you the pen and you begin the write out on the board
everyone disperse some others crowd around you, wating for their patient to show up.
you've gotten about 4 patient in when jack comes up behind you
"You have a photographic memory? news to me" he says you look at him and he continues to stare at the board, you begin writing again
"people don't ask" he stays silent not knowing how to argue
Dr. Robby continues on with how procedures will go from now on.
After finishing up in the ER you head back down to the morgue. finishing off the rest of your shift.
you take the elevator up to the ER.
walking through the ER to the doors to leave
"hey crypt keeper" you continue to walk not paying mind thinking whoever this was was talking to someone else
"hey morgue tech" you turn to this as that is your title
you turn to a woman, pale skin black hair, her name tag reading Walsh
you both walk next to each other
"heard what you did in the ER today, pretty cool"
"thankyou"
"are u coming out with us tonight?"
"no"
"you should" she says before turning off down the street
you don't think your going to go, i don't think she even knew my name
your phone pings
'hey baby, give me 5 minutes'
you smile automatically and heart the message
heading to the car park.
"Where are you all going tonight?" you want to break the silence
"This club, some day shift went before- they said it pretty good" he answers
"is it just the ER department going?" you ask fully knowing the answer
"no others as well" you hum in response wanting to end the conversation
your phone pings the name reading Lucy
'heyyy, you never replied to our previous message, you coming tonight to that club the other departments will be there?'
Age gap reader (20's?? Idk I'm 23 and want that man) and Jack where he's constantly offhandedly mentioning things about their age like "you know, I saw this band in 90's you were what? Five? Alive?" or "I was learning to suture first year of med school while you were learning to ride a bike." And he doesn't understand why every time she just blushes and squeaks out something about him being an old man,,,, ~🦢🤍
Yeeesss! I think about this all the time🐑
Older Bf! Jack x 2000's Baby! Reader blurbs <3
Tags: Age gap (duh), mentions of a j-o-b (very triggering for my unemployed folks I know😞/j), hints of a threesome with Robby, mostly just fluff! Only a little suggestive at the end
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ:
Older bf! Jack who never really realized how much the world has changed until he started dating you.
"There's this new cafe opening down town, I was thinking maybe we should go sometime. They have those bacon bites you like"
Your voice a quiet mumble in the passenger seat of his burly truck, your hand holding his bicep as he focuses on driving you both to a nice restaurant for dinner.
"Yeah? Which spot downtown?"
After about 5 or 10 minutes of trying to explain the specific nook and cranny of where the cafe was, he was completely convinced that you two were talking about two different cities.
"Y'know the street with the big chicken statue?" "The one with the big tree?"
Finally as he's pulling into a parking space his face suddenly lifts with realization.
A small smile on his face as he recalls the memories and leans over to unbuckle your seatbelt for you before hopping out of the truck. Grabbing your smaller hand gently as the streetlights glimmer against the salt strands of his curls.
"Oh! You mean the spot where Ronnie's used to be? Man I miss that place, always went straight over there once I got home from deployments. You ever had their pizzas baby? So fucking delicious"
"Um no I haven't" your voice noticeably more hush that before. His eyebrows raise slightly in realization, his steps slowing against the gravel.
"Shit- wait sweetheart we're you even born yet? 1,4..." He murmurs, counting the numbers of years to himself.
"They closed like 20 years ago- you were probably just barely learning your abc's huh?"
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚
2000's Baby reader! who rarely requests Olderbf!Jack to buy her things- always afraid of accidentally coming off as a gold digger do she just waits patiently until he offers to give her a little something. Until today-
"Jackie! Jackkkk" he can hear your soft gasp before calling his name, setting down his book in his lap as he hears your feet pad across the hard wood floors.
"Yes, lovebug?"
He lifts his arm up for you to crawl into his side. Taken your phone with one hand as you curl up next to him and show him the screen.
"Can you buy this for me plleaaseee? They don't make them anymore and I don't want anyone else to get it first"
You pout a little, really trying to sell it so he'll give in. It was just a little camera, one of those aesthetic portable ones that everyone used in the 90s-2000s. It was absolutely perfect since you wanted to start taking more pictures on your dates and adventures with him.
His thick finger scrolling down to read the details and zoom in on the grainy picture. His arm tightening around you as he kisses the top of your head, not taking his eyes off the screen. The skin between his brows furrow
"Seriously?? Yes, please!" You pull his face down towards you, peppering his cheeks in kisses. It may have been a slight over reaction but at least you didn't have to spend 300 something dollars for something 30 years old.
"Sweetheart I have one of these, I think it's in my college box you want it baby?"
He looks down at you and turns off your phone. He kept a lot of things throughout the years and he always questioned whether or not he was weird for doing so, but now he knew it was worth it if It makes you happy.
"Course doll, I think I have a few shirts of that band you like too if ya' want em'. I loved those guys when I was your age"
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚
Olderbf!Jack convinced that the modern flat screen your trying to persuade him to buy is a scam. His larger hand holding onto two of your small fingers as you tug him towards the electronics section. "Can we get this one?? Look the remote has a mic thing and it comes with color cases!"
All he does is just glare at the prices as he reads the labels.
"I dont know hun, are you sure these are like- real tv's? Working and everything with no weird fees?"
You tilt your head at his questions about to answer to the best of your abilities but he's already waving over one of the employees, asking them the same questions and more before letting them walk away. He sways your hand back and forth as he ponders for a few seconds before he tilts his head towards you
"Y'know when I bought my first television it cost like $6,000? Used my entire first residency paycheck to pay it off"
he grumbled before squeeze your fingers and letting them go so he can lift up the giant box and carry it to the register. Despite his protests you help him carry the other half, not wanting him to strain his leg or anything. The whole time you listen to him yap about prices from 'back in his day' and how he remembers having to hold his brick phone with two hands while your pretty ass is over here texting while doing chores with your other hand. The cashier smiles "Have a good day! Your daughter is really lucky, my dad was so annoyed when I asked him to buy me a new tv" she chuckles as she hands jack the receipt and your cheeks flush a deep red as you squeak out a tiny "you too-!"
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚
Older Bf! Jack who's leaning over your shoulder, both palms heavy on the desk, caging you between his biceps as he tilts his chin up so his readers don't fall off his nose, "Let's see here... you sure you submitted them?" After over a month of hearing you whine about how nobody will hire you, he's genuinely baffled. Absolutely convinced you're not doing something right because why wouldn't someone wanna hire a pretty girl like you?
"Yes, Jackie. I literally submitted resumes to 15 different places!"
His lips purse as he scrolls slowly through the job website.
"Baby is something wrong with your resume, maybe? Did you double-check before you submitted?"
Your shoulders dropping with an annoyed huff "My resume is fine, Jack. People just don't wanna hire me. I'm not as lucky as you- I wasn't forced to work the mines by 5 years old before even knowing how to spell resume"
Suggestive
2000's Baby Reader! Who stays up a littllleee too late, getting stuck in an endless void of scrolling. The late hour making her brain fuzzy, and she sends Older Bf!Jack one of those reels that says some stupid shit like "backshots?" with a random picture in the background without even thinking about it.
Then when he gets home a few hours later, by the time you finally passed out in the comfort of his bed, he's bombarding you with wake-up kisses on the cheek. His salt-and-pepper stubble scratching lightly at your soft skin as his lips murmur against your cheek
"Sweetheart, what was that thing you sent me? I didn't have time to look up what it meant cause a trauma came in"
Older Bf! Jack staring down at his phone, squinting and fumbling with the keyboard on his screen because hes confused why you reacted to a selfie of him and Robby with an eiffel tower emoji.
OlderBf!Jack who calls the new residents "goons" unironically when he tells you stories about how they messed something up or pulled a stupid prank. Both you and all the other kiddos don't have the heart to tell him it has a different meaning now so he doesn't understand why everyone keeps giggling at him.
♡ synopsis: grant reilly. authoritative head chef of the infamous michelin-star restaurant north & vine, army vet... and middle-aged man who's hopelessly in love with you, who he only knows from his employee's—your roommate's—instagram posts. then the fateful night arrives when grant finds you standing inside his kitchen and the two of you finally meet in-person.
same as any other chef, once he gets a taste of something sweet, he can't help but want for more.
♡ content: age-gap, pining & yearning, kinda insta-love, sugar!daddy grant, feederism (he likes cooking for & feeding you occasionally), he instructs you while cooking & it's erotic, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, creampie
When you sweep inside, past the polished glass entrance of North & Vine, it's to the welcome sound of silence. When the double-doors slide shut behind you, the bustling sounds of the city are left muffled behind solid red brick walls and deep-set windows.
You find the space to be rather comforting. You trail your eyes along richly colored hardwood floors, dim lighting which low-hanging bulbs provide overhead, and booths of burgundy that line the windows at the far wall while high-top tables litter the rest of the space.
By appearance alone, your wallet is already screaming in protest.
But you're not here as a patron.
Wandering past the hostess station, you catch a glimpse of a red plaque out of the corner of your eye, so you turn on your heel to study it. Your roommate, Andrea, had mentioned something about North & Vine having finally earned themselves a Michelin star some time ago.
The symbol looks more like a flower to you, though.
Either way, you're proud that the local establishment is now held in such high regard; particularly since you know the accomplishment means so much to so many.
You swing back around and continue on to the wooden door that'll lead you to the kitchen where your roommate should currently be.
Grant glances up from the assortment of ingredients he's currently considering for a taste test if he can combine them just so, when the kitchen door unexpectedly swings open and a strange young woman practically welcomes herself inside the private space.
He finds himself taken aback for a moment—someone barging into his kitchen with seemingly no hesitation is a first—before he springs into action. Tossing down the sharpened gourmet knife he holds with a clatter, he advances on you. "Excuse me! What the hell do you think you're doing back here?"
You open your mouth, but he cuts you off short before you can start pleading for a handout.
"The sign out front clearly stated closed. You're trespassing in a private establishment. You're lucky I don't call the police."
Grabbing you roughly by the forearm, he ushers you back out to the dining area.
You sputter all the while in an attempt to try and provide explanation. "I was just—my friend. She works here. My roommate. Andrea wanted me to—"
He turns you back around to him. "Andrea? My commis chef?"
You nod fervently and blink back the tears that're brimming in your eyes from fear. "She asked me to meet her so we could walk home together. I'm so sorry." You stumble back a step. "I'll—I'll go wait outside. Please don't be mad."
Just as you swivel on your heel to flee, Grant takes you firmly by the hand. "No, I am."
You still, then hesitate before finally turning around again.
"Sorry," he continues. "I should've given you a second to explain. It's just..." he shakes his head with a sigh. "Been a long day," he finishes while running long fingers through salt and pepper curls.
"I'm Grant. Reilly. Head Chef," he states with an extended hand, now that he's finally released your own.
You wait a moment then shake it—ignoring how yours still trembles.
It sends a wave of regret through him that he made you fearful in the first place.
"Y/N," you supply quietly. "I can just," you point a thumb over your shoulder, "Go wait on the bench outside."
He shakes his head, then wraps a steady arm around your shoulders and leads you over to a corner booth. "I'd rather you did so here. Safer for you than on the street."
Once you've plopped down in a plush seat, you tuck your bag away and consider a menu off to the side to give yourself something to do. Your phone is an option, but he's standing right there. Perusing their selection of wines will at least make you come off as interested in his flourishing business.
"Are you thirsty?" Grant asks with a far more gentle tone than the one he had a moment ago. "I could bring you a glass of water."
You shake your head, then pull a bottle from your bag and hold it up for inspection. "I've got it covered, but thank you."
Considering for a moment, Grant surveys your glittering eyes and soft lips. "Make yourself comfortable. We're prepping for tomorrow, so it may still be awhile yet."
You wave a hand dismissively, then toss a paperback novel from your shoulder bag onto the table. "I'll keep myself occupied," you remark with a reassuring nod.
He turns and leaves you to your reading material.
Once he's securely hidden away behind a solid stainless steel door, Grant rests calloused hands upon a gleaming metal countertop in an attempt to steady his heart. With his head hung heavily between his shoulders, he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head.
You're here. For the first time, you're here.
And he nearly blew it.
You've never met—don't know one another from Adam, truthfully—but he's seen photos of you before on Andrea's lockscreen during the times she's pulled her cell out to check for notifications during her fleeting breaks. That, and in photos she's uploaded to her Instagram.
It was the only reason he followed her back to begin with: to be able to appreciate the sight of you, even from a distance.
He's not some infatuated stalker, though. No, just an admirer. The first time he ever saw you—ever heard your soft-spoken voice—had been in a short video she uploaded to her... What is the feature called again? Story? Reel?
They're always changing things.
Andrea had hidden behind the camera while she snuck into your room and filmed you hunched over a tiny desk. You'd been wholly oblivious not only to her presence, but the rest of the world it seemed as you typed furiously away on a laptop.
He'd assumed you were a college student, until she announced your name with gusto, followed up by "the next New York Times bestselling author!" You had tried desperately to hide your face from the camera in adorable mortification, but failed miserably when she tugged one of your hands away, revealing your warm smile beneath.
He's watched that video at least a dozen times. Has observed your towering bookshelf that was clearly organized with thoughtful care, and the trinkets you have arranged on small floating shelves above your workspace.
How did he fail to recognize you in person?
So much for first impressions...
Grant felt how your delicate hand trembled in his. As such, he needs to make this right.
"What's your friend's favorite food?" Grant demands with crossed arms while peering at Andrea from over the bridge of his nose.
Removing her attentions from a stack of carrots she's working her way through with a slicer, she blinks up at him. "What? Wait. She's here? Shit," she curses while making to tug her apron off.
He clicks his tongue. "I still need you to finish prepping. I want to make something for her, so give me a dish. Any dish. Now."
Her brows wrinkle together. "From the menu, or—"
"What does she eat a lot of at home?" he inquires.
She snorts quietly. "You're not gonna like the answer."
"Well, unless it's moldy bread—"
"Easy Mac," she retorts. "Rice-a-Roni, Ramen, frozen pizzas..."
He raises an incredulous brow. "She lives with you and that's the kind of..." He shouldn't judge. He's had them all himself. And he'd be lying if he claimed to hate every bite. Depending on the brand and flavor, they're not half bad. "That's what you let her eat?'
She rolls her eyes and returns to slicing carrots into thin strips. "I don't let her do anything. She's a grown woman. And I eat 'em, too. Makes for an easy meal sometimes, y'know?"
He rolls his eyes. "So, she likes macaroni."
"She should take stock in Kraft," she mumbles. "I've told her a hundred times to just get the damn boxes because she'd be buying more for less, but she likes having the little cups so that she doesn't have to wash a pot or bowl afterward."
Like a little kid, he muses with a smirk.
Fine. Dad will just have make you something filling to eat, then.
Turning a burner onto medium-high heat, Grant gets to work on preparing you the best damn macaroni you've ever had in your young life.
He boils a large pot of water first, then gets to work on whipping a bowl of cream cheese into smooth perfection. He follows it up with hand-grating three separate cheese blocks while the water heats. Once bubbles start popping on the surface, he pours a container of elbow pasta in and stirs until the noodles are al dente.
Once Grant has strained them, he pours the cream cheese into a pan, followed by noodles and more cream cheese and a couple cups of shredded cheese, along with a few odd spices for taste. He tops it off with a final thick layer of shredded cheese on top, then slips the dish into the oven with a tin foil cover to bake.
A very basic dish, yes, but one that will still hopefully serve to impress and endear you to him.
As the macaroni sits in the oven, he peers through the glass window at the top of the kitchen door and watches you flip through your novel.
Perhaps he should be embarrassed by his behavior. And not just that which he has and is currently exhibiting tonight, but the fact that he's already mildly infatuated with you.
He doesn't know why, really. He's never been able to place his finger on it.
Love at first sight?
But does that really count when it comes to curated social media?
Maybe he's just lonely in his latter years and has projected onto you. It's not that he has some great expectation in mind of who you are or what you're really like. He's just...enchanted by what little he's already seen.
But it's easy to fall for a mysterious stranger just by their looks.
A timer rings, and he returns to the oven to pull out a dish of golden-brown perfection.
You wrench your book back when a ceramic deep dish full of what appears to be baked macaroni is slid in front of you.
With your book clutched to your chest, you gaze up at Grant. "Oh. Hello again."
The corner of his lip twitches; wanting to verge into a smile on your account. "My way of apologizing," he explains with a nod toward the steaming dinner he's presenting you with. "For being an ass," he mutters as he takes the booth across from where you sit.
"No," you chirp, setting your book back in your bag. "It's okay. Really. I should've never barged in like that. It was inappropriate."
He purses his lips and shakes his head. "You did nothing wrong. My reaction was way out of line. So dinner's on me."
You study the melted golden-brown cheese on top. It's so incredibly kind that he took time out of his already late night to do this. "Well... It's your kitchen. Would be like someone barging into your home. Would you give them time to explain their motives before you jumped into action?"
He glances toward the ceiling in faux contemplation while bobbing his head back and forth, like he's silently debating with himself. "No," he replies while looking at you once more. "I'd probably grab my gun."
Your brows shoot up. "You have a gun?"
He chuckles while handing you a small plate. "I was in the Army some twenty-odd-years ago. So I have a few."
You take it from him and your cheeks warm when your fingertips brush against Grant's. "What did you do when you served?"
He glances to the steaming macaroni, then to you again in answer.
"You were a cook then, too?"
Grant nods. "Was where I got my start, in terms of making it into a career."
"Did you always know it's what you wanted to do?"
Pulling a silver fork out of a cloth napkin, he taps the end of it against the table. "Yes and no. I've always enjoyed cooking and baking. But it took me finally doing it for others—a lot of others—for me to realize that it was my true calling."
He stabs the fork into the mac and cheese, then lifts it toward you. "Blow," he instructs.
You do until steam disappears.
When you open, he eases the tines into your mouth, the sets the fork on your plate. "D'you like it?"
You take your time chewing and tasting before swallowing.
When you lick your lips, he feels a stirring below his belt.
"It's really good," you say with a grand smile that he can't help but return.
He's made you happy. And that fact makes him so very glad.
"Yeah?" he asks with a laugh.
"It's delicious," you say while scooping a heaping portion onto your plate. "What did you put in it?"
"Besides sugar, spice, and everything nice?" he asks sarcastically, which earns him a bubbly giggle. "Cream cheese, three different cheeses which I shredded by hand, and a few dashes of various spices."
He took care when making this for you.
"You did all this to say sorry?" you ask quietly.
He rests his shoe next to yours beneath the table. "I did."
Grant pulls out another fork. "So, am I forgiven?"
How odd for a stranger to care in the least what you think or feel. It's a welcome change, though, even if it's only temporary. Taking his fork from him, you return the gesture from earlier and feed him a bite as well.
Grant barely manages to keep his mouth closed long enough to chew because he's smiling so much.
"You are."
"Hey," Grant says, catching you and Andrea at the door before you head out for home.
He rests an easy palm against your back and you turn to meet his searching eyes.
"Come back and see me again some time," he encourages. Dropping his hand, he instead squeezes your fingers. "Next meal is on the house, just like tonight."
You smile, and nearly kiss him on the cheek for his kindness. "Thank you," you reply with a nod. "Have a good night, Grant."
His breath catches in his throat at you having finally said his name, and he watches you go—only turning back to the interior once you've disappeared.
What started as a hectic, nightmarish day has ended in perfection.
It's been almost two weeks and he's not seen hide or hair of you. Was the meal he prepared for you not as good as you let on? Was it him? Did he do too much, or not enough?
The two of you had only just met, so there's always a chance that he came on too strong; made you uncomfortable.
Living with the not knowing, however—his stomach squeezing painfully each time the restaurant door opens, only for him to fill with disappointment a moment later because it isn't the face he wants to see—is pure fucking torture.
He wants his girl back... Just one more time.
"Any reason she never took me up on my offer?" Grant questions with a low, gravely tone.
Andrea finishes tugging on her jacket before grabbing her purse and turning to look at her superior. "Huh? What?"
"Your roommate," he explains. He feels, for whatever reason, that using your name would make this seem too personal—would give him away too easily. As if pouting over your lack of presence doesn't already. "I offered her a free meal and—"
"Ah," she replies with a nod. "She's been busy. Picking up extra shifts at the library on the weekend."
And downing Easy Mac on the go, he presumes.
You deserve better than a microwavable snack.
He takes a step back while tossing a dishtowel over his strong shoulder. You're being an adult; working more for a bit of extra cash. And here he is, pining after you like a lovesick teen.
He's learned something new about you, at least: your occupation. Makes perfect sense with your passion for reading and apparent storytelling.
Suits you, Grant thinks.
Swiping up a ripe tomato to return to its rightful place across the kitchen, he nods. "Got it."
"Hey, so, you need to go back to the restaurant at some point," Andrea remarks from your apartment's dimly lit entryway.
Leaning back against the couch behind you, you pause your typing on a Bluetooth keyboard. Crappy makeshift computer set up—it, coupled with the small glass screen of your phone, that is—but you don't have much of another option right now with your laptop being away for diagnosis. And given it can be saved, subsequent treatment.
"What?" you ask while turning to face her with crossed legs.
"Grant," she explains while hanging up her jacket, then purse. "He asked about you tonight and why you haven't been by to take him up on his offer for free food or whatever."
Oh.
You'd nearly forgotten about that, you've been so preoccupied with other things.
So he was serious? You'd thought he was, of course, but the question being just how much? Had it just been meant as a passing comment in kind, or was it a genuine invitation he intended on you fulfilling your end of?
"Does he..." you begin hesitantly. "Feed a lot of girls for free?"
She plops down on the couch behind you. "Not that I'm aware of. I spend a lot of time staying late to help clean up and prep and this is the first I've ever seen of such behavior."
You glance back to the cheap LED keyboard.
"Was surprised he made you mac and cheese that night, tell you the truth. He's a great chef and a good boss—even if he can be a hard-ass—but he's never gone out of his way like that before."
She playfully taps your shoulder with her toes. "Must really like you. Probably wants you back there and bent over every surface he can find while you cry yes, Chef! yes, Chef! all the while," she thinks aloud with a snigger.
You quickly turn around to hide your embarrassment. "He's a little old for me."
She snorts while rising and padding toward her bedroom for a change of clothes before she showers. "That's what makes it all the hot-ter," she finishes with a sing-song voice. "Oh, turn up the heat, daddy!" Andrea cries from an open doorway.
You bury your face in your hands.
Once you're within the safe confines of an empty North & Vine again, you stand awkwardly near the door. You don't want to ambush Grant again by waltzing into the kitchen unexpectedly, so you finally opt to seat yourself at the same booth as last time instead.
You're sure he'll emerge eventually and catch sight of you.
Just when Grant pushes past the kitchen's heavy swinging door, he halts in his tracks.
You came back again.
Andrea must've said something.
He hopes you didn't feel pressured to return; to humor his boyish fancy. Letting things go might've been better for everyone, but he can't seem to get you off his mind no matter how hard he tries.
Coming nearer with slow, steady strides, he frowns at the sight of you so unhappy while you stare down at your cellphone. He never did ask if you were single. But if that's the cause for your displeasure tonight—some young asshole who doesn't know how to treat you—then he'll do all he can to set things right until you're content again.
"Everything okay?" Grant asks quietly. "Seem distracted tonight."
Quickly locking your phone, you glance up to him with a forced smile and a nod. "Oh. Yeah. It's not a big deal."
Grant considers for a moment while chewing the inside of his cheek. "Boyfriend problems?"
You snort. "Stopped bothering with those a long time ago."
Which is either very lucky, or very unlucky for him.
Taking the seat across from you like last time, he folds his hands together. "Anything I can help with?"
You shake your head. "No. It's just my laptop. Got a quote back from a repair shop for how much it'd cost to get it working again." Your eyes flit to his. "Might as well just buy a new computer," you grumble.
He wants to ask about your writing project, but then you'll wonder as to how he even knows about it in the first place. "Do you use it for work?"
"Not really," you reply while toying with a sea salt shaker. "Writing, mostly."
"You didn't lose anything—"
"No, thank God. I keep everything backed up on a cloud drive." You sigh and return the condiment to its rightful home at the back of the table. "I've been using a Bluetooth keyboard so I can write using my cell, but I hate having to use a smaller screen. And because the keyboard is, too, I keep making tons of typos."
You grow quiet for a moment.
He wants to offer to run out and get you a new one right now—whichever you'd like—but fears that such a gesture would make him come off way too strong.
He'll figure out another method to help his girl.
"Anyway," you say, now wanting to change the subject from your technical woes. "Andrea said you asked about me?"
He actually fucking flushes. Only because he's made his damn crush that apparent. "Just wanted to see you again," he replies with a casual shrug and a smile. Pulling a menu from a wooden holder, he drops it in front of you. "Choose whatever you like and I'll make it."
You blink a couple times in surprise. You knew it's what you were coming here for, but you still have yet to understand it. His wanting to cater to you must stem from an attraction, but it doesn't make this any less unconventional.
Should you consider this a date? Does he? What precisely are the two of you doing here?
Flipping the laminated menu open, you begin to peruse various hard-to-pronounce dishes. "Why, um... Why did you want me to—"
"Maybe I just like watching you eat," he interrupts with a smirk.
Shyly, you peer at him from over the top of the menu you hold before hiding behind it again.
He chuckles quietly at your adorable antics.
A cheeseburger.
You're a simple girl, he'll give you that much, but he was hoping for something that would require a bit more effort on his part than a seared patty and brioche bun. But as long as you leave here with a full belly and a thankful smile, he's content.
He did invite you back into the kitchen so that you could observe him in his element, though. All rolled-up sleeves, an apron which clings to his muscled chest, and sharp knives which slice through tomatoes as easy as a guillotine are the attractions he provides for your viewing pleasure.
"So," he begins while adjusting the gas burner on the stove with pinched fingertips. "Andrea tells me you work at a library around here."
"I do," you reply simply. "At the Boston Public Library. It's really nice there."
He hums in interest while patting ground beef into a plump, round patty. "But you want to be a writer," he states.
You shift on your feet from where you stand behind him. "If I ever manage to finish the book I'm working on." You shrug while toying with a loose string hanging from the hem of your top. "It gives me something to do in my spare time, at least."
He hates how defeated you sound—like you've resigned yourself to never accomplishing your dream. Is it because you're losing interest in the project, or because you don't think you're good enough and have what it takes?
"I'd love to read it," Grant says while placing the patty in a lightly oiled non-stick pan before stepping over to the sink to wash his hands. "Whenever it's finished."
You shrug. "You don't even know what it's about."
He turns back to you while drying his hands. "Do I need to? It's something you're passionate about. That's enough for me."
Your eyes flit between his until he turns back to the stove.
You watch as his shoulder blades shift beneath his thin white t-shirt as he flips the burger over.
"This is just something for you to keep in mind, but being in the culinary business, I know journalists—people in publishing. So if you're ever looking to get your foot in the door, I can help with that."
You're surprised by how selfless he seems. Thoughtful.
You understand then why Andrea has stuck around so long, despite the stressors of being in hospitality.
He's a good man.
"Thank you," you whisper.
Placing the medium-rare patty on a crispy bun, he lays a slice of cheddar cheese on top to begin melting, a tomato, pickles, and a bit of garnish, followed by the top bun. "Anytime."
He watches with utter satisfaction as you chow down. Had Grant had a bit more time to prepare, he would've made you up a plate of hand-cut seasoned fries as well, but given the size of the burger, he hopes it'll be enough to satiate your appetite.
"Good?" he asks while dragging a finger along the edge of your plate to gather a drop of mustard before popping it in his mouth.
You nod fervently while chewing.
"Have to give me an actual challenge next time. Comfort food is your favorite type of cuisine, though, isn't it?"
Another nod.
Could whip up some fried chicken next time. Not necessarily difficult to make, but rather to perfect. Just the right amount of crisp on the outside with a balance of seasoned sumptuousness on the in can be a difficult combo to achieve.
Honestly? Grants wants to make you everything on the whole damn menu.
Would certainly keep you coming back to him time and again if he did.
It's a tempting thought: feeding you every night when you come home from work. Especially from his own hand. He's replayed you taking a bite of macaroni from the fork he held the first time you met repeatedly.
He briefly considers how he could get you to suck melted chocolate off his fingers.
"What's yours?" you ask while dabbing at your lips with a freshly laundered napkin.
Grant leans back. Resting his tanned forearms atop the table, he thinks. "If you can believe it, I don't have one. When it comes to food, I make an effort to keep my options open. There's always something new to try. To make or taste. Guess I worry that if I develop a 'favorite' I'll start to limit myself by getting too comfortable with one particular food or handful of meals."
Makes sense to you. Hence your appreciation for cheap microwavable or oven-ready boxed food.
"Favorite thing to make, then?"
He grins. "Sort of the same answer. Convoluted dishes give me a challenge, but I still have an appreciation for the simple things in life," he states with a nod toward your slowly emptying plate.
"Seems like you enjoy keeping an open mind."
He leans in close while studying your lips with a smile. "I definitely do."
You're reticent to ask what tonight was. Why Grant seems to so enjoy watching you eat.
It's flattering, at least. A welcome change from past dates from long ago where you always wanted to order a salad, or turn away altogether so you couldn't be watched with a scrutinizing gaze as you ate.
Rocking onto the balls of your feet, you look up at Grant with a smile. "Thank you again."
He runs a rough palm down your arm. "Here to serve," he replies with a lopsided smile.
"Well... Goodnight," you chirp with a quick nod.
Leaning down, he brushes his lips over your soft cheek. "Goodnight, sweetheart."
"Sooo," Andrea drawls from the doorway of your bedroom. "Have you checked your email today?"
You pause Netflix and turn to her with furrowed brows. "This morning like I always do. Why?"
"Might wanna check it again," she states. "Grant asked me for your email today. Didn't say why, though," your roommate relays.
"Maybe it's just a recipe," you ponder. Grabbing your phone from the middle of the bed, you navigate to your email, find one from not quite two hours ago from the man in question, and when you open it, your jaw drops.
"Oooh, what is it? Dirty pictures involving whip cream and stacked donuts?"
You slam a palm against your forehead. "Oh God. He can't just—"
She pads around the side of your bed and takes the device from you before barking a ridiculous laugh. "A fucking grand?!" she cries.
You take the phone back from her. "It's for a local tech store." Your eyes scan the attached gift message. "For your time & your new computer. Remember that I get to read it first. — Grant"
Andrea folds her arms and frowns. "Does he mean your novel? Promised that privilege to me..." she pouts.
You stare at her. "You—Yes, you still can. But I—I have to send this back." Tossing off a throw blanket, you stand and begin to pace.
"Man, he wants that cookie bad."
You level her with a glare.
"Alright," she relents with raised palms of surrender. "No more food puns."
"Do you think it works like a check? Like, unless I use it the money stays in his account?" you ask while looking at her.
She shrugs. "Maybe. Sure wish he'd give me a damn thousand dollar bonus. What'd you do the last time you went a week ago?"
"I told you!" you shout hysterically. "He made me a cheeseburger. I ate it, then came back here. That's it."
"I eat in front of the old man every day. He's never wanted to reward me for it." She pinches her stomach, then shrugs. "Probably a good thing or you'd be rolling me out of here before long."
"I have to make him take it back or undo it," you say while heading in the direction of your closet so you can get changed. "This is too much."
"So he wants to be your sugar daddy—"
You narrow your eyes and jerk your head back in her direction.
"Not intended to be another pun. That's just the name for it," she mumbles. "As I was saying: I fail to see how it's a bad thing."
"I've been saving up. I don't—" You toss a loose ankle-length dress onto the bed. Something simple. You don't need to dress up. No, you need to get going before he locks up for the night. "That isn't me."
"Grant?" you shout into the empty restaurant. "Are you here?"
A smile curls lips lined by silver stubble and laugh lines bracket his mouth. Hanging his apron on a hook, Grant emerges from behind the kitchen door. Greeted by the sight of you in a simple, soft black dress that almost looks more like a comfortable nightgown, he grins. "Got your attention, huh?"
"You... You have to take it back. Cancel it or something," you plead.
Crossing the room to reach you, he reaches forward and brushes the pad of his thumb along your cheek. "No can do," he replies with a shake of his head.
"But—"
"You don't need to feel guilty," Grant tells you. "Guess just feeding you dinner wasn't enough for me." He shrugs. "Wanted to help take care of you another way."
Before this moment, you've only been around each other twice before. Two times. You absolutely refuse to believe that you made enough of an impression to justify him gifting you one thousand dollars!
You open your mouth to continue insisting, until he rests his palms heavily atop your shoulders. "You wanna repay me?"
You waver. "Yes..."
"Then let me teach you."
He begins tugging you along behind him toward the kitchen, and you gulp nervously.
Time for you to set the damn place on fire, apparently.
"Slow, sweetheart, slow," Grant mutters quietly against your ear. "Don't want to get it all over yourself or you'll be soaked."
After leading you back into the kitchen, Grant gathered all the ingredients required to teach you how to make an excellent traditional southern fried chicken recipe, which he said the pair of you could eat together.
At current, you're whisking together milk and lemon juice to prep your own homemade buttermilk.
With Grant pressed against your back, and his hands leading your own while he croons encouragement and instructions in your ear, you fear that this cooking lesson may soon end in disaster if you don't get yourself under control. And soon.
"Good," he coos. "Nice and smooth. Good girl."
You nearly whimper when you feel a fluttering start up between your legs.
"Alright, set that to the side, then grab the chicken next and we'll dip each section until it's dripping and coat them in flour."
You swallow thickly, nod, then slide the bowl across the counter to keep it far from you, lest you knock it over and make a mess. Grabbing a sheet of raw chicken, you pick up piece after piece and dip them in the liquid mixture, followed by dropping them into a thick paper bag and shaking until Grant tells you to stop. You then place each prepped piece of poultry onto a new sheet until you've completed the current step.
"Alright, wash your hands and I'll guide you on what to do next."
Without the heat of his body stationed behind you, you're made very aware of how a thin sheet of sweat has coated the back of your neck. As such, you take your time washing your hands. Enjoying the cold water, you don't stop scrubbing until your palms and fingers are sudsy and clean.
Grant motions for you to rejoin him once you've shut the faucet off.
Assuming your previous position, he stands impossibly closer. "Here," he whispers before pulling an apron on over your head. "Should've done this before we started. Sorry."
You stay silent as his hands trail just beneath your breasts to grab the ties at the front of the acorn-brown apron to circle them around your waist.
"There," Grant says while pressing a soft kiss to the back of your head. "I've got you covered."
"Now," he says while adjusting the burner. "Fill your skillet with vegetable oil. About a third of the way. I'll tell you when to stop."
Grabbing a glass bottle, you start to pour, but slowly. The oil spreads across the cast iron skillet, and after a beat, Grant speak again. "Alright, that's good. Plenty slick enough to cook with."
You draw in a deep breath, then eye the chicken. "How long do we—"
"Awhile," he interrupts while sliding his hands from your shoulders to your upper arms. "It needs to get hot." He turns his head. "Very hot," he rumbles against your ear. "Once the pieces are browned, we'll turn down the heat and let them simmer for awhile. About half an hour," he explains.
"What'll we do while we wait?" you ask breathlessly.
He chuckles. "Anything you like."
"Oh."
"I like this," Grant says while pulling the chicken closer for when the skillet is finally ready to be filled. "Teaching you. You're a good student."
Testing the waters, you lean back against his sturdy chest, and he doesn't move an inch. "I've got you, sweetheart. I'm right here."
Your eyes flutter closed for a moment. The silence is deafening—interrupted only the sound of his steady breathing, yours which has turned ragged, and quietly popping oil on the stovetop.
"Something I can do to help you while you work, besides leading you?" he asks.
Touch me, you think while rubbing your thighs together from beneath your dress.
"Hm?" he hums with a kiss at your temple.
"I dunno," you whimper.
"Grab your tongs and start arranging the chicken around the edges until the whole skillet is full," he directs.
The sheet of raw chicken is half empty when Grant finally brushes his thumb along the side of your clothed breast.
He notes how you forewent wearing a bra tonight.
"Your apron too tight?" he asks while tugging curiously against the front.
"M-Maybe," you stutter.
Moment of truth.
Cautiously, he slips his hands between your dress and apron and cups both your breasts in his large palms. You gasp sharply and nearly drop the utensil you're holding.
"Keep going," he orders. "You're almost there."
Yes, Chef, you muse.
Circling your nipples with his fingertips, he doesn't stop until they're pebbled. Grant begins to gently tug against their hardened peaks. "Good girl," he purrs. "You did perfect. Now, go ahead and flip the pieces over."
With vigilant determination, you turn the poultry from one side to the other.
After only three pieces, Grant maneuvers a hand past the neckline of your dress and grabs your naked breast with his bare hand.
"Oh God," you whine and your hips buck back against him.
"Just a few more and then we'll cover it and let it cook. Go on, sweetheart. Do what chef tells you to."
Unable to help yourself, you do as Grant says. But you sigh and whimper all the while as his callouses scratch pleasantly against and between your breasts.
Settling a lid atop the pan, you reach for a timer. "H-how long?" you pant.
"Half an hour. Should be enough time for us to finish."
Winding the dial, you point the arrow at 30, then set it down.
"Do you like this?" he rasps while shoving a second hand beneath the neck of your dress. "Does it feel good?"
You nod slowly. "Yes."
"Do you want more?"
"Please," you moan.
You almost sob when his hands retract. Until he gently spins you around to face him.
"How much more?" he asks while cupping your cheek comfortingly.
Your lips slightly part, but the thought of saying it... You don't always know how to be forward about your own desires.
"Because I want to taste you," Grant utters. "I have from the first."
Guiding you by the hips back to a sprawling, empty surface, he grabs you by the waist and hoists you up. "Is this okay?" he questions while trailing a palm from your calf to your knee.
"Yes," you whisper.
He goes higher, only stopping once his fingertips are prodding against the thin, slick material of your panties that're now sticking to your pussy. "Fuck," he curses. "You're so wet for me."
Rolling your dress up past your thighs, Grant hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. Kneeling on the floor, he stares up at you with reverence. "Do you want me to stop?"
You shake your head, then wiggle your hips. "More."
Leaning forward, he presses a firm kiss to your damp panties, drags his speared tongue along the soaked material, then tugs them down in one swift motion. Tucking them into his pocket, he encourages your thighs over his shoulders and swipes his tongue through your slick folds.
God, he's in Heaven. Here, with you now, he's exactly where he's supposed to be.
You suck in a sharp breath, then tangle your fingers in his silver hair to keep him close.
When you begin to rock your hips, he swirls his tongue over your swollen clit while easing two fingers between your warm, fluttering walls.
You taste better than he could've ever imagined. Are softer, wetter, and more needy than he anticipated you would be.
"You're so perfect," he mutters while kissing your inner thighs before returning to your fluttering cunt. "Better than I thought," he grates.
And he has one hell of a palate.
Planting a sweaty palm atop the cool countertop, you lean back and prop a foot atop it. You're sure the two of you are committing at least a dozen health-code violations right now, but you couldn't care less.
"O-oh my God," you stammer.
"Come for me," he demands while craning his head back. "Come on my tongue. Now."
Shoving his head back between your thighs, you squeal quietly when he returns to teasing your clit. When your walls begin to clench around his thick digits, he refuses to come up for air. You're so close and he needs to be the man to give you this.
Sucking your labia and fingering you with rapid abandon, your pussy squelches and leaves his palm and your ass both covered in arousal. Not even the finest fucking wine could compare to you. If he could bottle and drink you, he would.
Swear to God he would...
You bite your lip, tug against his sweaty curls, then shudder violently as your orgasm wracks through your body. "Oh my God, Grant," you cry while your mind circles and your arousal crashes through you.
He whimpers against your slick, swollen opening while palming himself over his black slacks.
Grant moans while kissing your pussy in thanks for what it's just given him in return.
Once you finally calm, you slide your leg back over the edge of the counter and go loose—your limbs now feeling weakened; like jelly.
Grabbing your face, Grant crushes his lips to yours. He makes wet smacking sounds while he fucks your mouth with his tongue—his saliva and your own slick pooling beneath your tongue. "You should know how good you taste," he pants.
Trailing kisses down your neck, you clutch helplessly at his chest as his coarse stubble scratches your sensitive skin.
"I wanna be inside of you," he rumbles while nudging your thighs further apart. Tilting your chin back, he stares into your eyes with feverish hunger. "Please let me have you."
Your jaw falls open and you grasp for words to explain. "I... I don't just—"
It's as if he can read your mind before you've even completed a thought. "After this, you're mine. I'm too old for playing games with the woman I want and have been waiting so long for."
"We'd be—"
"Together. Unless you ordered me away," Grant explains. "Fuck, Y/N, please. I'm begging you."
Reaching up, you tug the top of your dress down and let it pool around your waist, exposing your breasts to him.
And Grant drinks you in greedily.
Dipping his head, he sucks a taut nipple into his mouth, then laps at the opposite with his warm, wet tongue.
Grasping at his belt, you suddenly still.
Grant lifts his head and cups your cheek cautiously. "Do you wanna stop?"
"I'm not...on anything anymore. And I'm—" you gulp. "I'm ovulating right now."
He chuckles. "I might've guessed."
You raise a brow, questioning whether you should be offended by whatever he's implying.
"How wet you got for me," he continues. "I loved it. It was perfect."
You smile.
"I don't exactly keep condoms here in the kitchen," he says with a knowing look.
"I could... Wind up—"
"I know," he whispers while cupping the back of your head in one hand and wrapping the other securely around your naked waist. "And if that did happen, I'd take care of you. I—I want to anyway. I've been... I've been too married to my work. I don't regret it, but there are things I've missed out on." He kisses you tenderly. "Now here you are. Finally."
He pops a tine on his belt loose. "Do you want us to keep going?"
You nod slowly.
Grant unbuckles his belt, pops the button at the top of his pants, then unzips them. "Do you want me inside of you?" he questions while running a certain hand down your side.
"Yes," you sigh.
"If I do this, I can't pull out. It... It's you. I just can't, Y/N. I need you to understand what I'm telling you."
Wrapping an arm around his neck and another around his side, you cling to him. "I understand."
Shoving his pants and briefs down to his ankles, Grant takes himself in hand and pumps his cock a few times, runs the pad of his thumb over the leaking tip, then eases its girthy length between your slick, accommodating walls.
Once Grants has bottomed out against your perfect cunt, his hips stutter and he whimpers close to your ear while holding you suffocatingly close. "Fuck, sweetheart, I don't know how long I'm gonna last like this," he mutters while slowly rocking his hips.
Burying your face against his neck, your shake your head. "Do what you need to. I want you to finish."
Besides, you already have.
Pumping his thick, veiny cock between your stretchy walls, a whine crawls up Grant's throat, and halts there, until he gasps for air, and the breath his releases sounds more like a quiet cry.
Cradling the backs of each other's heads, his arm circles your waist while your hand claws at his covered back. Grant's naked skin slaps against yours while your legs gyrate on either side of his hips where they dangle over the edge of the counter. "O-Oh fuck," he moans. "I'm already close."
You kiss his neck. "Please, Grant," you whisper.
His cock twitches. "Feel's good?" he asks while thrusting his hips.
"So good," you mewl.
His testicles begin to tighten.
"Almost there," he rasps. "You're doing so well for me. But, baby, I'm—fuck, it's gonna be deep."
You nod. "It's okay. It's okay, you can cum inside me."
He sniffles quietly. "Thank you for finding me," he mutters.
Planting a palm against his naked ass, you encourage him to keep rocking his hips.
Rolling them to get impossibly deeper inside you, his thrusts become hard and fast. So fast that a metallic pounding begins from where his thighs are knocking against the steel countertop. A bowl clatters to the floor, but Grant holds firm when you jolt. "Don't," he barks. "Stay still." He shudders. "Good girl. That's my good little girl. Almost—almost—"
A container of utensils falls over next, but it doesn't even phase him.
Meanwhile, you keep him close. His arms have tightened like coils now. You're surrounded by his muscled limbs.
"Fuck!" he shouts suddenly. "I'm gonna—I'm gonna cum. Fuck, I'm gonna cum so deep inside you, baby girl."
"Please, Grant," you plead. Your clit is so overstiumlated that with only a few more thrusts—
"Oh God," he groans. "Oh God, sweetheart."
Pressing his lips to the curve of your shoulder, his cock spasms between your walls and his balls twitch as he empties a load of built-up semen inside of you. Scooting closer, he angles his hips upwards toward your cervix while thick, hot ropes of cum spurt and coat your fleshy walls.
You twitch repeatedly in his arms while your cunt contracts tightly around his member. Your orgasm is silent, and less eventful, but feels just as good as it washes over you.
Once it's all over, you continue holding one another. "Did you cum again?" Grant asks quietly, while massaging the base of your scalp with trembling fingers.
"I did," you murmur before yawning.
"Good," he says with quiet relief. "Such a good girl."
He stays inside of you, but leans back just enough to capture you in a slow, passionate kiss. "Tell me you belong to me," Grant demands between brushes of his lips over yours.
"I'm yours," you assure him. "I'm yours, Grant."
He swipes a thumb over your sensitive clit—just above where he still has you stretched open. "Yes, you are."
Dinner is mostly silent. Grant sits close to your side as the two of you steadily snack on a mountainous plate of delicious fried chicken. Between your thighs, you can still feel his cum leaking out of you.
Lying your sleepy head atop his shoulder, Grant kisses the crown of it. "I've wanted you since the first time I saw you," he states after taking a sip of ice water. "And heard your voice."
You snuggle against his side. "Really?"
He grins while remembering that fateful video that brought you into his life. Holding up a thin strip of chicken for you to eat, he smiles. "Really."
CW: explicit sexual content, porn with plot, fingering, oral (m/f receiving), butt play (not anal), pinv, suicidal thoughts/discussion (past tense), light choking, talks of Abbot's amputation, reader insert (no use of y/n or pronouns)
Summary:
An overworked social work intern never expected to fall for the gruff night shift ER doctor, who stitched up their arm after a disastrous first day. The timing is terrible. The ethics are questionable. Unfortunately, feelings don't care about hospital policy
"You can kiss me, you know," you whispered, finding his hand and threading your fingers through his.
"I just -"
"Is it the age thing?" you asked.
He turned his head.
"Forget it for now. We'll have plenty of time to fall apart over it later."
That got a short laugh out of him. He shook his head slowly.
A long beat passed where he seemed to be losing some private argument, and then, all at once, he didn't care anymore. His shoulders dropped. He looked up at the ceiling.
"Fuck it."
Your hand suddenly felt empty.
Then his fingers were at your face, broad and warm, and he was pulling you toward him like it was obvious.
He kissed you.
----
Then you woke up.
His warmth still tingled on your lips, the scratch of his stubble against your skin. You groaned. How were you supposed to make it to work now?
Your social work internship - unpaid, no living stipend - and now, somehow, complicated by a ridiculous work crush. You hadn’t thought you’d develop feelings for him. That old man. He carried enough issues to keep your social work brain busy for years. Enough that you found yourself diagnosing him every time he spoke.
You did three night shifts a week for experience, all while clocking full time at a dead-end job that had nothing to do with social work. Your life felt like an endless grind, the finish line nowhere in sight.
Two years of full-time classes plus unpaid fieldwork, on top of a bachelor’s that somehow took five and a half years, then the giant exam covering everything you’d learned, and two more years of supervised practice. And today was only day two. Day one had been an absolute shit show.
You watched your supervisor tell three patients their insurance wouldn’t cover treatment. You learned how to report neglect through the proper channels. You filed stacks of paperwork for free. You sat in on a family being told their mother had died. Then you endured meeting after meeting after meeting. Just when you thought it was over, you and your supervisor got paged to a psychiatric patient brandishing a scalpel.
Of course he zeroed in on you.
You were obviously the newbie. One wild swing nicked your forearm. Not deep, but enough to leave a mark. Enough to bleed.
That’s when you met Mr. PTSD - the grizzled veteran who charged in like a knight in scrubs, tackled the guy, dosed him with Midazolam, and ended the ordeal in under a minute. Then he led you to a private room and stitched you up himself. Two stitches. A battle scar, if you were feeling dramatic.
All you could think about were his hazel-green eyes, locked on the task, and the way his salt-and-pepper hair, mostly salt, let’s be honest, was mussed from the scuffle. He was everything your life didn’t need right now. And you already knew he was going to ruin your fucking life.
By the time you made it to the hospital, you had a very solid, very rational explanation for the dream.
Sleep deprivation did things to people. Strange things. Everyone knew that.
You badged in and exchanged tired nods with the day shift staff on their way out.
As you walked, you rubbed at the wound on your forearm without thinking about it. It was warm. Warmer than yesterday, maybe. It ached in a low, persistent way that you filed under problems for later.
You rounded the corner toward your supervisor's office and walked directly into a person.
Solid. Immovable. Definitely not a wall.
Hands caught your arms before you could bounce off completely.
"Morning."
You looked up.
Jack Abbot.
"Oh, God," you said.
One eyebrow climbed. "That bad?"
"No - sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going."
The corner of his mouth moved. "Careful. Could've been a bed coming around that corner."
"Right. Sorry, Dr. Abbot -"
"Your arm." His attention dropped to your forearm, his grip shifting, careful. "How's it feeling?"
You looked down at it. "Fine. Sore. A little warm, but -"
"Let me see it before your shift?"
You glanced up and caught yourself looking at his mouth for half a second too long. "Sure."
He led you to one of the high-needs rooms and gestured at the bed.
You sat. He pulled over a stool and settled in front of you.
Close enough that you caught his aftershave.
You didn't comment on that.
He unwrapped the bandage without a word. After a moment, his frown deepened.
"It's infected." He pressed lightly around the stitches. "Should've put you on antibiotics yesterday."
You weren't really listening. You were watching the way his focus narrowed. The slight drop of his lashes, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the silver coming through in his beard more than the brown now.
"You know what?" he said.
"What?"
He didn't look up yet. "Coming back the day after that, no paycheck, straight off a day shift." He glanced up. "That's not nothing."
The heat reached your ears before you could stop it.
"How did you know about the day shift?"
"Asked your supervisor."
Your stomach turned over.
"Wanted to check on you." He was already reaching for the fresh bandage. "And I was curious about you." He said it like it was obvious. Like it wasn't a thing.
He finished wrapping your arm and gave it a brisk pat.
ThThen he leaned back on the stool, elbows on his knees.
"So," he said. "When do you sleep?"
You blinked. "Sorry?"
"You're pulling day shifts, three nights here a week, and grad school on top of it." He looked at you. "So. When do you sleep?"
"I sleep."
"When?"
"Sometimes."
"Not an answer."
You shrugged.
"Lunch breaks for class. Then five-thirty to seven-thirty before I come in. Midnight to seven-thirty after."
Something moved across his face.
"Jesus."
"It's temporary."
"Sure it is."
You opened your mouth, then closed it.
"Personal life?" he asked. "Friends? Anything?"
You laughed. "No."
"I'm not joking."
"Neither am I."
The corner of his mouth moved. "Dating?"
Your stomach dropped. "What?"
"Boyfriend?" A pause. "Girlfriend." Another pause. "I don't -" His ears went pink. "Partner. That's the word."
That made you laugh. He exhaled, visibly relieved.
He reached for his prescription pad and scrawled something down.
"Here."
You looked at it. "Antibiotics?"
"Antibiotics."
"Thrilling."
"You got stabbed on day one."
"Sliced, technically."
He gave you a look. "Try not to get stabbed again."
"I'll do my best."
"No." Flat. "Do better than that."
A knock sounded at the door before either of you could speak. It swung open and the night social worker stepped inside. "There you are."
Her eyes immediately found you. "Well, I’ll be damned."
You blinked. "What?"
"I honestly didn’t think you’d be back tonight."
Your hand went to the fresh bandage on your arm. "Oh."
She tapped it. "Most people don’t get stabbed with a scalpel on their first day and then show up for round two."
Abbot snorted. "Told 'em the same."
"Thanks," the social worker said, nodding to him. "See? The adults are worried about you."
"I’m right here," he grumbled.
"Exactly."
Despite yourself, you laughed. She shook her head. "Seriously, though - how’s the arm?"
"Infected, apparently."
Abbot held up the prescription pad. "Taken care of."
"Good." Her expression softened. "You don’t have to prove anything. Nobody would blame you for taking a few days off."
Her concern caught you off guard. "I’m okay."
She gave you a look that said she wasn’t convinced but wouldn’t push it. "Well, since you’re here, might as well put you to work."
Abbot groaned. "There it is."
"We’ve got a veteran in room twelve," she said, the joking atmosphere vanishing instantly.
"He came in during day shift for a psychiatric crisis," she continued. "Agreed to a safety plan, promised he’d see his therapist tomorrow, and was discharged."
"And?" Abbot asked.
She sighed. "He got home and came right back about an hour later."
Abbot’s shoulders slumped. "The urges got worse?"
"He says they’re overwhelming." She folded her arms. "No support system. No family nearby, no friends he feels comfortable calling."
"Any active plan?" Abbot pressed.
"He’s being cagey."
That wasn’t good.
"He did the right thing coming back," she said. "But he keeps apologizing, convinced he’s wasting everyone’s time."
Silence fell. Then she looked at Abbot. "I’d like you there."
His eyes narrowed. "Because he’s a veteran?"
"Because you’re a veteran."
After a moment, Abbot nodded. "Okay."
She turned to you. "And you’re coming too."
You pointed at yourself. "Me?"
"It’s your second day."
"Exactly."
"Perfect time to learn."
You glanced between them. "What am I supposed to do?"
She smiled. "Watch. Listen. Learn."
Abbot stood, pushing his stool back. "That’s social worker code for ‘try not to say anything stupid.’"
She pointed at him. "See? Already learning."
You rolled your eyes and climbed off the bed. The three of you headed down the hall toward room twelve.
Room twelve was silent when you stepped in. Too silent.
The veteran perched on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. He looked about late thirties, early forties. A ball cap lay beside him. His fingers were so tightly interlaced his knuckles had turned white.
Sarah, the social worker, tapped gently on the open door. "Hey, Mark. Mind if we come in?"
He shrugged without looking up. "Not like I can stop you."
She offered a small, encouraging smile. "I’m Sarah. Remember, we met when you arrived. This is Dr. Abbot, and this is my intern."
Mark glanced up just long enough to register the three of you, then dropped his gaze again. "Great. More people."
He didn’t sound angry. Just worn out.
Sarah eased into a chair across from him. "I know you’ve already talked to a lot of folks."
"Yeah."
"And I know that’s frustrating."
He let out a bitter laugh. "Frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it."
She nodded. "Fair enough."
Quiet settled. You shifted your weight, uneasy. Sarah didn’t flinch. Abbot sat unmoved.
Finally Mark exhaled. "I shouldn’t have come back."
Sarah waited. "What makes you say that?"
He rubbed his face. "I was here before. I told everyone I’d be fine, that I’d see my therapist tomorrow."
"You did."
"And then I got home," his voice cracked "made it maybe an hour."
You and Sarah and Abbot stayed silent.
"The second I walked into my apartment…" He shook his head. "It just got loud again."
You caught Abbot’s eyes. Something in his expression tightened ever so slightly. Nothing dramatic, but you noticed.
Mark laughed without humor. "‘Loud.’ Doesn’t even make sense."
"It makes sense," Abbot said softly. "To me."
Silence fell. Then Mark looked up - really looked at someone for the first time. Abbot leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, no hint of judgment or pity. Just understanding.
"You served?" Mark asked.
Abbot nodded. "Army."
Mark studied him. "What’d you do?"
"Medic."
A short laugh escaped Mark. "Of course."
You saw Mark’s shoulders drop a fraction, just enough.
"Then you know."
"Yeah," Abbot replied. "I know."
You tried to track Sarah’s technique, how she validated Mark, guided him toward safety plans, but every time you looked away you found yourself watching Abbot. He never took over. He rarely spoke. When he did, it was concise, thoughtful, exactly what Mark needed.
Bit by bit, the tension in the room eased. By the time Sarah was outlining overnight admission, follow-up care, and community resources, Mark looked less like a man drowning and more like someone ready to accept help. And through it all, Abbot stayed steady, present.
You knew you should focus on the social-work lesson unfolding. Really, you did. But each time your eyes wandered, they always landed back on Dr. Abbot.
The door clicked shut behind the three of you.
Sarah turned to you immediately. "What'd you notice?"
"About -"
"The interaction."
You glanced at Abbot. He looked entertained.
"Don't," he said.
"I wasn't -"
"You were."
You looked back at Sarah. "He opened up more once Dr. Abbot mentioned his service."
"Good." She kept looking at you.
There was more. Of course there was more.
"Dr. Abbot was validating him without…" you searched for the phrasing, "without centering himself."
"Also good." Sarah started moving down the hall. You followed. "Anything else?"
You thought about how little you'd actually been paying attention to Sarah.
"Active listening," you said.
"There you go."
Abbot put his hands in his pockets.
"See? Learning."
"Being interrogated."
"Same thing," he said.
Sarah shook her head. "You're both wrong, actually."
Abbot raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
She pointed at you. "You're learning to be a social worker." Then at him. "And you're teaching without realizing it."
He grimaced. "God."
"Mm."
"Does that make me old?"
"You were already old."
You laughed. You couldn't help it.
Abbot looked at you like you'd betrayed him. Then something shifted in his expression. Not the careful, measured look he'd worn in room twelve. Something looser. Unguarded.
It lasted only a second.
It was, unfortunately, a very good second.
----
The rest of the shift blurred by. Fortunately so, given how vividly you remembered being stabbed on your first day. You helped several patients sort out their health coverage. Sarah coached you on approaching someone you thought might be a trafficking victim, only for it to turn out to be an entirely different situation.
You sat in on a talk with a recovering addict, observed discharge planning, and mediated between a doctor and the family of an incapacitated patient. It was a good day. A busy day. An exhausting day. By the time Sarah finally sent you off, your brain felt like mush.
You should have gone home. Instead, you found yourself standing in the ER, staring into space. You needed a buffer between the hospital and the rest of your life. A chance to breathe. A chance to think. A chance to stop thinking.
Your eyes drifted to the elevators. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped inside. The floor buttons lit up in sequence. You scanned them until you saw one labeled "Roof." It needed badge access. Worst case, it simply wouldn’t register. You swiped your badge. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the light turned green. "Oh." The doors slid shut, and you went up.
When they reopened, you stepped onto the roof.
A cool evening breeze hit your face and you inhaled deeply - for the first time all shift. The city stretched below you, lights still shining against a night sky. A long breath escaped you, turning into a small, relieved groan. Maybe this was exactly what you needed.
"Whoa there." You nearly jumped out of your skin. Spinning around, you saw Dr. Abbot standing a few feet away, his toes alarmingly close to the edge. "What are you doing up here?" he asked.
You stared at him, then at how close he was to the ledge. "I could ask you the same thing," you said.
His mouth twitched. "Fair."
You stepped over and stood beside him, nowhere near the brink. Abbot noticed. "Smart."
You glanced down. "Unlike some people."
He chuckled. "I’ve been coming up here for years."
"Seriously?"
He nodded. "Whenever the shift gets particularly bad."
"How often is that?"
He looked out across the city lights. "More than I’d like."
You sank down onto a near low wall, leaned back, and watched the city breathe beneath you.
The quiet between you wasn’t awkward. Just still.
After a moment, he exhaled. "That veteran really struck a chord."
You turned to him. "Because he was ex-military?"
"Partly," he said without looking away from the skyline. "Mostly because he did it the right way."
You knitted your brow. "What are you getting at?"
"He asked for help." He answered at once. "He realized he couldn’t manage alone, walked into an ER, and admitted he was terrified."
Abbot shook his head slowly. "Most people don’t do that."
His gravity made your throat tighten. Before you knew it, you’d fallen into case-worker mode. "So you’re -"
He groaned.
"- frustrated?" you finished hesitantly.
"No."
"What?"
"Don’t start social-working me."
A laugh slipped out. "You don’t want to talk about your feelings?"
"Not at all."
"You know that’s not healthy."
"I’m aware."
"You always tell your patients…"
"I know what I tell them."
You gave him a small smile. "And?"
"Stop diagnosing me."
"Social-working."
"Whatever."
For a moment you both cracked a grin. Then your smile fell.
"Still, he’s going to be alright."
He glanced at you. "The veteran?"
You nodded.
"He asked for help."
On the rooftop, wind scoured your face as you stared at the distant city lights, blurring in the night.
"I didn’t."
You felt his expression shift before you dared look.
"Three times."
The words tumbled out before you could stop them.
He spoke so softly you almost missed it. "Three times?"
You nodded again. "The last was in 2020, during the pandemic."
Abbot said nothing, didn’t fill the silence, and you found you preferred it that way.
"It all just... fell apart at once." You shrugged, trying to make it sound insignificant. "I was angry for a long time that it failed."
Your confession hung between you, raw and vulnerable. When you finally met his eyes, they were unwavering.
"I’m glad it didn’t work."
His simple words landed heavy. You looked away first - you didn’t trust yourself to keep looking at him.
Silence settled again, carried away by the wind and the muted hum of the city far below. Minutes passed.
At last you cleared your throat. "I should get going. I’m on duty at eight."
"Yeah."
His voice was rougher than usual. Neither of you moved.
Finally you rose, slung your bag over your shoulder.
"See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
His lips curved in a brief, hesitant smile. "See you tomorrow."
You stepped toward the elevator, feeling his eyes on your back. Just before the doors closed, you glanced over your shoulder. He was still there.
Watching the city, watching you go.
--
Weeks passed. Then months.
The pattern established itself without any particular decision on your part. Shift ends, bag over shoulder, badge still clipped to your chest, elevator button for the roof. Sometimes you'd find Abbot already up there, still in his coat, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city like he was waiting for it to explain itself. Sometimes he'd arrive later, slightly out of breath, muttering something about a consult that ran long. Sometimes the roof was empty when you got there and stayed empty all night.
You'd started keeping a fleece in your locker for the colder evenings.
Pittsburgh at dusk had a particular quality you'd never noticed before. The way the bridges lit up in sequence, the way the rivers caught the last of the light before the city swallowed it. You and Abbot talked about everything and nothing up there. The weird bureaucratic logic of insurance denials. What it had been like to do field medicine. Whether the vending machine on the third floor had always been broken or if something specific had happened to it. Abbots late wife. Your suicide attempts.
On other nights neither of you said much. You'd sit against the half wall and let the exhaustion breathe out of you slowly, the way it couldn't anywhere else in the building.
The nights you came up alone were a different thing entirely.
On those nights, sometimes, you'd walk closer to the edge than you otherwise would. You were aware of doing it. You were aware of why. There had been a version of you where a rooftop at night was not a neutral place - where the pull of an edge was something other than wind and vertigo. That version felt far away now. Far enough that you could stand here and feel the distance like something solid underfoot.
You never walked to the edge when Abbot was there. You weren't sure he'd understand that it wasn't what it looked like. Or maybe you were sure he would, and that was somehow worse.
---
The last fifteen minutes of your shift were supposed to be the easy part.
You were halfway through your notes when the overhead page came through. Overdose, incoming. You finished the sentence you were typing. Answered a question from Sarah. The night had been full of worse things.
Then the doors opened.
The room moved the way it always did: nurses converging, someone calling out vitals, someone else already on the phone. The particular controlled urgency of an ER doing what an ER does. You'd seen it a hundred times.
The patient was maybe sixteen.
Someone said suicide attempt. Someone said there was a note. After that the words stopped registering individually. You were aware of staring. You were aware that you shouldn't be. The kid looked so young on the stretcher. So scared. So…
The room kept moving around you. Loud, then far away, then loud again.
They stabilized quickly. The attempt hadn't worked. Barring something unforeseen, they were going to be fine.
The staff visibly exhaled. Someone made a quiet joke. The tension broke the way it usually did after a good outcome.
You exhaled too.
You were glad. You were genuinely, completely glad.
That wasn't the problem.
For the remainder of the shift you ran on autopilot. Helping where you could, answering questions when asked, and ticking off every task Sarah gave you. You were convincing enough that nobody pressed you when you insisted you were fine. Finally, Sarah glanced at the clock and told you to head home. You nodded, packed your things, and lied outright when she asked if you were okay.
The moment your shift ended, you walked straight to the elevators. You skipped your locker. You skipped coffee. You didn’t pause to think. You just needed the roof. When the doors slid open and cool air washed over you, the pressure in your chest became almost too much. You stepped out, crossed the concrete without slowing, and only realized how close you were when you found yourself standing inches from the edge.
Below you, the city flowed in rivers of headlights and neon. The wind tugged at your clothes as you shoved your hands in your pockets and stared at the skyline. But the teenager’s face wouldn’t leave your mind.
Sixteen.
You shut your eyes, and memories came flooding back: hospital rooms, frantic phone calls, the looks on people’s faces afterward: the disappointment, the relief, the shame. You hated how fast it all returned.
After years of work, therapy, and just surviving, one terrified kid on a stretcher was enough to drag it all up again.
You lost track of time.
Then a voice cut through the wind. "Move."
You snapped your eyes open. Abbot stood a few yards away, his face carefully neutral but his eyes filled with something you’d never seen before.
"Excuse me?" you said.
"Move away from the edge." You frowned.
"I’m fine."
"I know."
"Then what’s the problem?" His jaw tightened. "
You’re six inches from a six-story drop."
Instinctively, you looked down. He was right, you hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten.
"You think I’m going to jump?"
"No," he said immediately. Firm, certain.
"Really?"
"No."
Some tension slid from your shoulders. "Then why are you freaking out?"
He let out a short, humorless laugh and looked away toward the city. "I’m not freaking out."
"You absolutely are."
His eyes closed for a moment, as if he’d revealed more than he meant to.
When he looked back, his expression had softened. "You told me you’ve tried three times." Suddenly the rooftop felt small. "You said the last one was during the pandemic," he added, voice steady but careful. "And now I find you standing on the edge after a rough shift."
You looked away first. "Oh."
"Yeah."
The wind swept between you, carrying the sounds of distant traffic up from the streets below.\
"How'd you know it was rough for me?"
Abbot stared at you for a moment, as if the answer should have been obvious.
"I knew it would be the second we got the call on that kid."
You swallowed.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
For a moment, you both stayed silent.
Then a realization hit you.
"You were there?" you asked, his brow lifted. "In the room?"
"Yeah."
You tried to summon the faces around the teenager’s bed - the nurses, doctors, respiratory techs, security staff - but they all blurred together: movements, voices, fragments.
You frowned. "I don’t think I remember anyone who was there."
Abbot’s expression softened instantly. "Exactly."
That one word landed in your gut like a stone. It wasn’t blame, it was confirmation. He’d watched you dissociate, drift somewhere he couldn’t follow, and he’d waited until you came back.
"You stopped hearing people about halfway through," he added quietly.
Heat crept up your neck. "What?"
"You had that look," he said, searching for the right words. "The same expression you wore the night you told me about the attempts."
He’d noticed. He’d catalogued your every expression. It hit you harder than you expected.
"I was worried," he admitted, voice low. "Not just as your doctor. As… me."
The unspoken weight of "me" hung between you. Not Dr. Abbot - Jack.
"Come sit," he said, nodding at the low wall where you usually perched. "Away from the edge."
You slid down onto the concrete, hugging your knees. He settled beside you, closer than usual but not touching. The space between you thrummed with unsaid words.
You sat like that for a while, listening to the city pulse below, oblivious to the small, monumental moment unfolding six stories up.
"There was someone," he said suddenly, voice rough. "Here. At the hospital."
You kept your eyes on the skyline. "Go on."
"Nothing serious. Just… physical. No strings, no expectations. Easy."
Each word pricked you. You reminded yourself: you were an intern, he was your superior, you’d only shared one kiss… in a dream.
"I ended it this afternoon," he said, finally looking at you.
Your head snapped around. "What? Why?"
He let out a humorless laugh. "Why do you think?"
Your heart pounded. "Don’t say things you don’t mean, Jack."
"When have I?" he countered, eyes locking on yours in the dim light. "Since the day I stitched your arm, all I could think was tracing your jawline instead of cleaning your wound."
The air between you thickened, charged with years of unspoken longing.
"I changed my schedule," he continued. "Picked up an extra night shift… one that overlaps with yours, starting next week."
You could barely breathe. "This is a really bad idea."
"Probably," he agreed, sliding his hand over yours on the cold concrete and lacing his fingers through yours deliberately. "But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want this."
His other hand rose to cup your cheek, impossibly gentle. It was the same hand that had steadied you when he stitched you up, but now it felt softer, more personal.
"We could get fired," you whispered, even as you tilted your face into his palm.
"I know," he murmured, leaning closer, eyes flicking to your lips and back. He hesitated, giving you one last chance to pull away.
You met his gaze, saw the same conflict and desire you’d known in your dream, and let a small, defiant smile appear.
"You can kiss me, you know," you whispered.
His tension melted. His eyes closed briefly, then opened dark and certain.
"Fuck it," he breathed.
Then he kissed you.
Hungry, urgent, nothing like the tentative dream version. His hand tangled in your hair, angling your head, and you returned his kiss with equal desperation. The scratch of stubble against your skin was everything you’d imagined, and infinitely more.
When you finally broke apart, both of you gasping, he rested his forehead against yours.
"We’re going to be in so much trouble," you said, though you didn’t care.
"Probably," he agreed, thumb tracing your jawline. "But I think it’s worth it."
You let him kiss you again, let him guide your jaw and teeth and tongue this time. You leaned into the heat of it, the bristle of his beard, the solid press of his palm at the nape of your neck. You wanted to swallow him whole. Every cell in your body wanted to climb into his lap, to grind and take and fuck until the sky itself splintered and rained down you and Jack Abbot together.
He tasted faintly of bitterness - coffee and exhaustion, maybe - and his hands were restless, sliding from your waist to your ribs, up under your jacket, palms broad and greedy and shaking a little. You popped the first button of his shirt, couldn’t stop yourself. He made a noise, half-protest, half-caving, and then he was kissing you harder, more urgent, as if he needed to bite you to prove this was real.
He grabbed your wrists, trapping them in his large hands and held them against his chest, against the frantic drum of his heartbeat. Then he pushed back, just enough, his breathing ragged and uneven. "Wait. Stop."
Your stomach dropped. Instantly. The way it always did. That sick lurch, that reflexive flinch. You’d done something wrong. You always did something wrong. The button, the grabbing, the wanting. Too much, too fast, too obvious. You pulled your hands free and scrambled to your feet, concrete scraping your palms. "I should go."
"Hey - no." His hand caught your wrist, gentle but firm, and tugged you back down. Not roughly. Just enough. "Don’t. That’s not… that’s not what I meant."
You stood there, half-crouched, heart hammering against your ribs. His thumb moved in slow circles over your pulse point, and you hated that he could probably feel how fast it was.
"Listen to me." His voice was low, rough, stripped of every clinical layer you’d ever heard him wear. "I want you more than you can fucking imagine. You understand me? I want to take you right here on this filthy concrete and fuck your pussy until neither of us remembers our own names."
The words hit you like a wall of heat. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
"But I’ve got two and a half hours left on this shift." He dragged a hand down his face, and the sound of his palm scraping stubble was obscenely loud in the quiet. "And this roof is - Christ - it’s disgusting. Pigeon shit and cigarette butts and God knows what else. You deserve better than that."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring. Three keys, a small silver fob, a worn leather tag. He pressed them into your palm and folded your fingers around them. His hand was warm. Steady. Yours was not.
"Meet me at my place." He was already pulling out his phone, thumbs moving across the screen. Your phone buzzed in your jacket pocket. "I’ll text you the address. Door code’s the last four of my cell. I’ll be there by two. Make yourself at home. Eat whatever you find. Shower. Sleep. Whatever you need."
You stared at the keys in your hand. They were warm from his body. Real. Not a dream this time you were sure, because dreams didn’t have the weight of metal or the smell of hospital antiseptic clinging to someone’s fingers.
"Jack -"
"Don’t overthink it." He stood, brushing grit off his scrubs, and you caught the way his jaw tightened. Like he was physically holding himself back from touching you again. "Go home. My home. I’ll see you in a few hours."
You nodded. Couldn’t trust your voice. The keys dug into your palm, and you clutched them tighter, as if they might evaporate.
He leaned in. Close, so close you could feel the heat radiating off his skin and pressed his mouth to your forehead. Not a kiss, exactly. More like an anchor. Something to tether you to the earth while the rest of you threatened to float away.
"Go," he murmured against your skin. "Before I change my mind about the concrete and let it tear up your skin."
You went. Down the stairwell, through the busy corridors, past the front desk where the night receptionist barely looked up from his phone. The cold night air hit your face in the parking garage, and you gasped, finally breathing again. Your phone buzzed again - the address, a second text with the door code, and then a third:
Don’t drive if you’re tired. Take a cab. I’ll pay for it.
You stood there in the fluorescent glare of the garage, keys clutched in one hand and phone in the other, and you pressed the screen against your chest like it was something alive. Something that could keep.You didn’t call a cab.
You walked to your car on autopilot, slid behind the wheel, and sat there for a long moment with the keys still warm in your palm. His keys. Three of them, and a fob, and that worn leather tag that you couldn’t stop running your thumb over. The parking garage smelled like oil and cold concrete and your own stupid perfume, which you’d sprayed twelve hours ago and which had long since given up.
Two and a half hours. That’s what he’d said.
You started the engine. The radio blared, some late-night talk show you’d left it on, and you stabbed the power button until the silence was deafening.
Your apartment was twenty minutes in the wrong direction. You knew that. You also knew you couldn’t show up at his door smelling like hospital antiseptic and old sweat, wearing the same pair of jeans you’d pulled on at five-thirty in the morning and a shirt with a coffee stain you’d stopped noticing around hour ten. You couldn’t show up looking like the same exhausted, underpaid, barely-surviving mess he’d just kissed on a roof.
So you drove to your apartment.
The streets were empty at this hour, just the occasional delivery truck and the wash of amber streetlights sliding across your windshield. You parked crooked in your usual spot behind the building, took the stairs two at a time because the elevator had been broken since August, and fumbled your own keys at the door twice before the lock caught.
Inside, you dropped everything, his keys, your phone, your jacket, onto the kitchen counter and stood in the middle of your tiny living room with your hands on your hips, breathing hard, like you’d just run a marathon instead of driven twenty minutes.
What the fuck are you doing.
You didn’t have an answer. You just moved.
The shower took three minutes, you were too wired to stand still any longer than that, scrubbing hospital grime off your skin with the cheap lavender soap you’d bought in bulk. You shaved your legs in a hurry, nicked your ankle, swore, kept going. Toweled off with the thin bath sheet that barely covered your thighs and stood in front of the closet with wet hair dripping down your spine.
What did you wear to the apartment of the man who’d just told you he wanted to fuck you until you forgot your own name?
Not a dress. Too much. Not your usual rotation of oversized sweaters and black leggings: too you, too much of the exhausted intern he already knew. You dug past the hangers, past the stack of fieldwork-appropriate blouses, and pulled out the black jeans you saved for the rare occasions when someone dragged you to a bar. They fit like they’d been painted on, tighter than anything you’d wear to the hospital, tighter than anything you’d worn in months, really. You had to lie on the bed to zip them.
Then the top. The dark green one, silk-blend, the one with the neckline that dipped just low enough to make you feel like you were getting away with something. You’d bought it on clearance two years ago and worn it exactly once, to a wedding where no one had looked at you twice. It felt different now. It felt like armor and invitation at the same time.
No bra. You couldn’t find one that didn’t ruin the line of the fabric, and the thought of him seeing the outline through the silk made something hot and reckless coil low in your belly. You pulled on the good underwear instead, the black lace pair you’d forgotten you owned, buried in the back of the drawer, and told yourself it was for you, not for him, which was a lie so obvious you almost laughed out loud.
Mascara. A swipe of the lip stain that came off as more of a flush than a color. You ran your fingers through your damp hair and decided against the blow dryer. You let it fall how it wanted, messy and half-dry, the way it looked when you rolled out of bed. The way it had probably looked on the roof.
You looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror. The woman staring back was someone you almost recognizedcheeks flushed, eyes too bright, the green silk clinging to every line of your body like it had been waiting for this exact night. You looked like you were about to do something stupid and necessary and irreversible.
Good, you thought. That’s the point.
You grabbed your phone, his keys, your jacket, even though the silk top was ridiculous for November, you’d be indoors in twenty minutes, and locked the apartment behind you.
His address was in a part of the city you didn’t know well, the kind of neighborhood where the buildings had doormen and the streetlights were softer. You plugged it into your phone and followed the robotic voice through quiet streets, past closed storefronts and bars letting out their last stragglers. The radio stayed off. The silence felt important.
His building was brick and understated, six stories, with a glass entrance and a small courtyard visible through the lobby windows. You parked across the street, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment with your hands still on the wheel. Your pulse was doing something absurd in your throat. You pressed your palm flat against it, as if you could physically calm it down.
He gave you his keys. He told you to shower. He told you to eat. He told you he wanted you more than you could fucking imagine.
You grabbed your things and crossed the street.
The lobby was warm and smelled like cedar and someone’s distant cooking. The doorman - older, gray-haired, reading a newspaper behind a small desk - glanced up as you approached. You held up the keys like a talisman, and he gave a slow nod and went back to his paper without a word. Either Jack had called ahead or the man had seen enough late-night visitors to stop asking questions.
The elevator was mirrored on three sides. You caught your own reflection from every angle. The green silk, the black jeans, the messy hair, the lip stain already bitten half off. You looked like a woman who’d dressed for someone. You looked like exactly what you were.
Fourth floor. The hallway was carpeted and quiet, lit by sconces that cast everything in warm gold. You found his door, 4C, and stood in front of it with his keys in your hand, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth.
The door code. Last four of his cell. You pulled out your phone, found his text and punched in the numbers. The lock clicked. You turned the handle and pushed the door open.
The apartment was dark except for the city glow filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. You stepped inside and closed the door behind you, and the quiet hit you like a physical thing. Thick and warm and smelling faintly of coffee and cedar and something underneath that was just him, that same scent you’d caught on the roof when his mouth was on yours.
You found the light switch by the door and flicked it on.
The apartment was… surprising. Not in a bad way. Cleaner than you’d expected, for one thing. A lived-in couch, dark leather, worn in the right places. Bookshelves crammed full - medical texts on the lower shelves, paperbacks on the upper, a few framed photos you couldn’t make out from this distance. A small kitchen with an espresso machine on the counter and a cutting board that still had bread crumbs on it. A dining table with one chair pushed slightly back, as if he’d been sitting there recently.
No television. That struck you. Just the windows, the books, the quiet.
You dropped your jacket on the arm of the couch and walked further in, running your fingers along the back of the leather as you passed. The bedroom door was half-open, and you could see the edge of a bed. King-sized, impeccably made, dark sheets rumpled. You looked away quickly, heat climbing your neck.
He sleeps there. He sleeps in that bed, and in a few hours he’ll be in it with you…
You pressed your palms flat against your thighs and exhaled through your nose. Not yet. Not yet.
You found the bathroom - clean, white tile, a shower with good water pressure if the head was any indication. A razor on the sink. A toothbrush in a ceramic holder. A bottle of something woodsy and expensive-looking on the shelf. You picked it up, uncapped it, and pressed it to your wrist without thinking. The scent bloomed warm and dark against your skin, and you closed your eyes.
This is what he smells like when he’s not at the hospital. This is what he’ll smell like when he’s pressed against you in that bed.
You set the bottle back exactly where you’d found it, like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t have.
Back in the living room, you sat on the couch. Stood up. Sat again. Picked up a paperback from the side table - A Man Called Ove, a few pages were dogeared, you made note to read those pages later - and set it back down without reading a word.
Your phone said 12:47. He’d said two. That was…
You did the math. An hour and thirteen minutes. An eternity.
You pulled your knees up and tucked your feet under you, the leather cool through the thin silk of your top. The city glittered beyond the windows. Thousands of lights, thousands of lives happening simultaneously, none of them knowing that you were sitting in Jack Abbot’s apartment wearing his cologne on your wrist and waiting for him to come home and ruin you.
Your phone buzzed. You lunged for it so fast you nearly knocked it off the cushion.
Traffic. Construction on 5th. Be there by 1:30. You eating?
You stared at the screen. Your thumbs hovered, then typed:
Not hungry. Your apartment is nice. Very you.
Three dots. Then:
Define "very me."
You smiled despite yourself. Clean. Quiet. No TV. Books everywhere. Smells like cedar and that cologne on your bathroom shelf that I definitely did not put on my wrist.
The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
You put my cologne on your wrist.
I did.
I’m going to think about that for the rest of my drive and it’s going to make it very difficult to focus on the road.
Good.
You set the phone face-down on the couch and pressed both hands over your face, like you could physically contain the sound trying to escape your mouth. A laugh, maybe. Or something closer to a sob. The adrenaline was doing something complicated to your nervous system, and you couldn’t tell if you wanted to scream or sleep or crawl into his bed and bury your face in his pillow.
You did the third one.
You told yourself it was just to sit, just to perch on the edge and wait, but the second your weight hit the mattress, the exhaustion hit you like a truck. The sheets smelled like him, that same cedar-and-coffee-and-something-deeper, and your body went soft and heavy without your permission. You lay back. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.
The ceiling was white. The room was dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the curtains. Your arm ached where the stitches had been - a dull, warm throb - and you pressed your palm against it absently, the way you’d caught him doing to his own scars sometimes when he thought no one was watching.
Two stitches. Two stitches and a rooftop and a man who ended a casual relationship because he’d been thinking about you since day one.
You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just to rest them.
---
The next thing you knew, a key was turning in the front door.
The lock clicked, then the deadbolt, and then the door swung open, harder than it needed to, the handle hitting the wall with a soft thud. His footsteps were fast, urgent, and you heard his keys hit something - the counter, maybe, or the table - and then his voice, rough and carrying through the apartment.
"Hello?"
The worry in it was unmistakable. Not the clinical, measured concern of Dr. Abbot in room twelve. This was something rawer, something that lived in the back of his throat and tightened around the vowels. He’d come home to a dark apartment and an empty couch and no sign of you, and his voice said everything his face probably looked like right now.
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, the sheets sliding off your bare arms, and called out toward the bedroom door.
"In here."
The footsteps changed. Faster. The leather couch creaked - he’d brushed past it, you could tell by the sound - and then he was in the doorway, filling it, one hand braced against the frame. His scrubs were rumpled, his hair pushed back like he’d been running his fingers through it for the entire drive, and his eyes found you in the dim light and stayed there.
You watched his chest rise and fall. Once. Twice. The tension in his shoulders didn’t dissolve so much as shift. His sharp edge of alarm softening into something slower, heavier, more deliberate. His gaze moved from you face to the sheets tangled around your hips to the green silk pulled taut across your chest to the bare skin of your arms, and you saw his jaw work once, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble.
"You fell asleep," he said. Not a question.
"I closed my eyes for a second."
"On my bed."
"On your bed."
He didn’t move from the doorway. You could hear the sound of his breathing, still a little too fast, still carrying the residue of whatever had been running through his head on the drive over. The construction on 5th, the empty couch, the dark apartment, the silence where he’d expected to find you waiting.
You sat up fully, letting the sheets pool at your waist. The silk top had shifted in your sleep, the neckline dipping lower on one side, and you didn’t adjust it. You watched him watch you do it.
"You were worried," you said.
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "I walked in and you weren’t on the couch. Your jacket was there. Your phone was there. Your shoes were by the door. But you weren’t…" He stopped. Drew a breath through his nose. "Yeah. I was worried."
"I’m sorry."
"Don’t be." He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in four long strides, and then he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him, close enough to smell the hospital still clinging to his scrubs underneath the cold November air he’d brought in from outside. His hand found yours on the sheets - not grabbing, not cupping, just settling there, palm up, an invitation you took without thinking.
His fingers closed around your. Warm. Steady. Still a little rough from the antiseptic.
"You fell asleep in my apartment," he said. His thumb moved across your knuckles. "In my bed. Smelling like my cologne."
"You told me to make myself at home."
"I did." His voice had dropped to something low and rough, and he turned your hand over in his, pressing his thumb into the center of your palm. You felt the pressure of it everywhere. In your chest, in your stomach, lower. "I didn’t expect you to take it quite so literally."
"I’m a fast learner. You said so yourself."
That got the smile. The real one, the one that creased the corners of his eyes and softened everything about his face. He brought your hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to your palm, and the warmth of it traveled up your arm and settled somewhere behind your ribs.
"You’re going to kill me," he murmured against your skin.
"Probably, old man"
His gaze lifted to your, and the green flecks in his eyes caught the streetlight coming through the curtains. You could see the exhaustion in him. The same deep-bone weariness you carried, the kind that no amount of coffee or adrenaline could fully mask, but underneath it was something hotter, something that had been building since the roof and the concrete and the words he’d said out loud because he couldn’t keep them inside anymore.
He released your hand. Both of his came up to frame your face, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones, and you leaned into the touch like you’d been waiting your whole life for it.
"I need to shower," he said. His voice was barely above a whisper. "I’ve been in these scrubs for fourteen hours and I smell like a hospital."
"You do."
"But if I get up right now and walk into that bathroom, I’m not sure I’m going to come back out with any self-control left."
Your pulse was doing something stupid and loud in your ears. You reached up and wrapped your fingers around his wrists, feeling the tendons shift under your grip, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse against your fingertips.
"Jack."
"Yeah."
"I didn’t put on this outfit and drive across the city at one in the morning because I wanted you to have self-control."
The sound he made was low and broken, almost a laugh, and his forehead dropped to yours the way it had on the roof and you could feel the warmth of his breath against your mouth.
"You’re sure?"
You answered by pulling him closer, by tilting your chin up until your lips brushed his, and the kiss was nothing like the rooftop. Slower. More deliberate. His mouth was warm and careful against yours, and you could taste the coffee and the exhaustion and something underneath that was just him, just Jack, the man who’d given you his keys and told you to eat and worried when you weren’t on his couch.
His hands slid from your face to your neck to your shoulders, and you felt his fingers curl into the silk of your top, gathering the fabric, and then he was pulling back. Just barely, just enough to look at you.
"Stay right here," he said. His voice had gone rough at the edges. "Don’t move. Don’t… just stay."
You nodded. Couldn’t speak. An obedience settling in your core.
He stood from the bed, and you watched him walk to the bathroom. The set of his shoulders, the way his hand dragged through his hair one more time, and then the door closed behind him, and you were alone in his bedroom with the sound of water starting and your own heartbeat hammering against your ribs.
You pressed your palms flat against the sheets on either side of your hips and breathed. The water ran. You could hear it through the wall. The shift in pressure when he stepped under the spray, the muffled sound of his hands against tile.
You stayed where he’d told you to stay. You didn’t move. You didn’t think about the ethics or the age gap or the hospital or what Sarah would say or what would happen when the internship ended in six months. You thought about his hands on your face and his mouth on your palm and the way he’d said you’re going to kill me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The water stopped.
A beat of silence. Then the bathroom door opened.
Steam rolled out first, a warm, cedar-scented cloud that curled into the bedroom and softened the edges of everything. And then Jack.
He stood in the doorway with a towel slung low around his hips, water still glistening on his chest and shoulders, his hair pushed back and dripping dark against his forehead. The bathroom light behind him threw his body into sharp relief. The broad chest, the scar tissue mapping his left side in pale, knotted lines, the trail of dark hair below his navel that disappeared beneath the towel.
And his left leg. Or what was left of it.
The prosthetic was gone. The stump, below his knee, clean and surgical and real in a way that the polished carbon fiber never was, was bare and still slightly pink from the shower. He’d set the socket on the bathroom counter; you could see it through the doorway, propped against the mirror, the metal components catching the light.
You hadn’t moved. You’d done exactly what he asked: stayed on the bed, palms flat on the sheets, legs still tucked beneath you where he’d left them. The green silk was rumpled from sleep, the neckline still dipping low on one side, and your hair was a mess from the pillow and the humidity and the fact that you hadn’t bothered to fix any of it.
You watched him take you in. The way his gaze traveled from your face to your bare arms to the silk pulled tight across your chest to your hands, still exactly where he’d told you to put them. His chest expanded with a breath that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his lungs, and his jaw tightened not with tension, not with the clinical restraint he wore like a second skin at the hospital, but with something raw and open and completely unguarded.
"You stayed," he said.
His voice was wrecked. Not rough the way it had been on the roof. No, that had been controlled, deliberate, a man rationing what he allowed himself to feel. This was something else entirely. This was a man who’d expected to come out of that shower and find you on the couch, or in the kitchen, or pacing the living room. The man who’d expected, maybe, that the hour alone in his apartment would have given you enough time to overthink yourself out the door.
You hadn’t moved. Not an inch.
"You told me to," you said. “Old man.”
Something shifted in his face. A fracture, a crack in the careful architecture of his composure. His throat worked, and you watched his Adam’s apple dip and rise, and the hand that wasn’t braced against the doorframe curled into a fist at his side. The towel was doing very little to hide what was happening below his waist, and he didn’t seem to care. Hell, he didn’t seem capable of caring about anything other than the fact that you were still here, still exactly where he’d left you, still waiting.
"You actually stayed," he said again, and the disbelief in it made your chest ache.
You held his gaze. Didn’t look away. Didn’t look down at the stump or the scars or the towel. You kept your eyes on his - those damned green-flecked, exhausted, wanting eyes - and you said, very quietly, "I told you. I’m a fast learner."
The sound that came out of him was barely human. Low and rough and broken open, and then he was moving. Crossing the room in three uneven strides, the asymmetry of his gait more pronounced without the prosthetic, his weight shifting from his right leg to his hand balancing him on the wall, then dresser, then bed to get to you without his prosthetic. You barely had time to register the movement before his hands were on your face again, cradling your jaw, tilting your head back, and his mouth was on yours.
This kiss was different from all the others. Not hungry the way the roof had been, not careful the way the bed had been. This was something desperate and grateful and almost reverent, his lips moving against yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth through touch alone. His thumbs pressed into the hollows of your cheeks, and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, not from exhaustion this time, but from something far more dangerous.
You reached up and wrapped your hands around his wrists, and you could feel the tendons jumping beneath his skin, the heat of him still radiating from the shower. His chest was damp against the silk of your top, and the fabric clung to both of you where skin met skin, and you made a sound into his mouth that you didn’t recognize as your own.
He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes closed. Water dripped from his hair onto your collarbone and traced a slow line down between your breasts, and you shivered. Not from cold.
"I’ve spent two weeks convincing myself this was a bad idea," he said. "Two weeks of telling myself you were too young, too tired, too - Christ - too everything. That I was too old, too broken, too -" His hand dropped to the leg, a reflexive gesture, his palm pressing against the scarred skin. "And you’re sitting in my bed in that shirt looking at me like…"
He stopped. Drew a breath. His eyes opened, and they were dark; the green almost swallowed by the black of his pupils, blown wide and unfocused.
"Like what?" you whispered.
"Like none of it matters." His thumb traced the line of your collarbone. "Like the leg doesn’t matter. The age doesn’t matter. The hospital, the ethics, the - fuck - the fact that I’m standing here half-naked, old, with one leg and you’re still looking at me like I’m -"
He couldn’t finish. You watched him try. Watched his jaw work, watched the muscle in his cheek jump, and then he gave up and kissed you again, slower this time, his hands sliding down to your waist, fingers curling into the silk at your hips.
You broke the kiss just far enough to speak against his mouth. "Jack."
"Don’t." His voice was rough. "Don’t say anything that’s going to make me think. I’ve been thinking for weeks and it almost killed me."
You pulled back enough to look at him, really look at him. The water still dripping from his hair. The scar tissue mapping his side. The way he held himself, slightly tilted, his weight distributed unevenly, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip for balance.
You reached down and pressed your palm flat against the scarred skin of his calf, just above where the amputation began. His breath caught - audibly, sharply - and his hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist, not pulling it away, just holding it there, his fingers tight and warm.
"Don’t," he said again, but it came out differently this time. Less a warning and more a plea.
"I want to touch you," you said. Simple. Direct. The way he’d been with you on the roof. "All of you."
His grip on your wrist tightened. You could feel his pulse through his fingers. It was fast, erratic, nothing like the steady clinical rhythm he maintained at the hospital. This was the real Jack Abbot. The one who’d been hiding underneath the scrubs and the stethoscope and the carefully measured distance.
"Then touch me," he said.
He pulled back. Not far, just enough to stand upright, his hand finding your shoulder, his fingers curling around the curve there. The grip was steady, balanced, his weight shifting to his right leg as he found his center of gravity without the prosthetic. He stood in front of you like that, towel slung low, water still trailing down his chest, one hand on your shoulder and the other hanging loose at his side.
His gaze dropped to where your fingers rested on the edge of the towel. The white cotton, damp from the shower, the corner you’d caught without realizing you’d reached for it. He didn’t move. Didn’t adjust. Just stood there, his breath coming slow and controlled, and let you take it.
You pulled.
The towel came free in one smooth motion, the fabric sliding over his hips and dropping to the floor in a wet heap. His cock sprang free. Half-hard already, thickening even as you watched, the head flushed dark and already wet at the tip. He was bigger than you’d expected. Thick and heavy, the vein along the underside prominent, the hair at the base dark and damp.
You didn’t look away. Couldn’t. Your mouth went dry and your pulse kicked hard against your throat, and you dragged your gaze up the length of him until you found his eyes. Dark. Blown wide. Waiting.
You looked up at him from the edge of the bed, your hands back, flat on the mattress on either side of your hips, and said it. Suddenly, everything was a lot. You didn’t know where to begin.
"Tell me what to do."
The sound that left him was not a word. It was something between a groan and a curse, torn from somewhere deep in his chest, and his hand on your shoulder tightened until his knuckles went white. His cock jumped against his stomach. You watched it happen, watched the way his whole body responded to those simple words like you’d detonated something inside him.
His jaw clenched. His throat worked. You could see the muscles in his neck standing out in sharp relief, could see the way his nostrils flared with each ragged breath.
Then he spoke, and his voice was nothing you’d ever heard before. Low and wrecked and absolutely certain.
"Get on your knees."
You moved. Slid off the edge of the bed, your bare feet hitting the carpet, and dropped to your knees in front of him. The position put you eye level with his cock, and you could see every detail - the way it was fully hard now, jutting out from his body, the head glistening.
His hand left your shoulder and found the back of your head. Not pushing. Just resting there, his fingers threading into your hair, still slightly damp from the shower you’d taken hours ago.
"Open your mouth," he said. "Look at me while you do it."
You opened your mouth. Looked up at him through your lashes, the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble catching the light, the way his chest was rising and falling too fast. His hand tightened in your hair, and he guided himself forward, the head of his cock pressing against your lower lip.
"Wider."
You obeyed. He kissed your lips, the taste of him hitting your tongue, salt and skin and something faintly bitter, and you closed your mouth around him, your lips stretching around the width of him. The sound he made above you was guttural, primal, his hand flexing in your hair.
"Good." The word came out strangled. "Now take me deeper. Slow. Use your tongue, press it flat against the underside."
You did. Dragged your tongue along the vein as you took him deeper, feeling him thicken against your palate, feeling the weight of him on your tongue. Your jaw ached already and you’d barely started, but you didn’t pull back. You looked up at him the way he’d told you to, and his expression was devastating. Eyes half-closed, mouth open, every line of his face carved with want.
You had done this before, of course. Undergrad being deemed your "slutty days." But something about being told what to do made this seem all new. Your pussy throbbed at the concept.
His hand guided you - not roughly, but with absolute authority, setting a rhythm that was slow and deep and relentless. You felt him hit the back of your throat and your eyes watered, but tried not to gag, to pull away. The carefully applied mascara began to run down your cheeks. You breathed through your nose and let him push further, your throat finally opening around him, and the sound he made - a broken, reverent "fuck" - vibrated through your skull.
"Use your hand," he said. His voice was barely recognizable. "Wrap it around what you can’t take."
You brought your hand up and wrapped it around the base, your fingers barely meeting, and squeezed the way he’d told you. Always obedient. Twisted on the upstroke, your tongue still pressed flat against him, and he groaned, a sound that seemed to come from the very bottom of his lungs.
"That’s it." His hips shifted forward, a shallow thrust that you felt in the back of your throat. "Don’t stop. Don’t - Christ - don’t pull away unless I tell you to."
You didn’t. You kept the rhythm he’d set. His hand in your hair controlling the pace, your hand working the base, your tongue dragging along the underside every time you pulled back. Drool was running down your chin and you didn’t care, couldn’t care, not when every sound he made went straight through you and settled between your thighs.
His free hand found your cheek, his thumb pressing against the corner of your stretched mouth, feeling where you stretched around him. "You’re doing so well," he murmured, and the praise hit you like a physical blow. "So fucking good for me. Take a breath, deeper this time. I want to feel your throat."
You breathed in through your nose, steeled yourself, and let him push forward. He filled you completely - the head of his cock pressing into your throat, the stretch almost unbearable - and you swallowed around him, and the vibration of it made his whole body shudder.
"Fuck." His hand tightened in your hair to the point of pain. You yelped. "Fuck, you feel… I’m not going to last if you keep -"
You pulled back just enough to breathe, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock, and looked up at him with your eyes watering and your lips swollen and your chin wet, and you didn’t stop. You took him back in, deeper than before, your hand working in counterpoint to the rhythm of his thrusts, and you could feel him getting harder, thicker, the vein beneath your tongue pulsing with every beat of his heart.
His breathing changed. Got faster, sharper, the rhythm of his hips losing its careful control. His hand left your cheek and found the back of your head with both hands now, fingers threaded deep into your hair, and he held you there. He wasn’t forcing, but guiding, the pressure of his grip telling you exactly what he needed.
"Don’t stop," he ground out. "I’m going to come in your mouth and I want you to take all of it. Every drop. Can you do that for me?"
You made a sound around him to let him know that you were willing and able, and doubled your efforts, your hand twisting harder, your tongue working faster, and you felt the exact moment he broke.
His hips snapped forward once, twice, and then he was coming, his cock pulsing against your tongue, hot and thick and endless. You swallowed, and swallowed again, your throat working around him, and the sounds he made above you were sounds you’d never heard a man make - raw and broken and completely undone.
You didn’t pull away. You stayed exactly where he’d put you, your mouth still full of him, your hands braced on his thighs and you took everything he gave you until he was shaking, until his grip in your hair loosened, until he finally pulled back with a ragged exhale that sounded like it had been torn from his chest.
You sat back on your heels, breathing hard, your lips swollen and glistening, and looked up at him. You wondered how the rest of the morning would go. He was an old man; could he continue? Was he spent? Did he need a little coaxing to continue?
Jack was staring down at you like he’d never seen anything in his life. His chest was heaving, his hands still hovering near your head as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching you, and his expression…
God, his expression was something you’d carry with you for the rest of your life. Awe. Devastation. Gratitude so profound it looked like pain.
Then his hands were on you - not hovering anymore, but gripping, solid and sure - and he was pulling you up off your knees with a strength that stole the breath from your lungs. Your legs were unsteady, your knees aching from the carpet, and you stumbled forward into his chest, your palms flat against the warm, damp skin over his sternum.
He didn’t give you time to find your balance. His arm hooked around your waist and he turned, and then you were falling. Not far. Onto the mattress, the dark sheets cool against your back, your hair fanning out across his pillow. The impact was soft, the bed catching you, and you looked up to find him standing over you, his hands already moving.
"Off," he said. The word was rough, stripped down to nothing. His fingers found the hem of the silk top and gathered the fabric in his fists, and then he was pulling it up over your ribs, over your breasts, over your head, and the cool air hit your bare skin and you shivered. He tossed the shirt somewhere behind him without looking, and his gaze dropped to your chest and his throat moved.
"Jesus Christ."
His hands were everywhere. On your waist, your ribs, your breasts. His thumbs dragged over the nipples until they hardened into aching points. You arched into the touch, a sound escaping you that you didn’t recognize, and his mouth found your neck. Open, hot, his teeth scraping the tendon there.
"These too," he muttered against your skin, and his fingers hooked into the waistband of your jeans. You lifted your hips without thinking, and he dragged them down. Slow, too slow, the denim catching on your thighs, on your hips, on the curve of your ass, and his hands followed the path of the fabric, mapping every inch of skin as it was exposed. His palms were calloused and warm and impossibly greedy, squeezing your thighs, your hips, the soft flesh below your navel.
The jeans joined the shirt somewhere on the floor. You were left in the black lace panties and nothing else, your skin pebbled with goosebumps despite the heat radiating off both of you. He knelt on the bed beside you, his weight making the mattress dip, and his hand slid from your stomach to the edge of the lace, his fingertips tracing the line where fabric met skin.
"Look at you," he said. His voice was wrecked. Absolutely destroyed. "Look at what you did to me."
You turned your head on the pillow and found his face inches from yours. His eyes were dark, the green nearly swallowed, and his breathing was still ragged, still uneven, and you could see the pulse hammering in his throat. His hand hadn’t moved from the edge of your underwear, his thumb pressing into the crease of your hip, his fingers splayed across your lower belly.
"I didn’t do anything," you whispered. “Old man.”
His laugh was a broken thing, warm against your cheek. "You drove across the city. You put on my cologne. You stayed in my bed. You got on your knees and…" He stopped. Swallowed. His thumb pressed harder into your hip. "You think I’m spent? You think an old man can’t keep going?"
Heat flooded your face. You hadn’t said it out loud… had you? Had you thought it loudly enough that he’d heard it somehow? Or did he just like the idea of being strong enough to keep going?
He didn’t wait for an answer. His hand slid beneath the lace and his fingers found you warm and already wet, and the sound that left him was something between a groan and a prayer.
"Fuck," he breathed against your neck. "You’re soaked."
You were. Embarrassingly, achingly soaked, and his fingers slid through it without resistance, two of them pressing against your entrance while his thumb found your clit and dragged across it in a slow, deliberate circle that made your spine arch off the mattress.
"I’m going to show you exactly how spent I am," he said, and then he was moving. Sliding down your body, his mouth trailing a hot, open path from your collarbone to the swell of your breast, his teeth catching your nipple. He took it into his mouth without preamble, suckling hard, his tongue flattening against the peak. And you cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your fingers gripping the damp strands.
He released your breast with a wet sound and kept going. Down. Over your ribs, your stomach, the sensitive skin below your navel. His hands hooked into the waistband of your underwear and pulled them down. Not slowly this time, but in one quick motion that left you bare and exposed on his sheets, and you felt the cool air hit your most intimate skin and then the heat of his breath replacing it, and your thighs fell open without conscious thought.
Jack looked up at you from between your legs. His eyes were dark, his mouth wet, his stubble catching the streetlight. One of his hands pressed your thigh further open while the other settled on your stomach.
"Stay," he said. The same word from before. The same command. "Don’t move."
You nodded. Couldn’t speak.
The first touch of his tongue was flat and broad and devastating. A long, slow stroke from your entrance to your clit that made your hips jerk off the mattress despite his hand pressing you down. He made a sound against you. Approval, maybe, or satisfaction. And did it again, slower this time, his tongue dragging through the wetness with deliberate, agonizing patience.
"Jack -" Your voice cracked on his name.
He didn’t respond with words. He responded by wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard, relentless, his tongue flicking against the swollen bud in quick, rhythmic strokes that had you gripping the sheets in both fists. The sound he made, low and vibrating against you, sent shockwaves through your entire body, and your back arched off the mattress so hard you felt the strain in your abs.
His hand on your stomach slid lower. One finger, just one, pressed against your entrance and pushed inside, and you were so wet, so ready, that he slid in to the knuckle without resistance. The stretch was minimal, but the sensation of being filled while his mouth worked your clit made your vision blur at the edges.
He added a second finger. Curled them. Found the spot inside you that made your entire body clench, and pressed against it with merciless precision while his tongue never stopped its rhythm.
You were making sounds you didn’t recognize and your hands had migrated back to his hair, gripping and pulling and pressing him closer because you couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop yourself from chasing the building pressure behind your navel. His fingers moved inside you. Scissoring, curling, thrusting in a steady rhythm that matched the strokes of his tongue, and the wet sounds of it filled the quiet bedroom, obscene and perfect.
"Don’t stop," you gasped. "Please, don’t stop -"
He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down, his fingers driving deeper, his mouth sucking harder, his free hand pressing your thigh so wide open you felt the stretch in your inner muscles. The pressure was building in thick, rolling waves, each one cresting higher than the last, and you could feel yourself tightening around his fingers, feel the heat pooling and coiling and threatening to break.
And then his tongue changed. Slower. Broader. Dragging through your folds with deliberate, aching pressure before circling your clit in tight, precise rotations, and his fingers pressed that spot inside you and held, just held, and the wave broke.
You came apart. Not gracefully. Violently, your body seizing, your thighs clamping around his head, a sound tearing from your throat that was half sob and half his name. He didn’t pull away. He kept his mouth on you through every pulse, his tongue gentling but not stopping, his fingers still pressed inside you, and the aftershocks rolled through you in long, shuddering waves that seemed to go on forever.
You finally went limp against the mattress. Boneless, trembling, your chest heaving and he lifted his head. His chin was glistening. His lips were swollen. His eyes were dark and satisfied and still burning with something that hadn’t been extinguished.
He turned his face and pressed a kiss to your palm. Then he was moving up your body, his weight settling between your thighs, and you felt him against you. Hard. Already hard again, thick and insistent, pressing against your soaked entrance with a heat that made your freshly sensitized nerves sing.
You looked down between your bodies. His cock was fully erect, maybe harder than before, if that was possible, the head flushed dark and wet, and you could feel the pulse of him against you. The recovery had taken mere minutes. The time he’d spent between your legs with his mouth and his fingers had been more than enough.
"You… " You started, and your voice came out ruined.
"I told you," he said against your mouth. His hips shifted, the head of his cock sliding through your folds, gathering the wetness there. "I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. You think one orgasm is going to take care of that?"
His hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His eyes searched yours - checking, you realized. Making sure you were still with him, still present, still okay.
"Tell me you want this," he said. Quiet. Rough. The most clinical thing he’d said all night, and somehow the most intimate. "Tell me, or I stop right now."
You reached between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him. Thick. Hot. The vein beneath your palm pulsed against your fingers. You guided him to your entrance and pressed - just the head, just enough to feel the stretch beginning - and looked up at him with everything you had.
"I want this," you said. "I want you. All of you."
His eyes closed. His forehead dropped to yours. And then he pushed forward. It was slow, deliberate, filling you inch by inch, and the sound that left both of you was something that existed outside language entirely.
He was inside you completely now. Every thick, pulsing inch of him and you could feel him trembling with the effort of holding still. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts across your lips, and his hands were braced on either side of your head, his arms locked, holding his weight off your body with a carefulness that bordered on clinical.
He started moving. Slow. Deep. Each thrust deliberate and measured, his hips rolling forward with a gentleness that made your chest ache. His mouth found yours, soft, reverent, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before slipping inside, and the kiss was nothing like the desperation of the roof or the wreckage of the shower. This was tender. Almost careful. The kind of lovemaking you’d read about in novels and never quite believed existed.
And something about it felt wrong.
Not the tenderness, God, the tenderness was devastating, his lips moving against yours with a sweetness that made your throat tighten. It was the restraint. You could feel it in every muscle of his body, the way he held himself above you, the way his thrusts stayed shallow and controlled, the way his hands hovered over your skin without gripping, without taking. He was holding back. Deliberately, systematically holding back, and the realization hit you like a bucket of cold water.
He was being careful with you. Gentle. The way you’d be careful with something fragile. Something breakable.
You weren’t breakable.
You locked your legs around his waist like a vise, your calves crossing at the small of his back, and pulled him deeper. Your hips lifted off the mattress, meeting his next thrust with enough force to drive him an inch further, and you felt the head of his cock press against something inside you that made white light flash behind your eyelids.
His breath stuttered. His hips faltered, just for a second, and then he adjusted. Pulled back. Kept the rhythm slow, kept the depth controlled, kept everything measured and careful and wrong.
He was someone else right now. Not the man who’d told you to get on your knees. Not the man who’d come in your mouth with sounds that belonged in a church. This was Dr. Abbot. The one who stitched arms and ended relationships and worried about pigeon shit on concrete. The one who held himself at a distance because the alternative was too much.
Apparently, to Dr. Abbot, oral was one thing, but fucking you was something different. Something to be gentle about.
But you didn’t want Dr. Abbot. You wanted Jack.
You waited for the next thrust. Felt the careful roll of his hips, the controlled withdrawal, and then you moved. Fast. Your hands found his shoulders, your legs tightened around his waist, and you used the momentum of his own careful rhythm to flip him. One sharp twist of your body, your weight shifting, and suddenly you were on top. Straddling his hips, his cock still buried inside you, his hands flying to your waist in reflex.
His eyes flew open. Wide. Shocked. His mouth fell open, you could see the confusion, the surprise, the way his clinical brain was trying to catch up with what had just happened, and you didn’t give him time to process.
Your hand found his throat.
Not roughly. Not violently. Just your palm, pressed flat against the column of his neck, your fingers curling around the sides. You could feel his pulse hammering against your palm. Fast, erratic, nothing like the steady rhythm he maintained at the hospital. His skin was hot under your hand, the stubble rough against your fingers, and you could feel the tendons in his neck go taut.
"Where’d you go," you asked. "You’re here. With me."
The words came out steady. Calmer than you felt. Your thumb pressed into the vein of his throat, just enough pressure to make his breathing change. A sharp intake, a stutter in the rhythm, and you squeezed. Gently. Just enough to feel the give of his trachea beneath your palm, just enough to watch his pupils blow wider.
"I just -" Jack gasped. "I haven’t… not since…"
He glanced at his hand. His wedding ring was gone, you’re sure he must have taken it off during his shower, leaving behind a tan line on his finger. You instantly knew what he meant: he’s fooled around a bit since his wife died but this is his first time having sex.
His hands were still on your hips. You could feel his fingers pressing into the flesh there, not gripping yet, just resting. His chest was heaving beneath you, his cock twitching inside you, and his eyes - those damned green-flecked, devastating eyes - were locked on yours with an expression you couldn’t fully read.
Shock. Definitely shock. But underneath it, something darker. Something that hadn’t been there before.
You squeezed again. Tighter this time. His breath caught and his hands tightened on your hips. Not bruising yet. But close.
"You’re being careful with me," you said, and your voice dropped lower, rougher. "I don’t need you to be careful, Jack."
Something broke in his expression. A crack in the careful architecture, the same one you’d seen on the roof and in the doorway and every time he’d let himself be something other than controlled. His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. And then…
God, then…
A sound came out of him that you’d never heard before.
A growl. Low and rough and absolutely feral, rumbling up from somewhere deep in his chest and vibrating through you.
His hands on your hips became something else entirely. Bruising. Grip tightening until you could feel the individual points of his fingers digging into the soft flesh, the pressure sharp enough to leave marks she’d find tomorrow. And then he was moving you.
Not letting you set the pace, not letting you control the rhythm. His hips driving up off the mattress while his hands forced you down, a brutal counterpoint that punched the air from your lungs.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
His thrusts were relentless, deep, punishing, nothing like the careful missionary he’d been performing thirty seconds ago. Each one drove him to the hilt, his pelvis grinding against your clit, and the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filled the room. His hands held you in place, fingers digging into the meat of your hips, and you could feel the strength in them, the kind of strength that came from years of holding himself together, now being used to pull you apart.
And your hand never left his throat.
You kept the pressure steady. Not cutting off his air completely, just enough to make every breath a conscious effort, just enough to make his pulse hammer against your palm like a trapped bird. You could feel the vibration of his growls through your fingers, feel the way his throat worked beneath your grip as he swallowed, as he gasped, as he took what you were giving him and came back for more.
His eyes were wild. Unfocused. The green almost completely swallowed by black, and you watched the shock cycle through his expression in real time. The disbelief, the confusion, the dawning realization that he liked this. That the pressure of your hand on his throat was doing something to him that nothing else ever had.
He’d never been choked before. You could see it in his face, the way the sensation was new and overwhelming and completely destroying whatever was left of his composure. His hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering for just a moment, and his hands squeezed your hips hard enough to make you gasp.
"Don’t stop," he ground out. The words were rough, barely recognizable, scraped raw by the pressure of your palm. "Don’t you fucking stop."
You didn’t. You squeezed tighter, felt his pulse jump, felt his cock throb inside you, and rolled your hips against his in a slow, grinding circle that made his back arch off the mattress.
His hand shot up from your hip and wrapped around the back of your neck. Not pushing, not guiding, just holding you there, and then he was kissing you. Hard. His mouth crashed against yours with a desperation that obliterated everything else.
The rhythm, the pressure, the careful architecture of who was in control. His tongue swept into your mouth and you tasted yourself on him, salt and musk, and your hand slipped from his throat as the angle changed.
He used it. The shift in your center of gravity, the way your grip loosened.
He rolled, one smooth motion that leveraged his weight and the give of the mattress, and suddenly you were on your back again, the air leaving your lungs in a surprised rush. His cock slid free of you, the sudden emptiness making you gasp and whine, and then he was moving, repositioning, his hands finding your knees.
You barely had time to register what was happening before he was pushing your legs up. He folded you in half, your knees pressed against your chest, your hips tilted skyward. The position left you completely exposed, spread open, every inch of you on display under the streetlight bleeding through the curtains. You could feel the cool air against your most intimate skin, could feel the slick trail of his release still glistening between your thighs, and the vulnerability of it - the raw, unguarded openness - made your face burn and your pulse hammer.
He knelt between your thighs, but he didn’t push inside immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, bracing one hand on the mattress beside your head, and used the other to grip himself. You felt the blunt head drag along your folds - slow, deliberate, the ridge of him catching on your entrance before sliding away. He traced the seam of you, the wet heat of your pussy, and then lower. Down, past your entrance, along the sensitive skin between, until the head of him pressed against something tighter, something untouched.
Your asshole.
The pressure was light, barely there, but the sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight up your spine. Your breath hitched, and you watched his face above you, watched the way his eyes tracked the path of his cock against your body, watched the hunger sharpen into something almost feral.
He dragged himself back up. Over your entrance again, the head catching on your swollen lips, and then he was pushing forward, driving into you in one deep, punishing thrust that bottomed out and made your vision white out at the edges.
He pulled back. All the way. You felt every inch of him withdraw, felt the cool air rush into the space he’d occupied, felt the emptiness so acute it bordered on pain. Then he slammed forward again. Hard. The impact drove your hips up off the mattress, your knees pressing harder against your chest, and the sound of skin meeting skin cracked through the quiet bedroom.
Again. Out all the way, the head of him barely inside, and then in.
Deep.
Devastating.
His hips snapped forward with a force that rattled the headboard against the wall, and each thrust punched a sound from your throat. High, broken, involuntary. He wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t careful. Wasn’t Dr. Abbot holding himself at a distance.
This was Jack. Raw and unfiltered and absolutely wrecked, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave bruises, his rhythm brutal and relentless, his eyes locked on the place where his cock disappeared inside you over and over and over.
You couldn’t think.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t do anything but take it, take him, your hands gripping the sheets, your back arching, your body clenching around him with each thrust. The pleasure was building in thick, rolling waves, each one cresting higher, each one pulling you closer to the edge you’d already been pushed to once tonight.
His pace never faltered. If anything, it accelerated. His hips pistoning, the bed frame creaking beneath you, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting obscenely loud in the dark room. You could feel him everywhere. In your chest, in your stomach, in the places his cock reached that made your toes curl and your vision blur.
You were close. So close you could taste it - metallic and electric on the back of your tongue. Your muscles were tightening, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps, and you could feel the same tension building in him. The way his thrusts were losing their precision, the way his hand on your hip was shaking, the way his jaw was clenched so tight the tendons stood out like cables.
He felt it too. You could see it in his face: the dawning realization, the shift from pure want to something more urgent. His rhythm stuttered, just once, and his hand left your hip. He reached down between you, his thumb finding your clit in the mess of your bodies, pressing hard, circling fast, and the combination of his cock driving into you and his thumb on your clit and the pressure of your own knees against your chest was too much.
You broke first.
The orgasm hit you like a freight train: violent, all-consuming, your body seizing around him so hard you heard yourself scream. Your vision whited out completely, every nerve ending firing at once, and you felt him pulse inside you before he caught himself.
He was pulling out.
You could feel it.
The shift in his weight, the way his hips were already withdrawing, his hand leaving your clit to brace himself, his face contorted with the effort of control. He was going to pull out. He was going to come on your stomach, on the sheets, anywhere but inside you, because he was a doctor and he knew better and the condom that should have been there wasn’t.
"No." The word came out before you could stop it. A whimper, broken and desperate, your hand flying to his hip, your fingers digging into the muscle there. "Don’t - please -"
He stopped. His cock was halfway out, the head still inside you, and you could feel him trembling, every muscle in his body locked in the agonizing tension of holding back.
"I’m on the pill," you gasped, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths. "I’m on it - I’ve been on it for years. That’s the whole point, I like - please, Jack, please don’t pull out…"
Something shattered in his expression.
The last restraint, the final wall, crumbling into dust. His hips drove forward. One final, devastating thrust and he buried himself to the hilt as the orgasm ripped through him. You felt every pulse, every hot, thick wave of him emptying inside you, his cock throbbing against your walls, his body shuddering above you with a violence that seemed to come from the very core of him.
His forehead dropped to your chest. His breathing was wrecked. Deep, heaving gasps that shook his entire frame, and his hands found yours on the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours, gripping so tight your knuckles ached. You could feel his pulse through his palms, still hammering, still racing, and your own heartbeat answered in kind, the two rhythms syncing in the quiet aftermath.
For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sounds were your breathing and the distant hum of the city beyond the windows.
His weight settled on you gradually. Not collapsing, but easing, his body going soft and heavy against yours in increments. You could feel the sweat cooling between your bodies, feel the mess of his release still warm inside you, feel the ache blooming in muscles you hadn’t known you had.
His lips moved against your sternum. A word, maybe. Your name. You couldn’t tell, the vibration was too faint, his mouth too close to your skin.
You lifted a trembling hand and buried it in his hair. The strands were still damp from the shower, matted down now with sweat, and you carded your fingers through them with a gentleness that felt like the only thing your body had left to offer.
He turned his head. Pressed his mouth to the space between your breasts. Then he was moving, pulling out of you with a wince that you felt more than heard. The sensation of emptiness was immediate and acute, and you felt him spill out of you. It was warm, thick; running down between your thighs and pooling on the sheets beneath you.
Neither of you acknowledged it. Not yet.
He shifted his weight, rolling to the side, and you felt the cool air hit your skin where his body had been. Your knees were still pressed to your chest, your legs still folded, and you let them fall open slowly. The stretch in your inner thighs makes you wince. Every muscle in your body felt like it had been put through a wringer.
Spent.
Jack’s arm found your waist. He pulled you against him, your back to his chest, his hand splayed across your stomach and the position tucked you into the curve of his body like you’d been designed to fit there. His chin settled on the crown of your head, and you could feel his breathing gradually slowing, the frantic hammer of his heart against your spine softening into something steadier.
The sheets were ruined. You were both ruined. The room smelled like sex and cedar and the faintest trace of hospital antiseptic still clinging to his skin.
You pressed your palm flat against his hand on your stomach. His fingers twitched, then interlaced with yours.
"You’re going to have to move eventually," you murmured. Your voice was wrecked - hoarse, barely above a whisper. "You’re crushing me."
His laugh vibrated through your back. "Give me five minutes."
"Five minutes."
"Maybe ten."
You closed your eyes. The city pulsed beyond the windows. Thousands of lights, thousands of lives, none of them knowing that you were lying in Jack Abbot’s bed with his come between your thighs and his heartbeat slowing against your spine.
His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. Over and over.
Author's Note: fluff, also is this good? cuz i don't know im trying here :)
Warning: age gap, face claim (don't have to use to enjoy)
pt.1 pt.2
The drive was silent for all of 5 minutes before Dr. Abbot spoke up
"Ive met you twice now and i still dont know your name"
you looked over at him, his eyes on the road
"Camille" you say squarely
"perfect name" he says quietly you almost didn't catch it
"my name is-"
"i know your name" you interrupt
"Oh do you know?" he says in a playful tone, you let out a laugh "yeah, of course i do your Dr. Jack Abbot" you say with a smile turning to look at him seeing a small grin, turning to look back out the window
"i feel bad now" he announces, you turn to him
"noo, don't feel bad its okay " turning your head once again to look out the window putting your elbow on the car door and touching ur fingers feeling the smile on your mouth.
"you wanna get some breakfast before i take you home?" he says excitedly taking this as the perfect opportunity to ask
and you don't waiver in saying yes seeing as it was the perfect opportunity to ask.
you watch jack eat, he eats like he's still in the military
it was kinda cute
he picks up the napkin next to him and wipes his mouth
"so" you look from his plate up to his eyes
"how do you know who i am?"
you bite your lip thinking
"the- uh day shift tech has a bit of a crush on you" you chuckle out
"really!?" he says with surprisement you nod along to his questions, "what about you then"
the question took you by surprise, that was a forward question
you stunned for a second, "i dont even know what to say to that", he smirks
and there's a beat where we just look at each other, not uncomfortable but natural, the moment is broken by the waitress coming to refill his coffee she askes if i want any but i refuse.
"you don't want coffee why" he questions taking a sip
"i don't drink coffee i'm more of a tea person" he widens his eyes just slightly in surprise then nods and hums into his coffee
"how old are you?"
"wow take a girl to dinner first" you say playful rolling your eyes.
he sets down his coffee mouth full picking up his hands and waving them around, swallowing the coffee he lets out a choked laugh "is this not dinner?"
you let out a laugh a genuine one "your right im sorry " putting your hands up in defence, he goes quiet just watching, basking in this moment.
you would've stayed at the diner longer but deciding against it as you were actively falling asleep
your back in the car now, the car is warm and cosy and your falling asleep again
"hey i need you to speak to me so i don't fall asleep at the wheel"
you sit upright with a groan
"mmhm okay um-"
"no hospital talk" he adds
"okay umm-"
"or military" you look over at him with a look and turn to look back out the windsheild
"how long have you been a doctor for?"
"that seems like hospital talk that would lead into military talk"
"i though you meant like cases!" you say with a smile a bit loud defending yourself.
"ive been a doctor for about 20 years now"
"wow that a pretty penny of time" leaning your head against the back you take a breath
"why did you want to take me home?" you say calmer quieter not looking at him this time
"Wanted to make sure you were okay" he says with no emotion
"bullshit" you add quickly not beat left in reply already knowing he was going to say something like that.
"well i cant answer that because were at your place and you need to get some sleep" i look outside seeing my house outside the window.
giving him a glance and a small smile.
"Thanks Dr.Abbot" you say calm and well mannered you open the door and step out you bag hanging off your shoulders, closing the door you turn back lowering yourself so your in his gaze, you give him a toothy grin "thanks for 'checking up on me'" you animate air quotes with you fingers and he gives a small chuckle.
you push yourself from the car and walk to your door, you don't turn back but you dont hear him drive off, your key is in the lock, why hasn't he driven off yet? you open the door, turning around you give a final wave before entering the darkness of your home.
ᝰ⋆.˚ the first time he sees you is when you’re working at the coffee shop across from his business center, the one he’s stepping into for the first time ever because everywhere else is closed and he desperately needs coffee at 11 pm.
he walks in and sees you — a cute, young girl in a brown apron, your hair thrown up in a messy bun like you did it in a rush.
“hi! sorry, we’re about to close,” you say, looking at him with those shiny eyes and a tired smile. “i really need it, maybe if i say the magic word?” he jokes, watching with quiet satisfaction as you pull a fake suffering face and go turn the machine back on. “you’re lucky the magic word worked, sir.”
that night he leaves you a $100 tip.
ᝰ⋆.˚ from that day on he comes to the coffee shop almost every day, leaving tips so big they sometimes cover several of your shifts. he knows you’re working yourself to the bone just to pay for your life, so when you ask him not to spend so much, he just increases the amount, calling it “a little help.”
you smile at him, draw little cats and smiley faces on the cups, and every morning he finds himself wondering what it’s gonna be today.
but one tuesday everything changes: he sees you with tear-streaked cheeks, your eyes red and puffy. you brush it off, but he notices the angry manager who comes out after you. when the guy finally leaves, he quietly writes his number down and hands it to you.
“if you need help — and you do — call me. i’m always reachable.”
ᝰ⋆.˚ he invites you to one of those quiet, expensive restaurants with a panoramic view of the city when you finally call him after an exhausting shift and a fight with your boss. he watches you for a while as you look through the menu and tells you to order anything you want, no hesitation.
when it’s time for dessert and you’ve gotten used to him enough, he gently takes your hand into his warm palms and says he’d like to help you in any way he can, so you don’t have to wear yourself out with night shifts and constant exhaustion. when you ask if he does this kind of thing regularly, he just lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head, saying he heard about it from a friend recently and immediately thought of you.
ᝰ⋆.˚ for your first trip together, he takes you to new york because he has an important deal there, and he’s dead set on you accompanying him that evening. at receptions and formal meetings, he doesn’t leave you alone for a second, always keeping a hand on your waist and proudly introducing you to everyone as his girl. he catches every glance you give him, and when you get tired of all the small talk, he checks on you and quietly leans in to whisper praise in your ear, unnoticed by the others.
ᝰ⋆.˚ when he finds out you’re preparing for a tough finals, he turns your studying into the most comfortable process possible: he sends his personal chef over to your place, drives you around all the time, and gives you advice whenever you talk to him about your lectures.
ᝰ⋆.˚ baelor sets one clear rule from the very first day: he’s never going to pressure you or push you into anything sexual.
and even if you’re grateful for it at first, now you’re practically losing your mind over how badly you want him.
i mean, he’s attractive, tall, rich, and built — who can blame you?
but he just smiles and shakes his head anyway, no matter how much you tease him.
ᝰ⋆.˚ sugardaddy! baelor who finally snaps when you come up to him in his home office and literally start rubbing against his thigh in those expensive pants, whimpering. "does my pretty girl need something?" he teases, moving your hips and literally making you ride his thigh until you come, leaving a wet spot.
"got so wet just from my leg, hm? what's gonna happen when my cock is inside you?" he spreads your knees wide, your skirt pushed up to your waist and your panties lying somewhere on the office floor as you come again, first on his huge fingers that barely fit inside you, and then on his heavy cock while he pounds into you balls deep. "is this what my baby wanted? for me to rip her sweet pussy apart?"
ᝰ⋆.˚ he absolutely loves spoiling you. for him, nothing matters more than your eyes lighting up when you get something you’ve wanted for a long time. it’s not always dresses or shoes, sometimes it’s the simplest things: a brand new coffee machine, a massage device because you once mentioned your back hurts from sitting all the time. he doesn’t know the word no when it comes to your comfort. if you look at something for more than five seconds, the next day it’s already yours.
ᝰ⋆.˚ sugardaddy! baelor who has you settled on his lap in the back room of a private jet, your legs spread wide over his, your back against his chest, while one hand holds you possessively as he’s in you up to his knuckles. his fingers are long and thick, pounding into you with smooth strokes, hitting that exact sensitive spot you could never reach on your own. "nngh! please, i need... please..." he just laughs and kisses your neck with open-mouthed kisses. "mmmh, good girls speak up about what they want."
your hips tremble and lift every time, but he pins you down with one hand. "come on, my baby, tell me what you want and i'll give it to you." "i wan— mmnh! please, i want to come, please please plea— ...haaaah!" "such a good girl for me, my sweetest baby, come on my fingers so i smell like you for a whole fucking week."
and when you come with a loud cry, he grabs your chin and turns your head toward him to pull you into a deep kiss.
ᝰ⋆.˚ baelor, who has to fly to singapore for work but can't go a day without seeing you. what starts as a normal chat turns into something entirely different when he switches to facetime. "put the phone lower... yeah, right there. now open those pretty legs and show me how much you missed me. use your fingers, baby."
he makes you say out loud how bad you want him inside you, how you miss his fingers and his mouth, making you blush and lose your breath in front of the camera.
he starts moving his hand faster, his cock is hard as fuck, breathing heavy while he watches you. he let out a low groan when you came, moaning his name. "fuccckk, you're not leaving the room once i get home."
ᝰ⋆.˚ he’s an eater. he claims it’s primarily for his pleasure, not yours. he loves leaving you naked on his silk sheets, slowly covering your thighs and stomach with a trail of kisses. he can spend hours worshiping you with his tongue, driving you to one orgasm after another until you start crying from the sensory overload, and then he just presses you against his hot chest, cradling you and whispering how lucky he is and how you make him the happiest man alive.
ᝰ⋆.˚ baelor, who seats you onto his cock, making you sit like that until he's finished with his reports. he loves the feeling — how your inner muscles stretch around him, trying to get used to his size, and how you squeeze him every time he moves even an inch. "can you sit still like this for me, princess?"
you start whimpering quietly from the fullness and the heat inside, trying to move just a little, but he only smirks and holds you tighter. "behave. you know good girls get whatever they ask for, right?"
you're literally dripping onto his dress pants, leaving a terribly awkward wet spot, but he doesn't give a shit. "look how you've messed me up, is being inside not enough for this little pussy? does it want more?" when you’ve turned into a complete mess, unable to do anything but moan and whimper, he tosses his pen aside and finally touches your swollen clit, slowly rolling it between his fingers. "okay, let's take care of my sweet baby."
ᝰ⋆.˚ maybe others think it's nasty, thinking you’re just fucking some old dude for money, but he treats you like a princess, spoils you to death, and fucks you until you're complete mess. and he's hot, so honestly, you couldn't care less.
summary: when your father loses the war for the iron throne, you're shipped to the red keep and married to the future king to keep the peace. while you waste away in a gilded cage, baelor tries to convince you that you're more than just a hostage. (4k)
contents: arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, power imbalance, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, a lot of yearning, canon divergent (almost blackfyre rebellion-esque except it takes place much later and w different house) cw for mentions of war, death, grief, blood and gore, brief mentions of suicidal ideation smut 18+ (MDNI), slightly dubcon because of power dynamics
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
The feasting hall is filled with the lack of you.
Your ghost sits in the empty chair next to Baelor’s; an absence he should be used to by now, but one that still weighs on his chest like steel all the same. He cannot remember the last time you supped with him, now that he thinks about it, or the last time you broke your fast with him at sunrise. You hardly ever leave your chambers, and when you do, you’re either alone in the study or hidden in the farthest edge of the expansive gardens out back.
You live your life in King’s Landing in solitude. Baelor can’t quite figure out if that’s what you truly want, or if the isolation is what you think you deserve.
“Do we know if the girl has taken so much as a bite since she came to us?” Baelor’s father, the king, asks from the head of the long table.
“Do we know if the girl is even aware that the war is over?” Aerion scoffs from the opposite end, with his mouth still full. He wipes the salty juice of meat from his chin and jokes aloud, “She spent so long eating nothing but grass and horseflesh, perhaps she no longer has a taste for real food— Ow!”
He winces under his father’s harsh hand, when Maekar reaches around to slap at the back of his silver head.
“That’s because she was actually fighting a war,” the older man deadpans with a heavy scowl. “Not simply playing at one in drunken jousts.”
Despite your family’s treason, the Targaryens couldn’t help but feel a strange sort of sympathy for you — Maekar and Baelor mostly, along with Daeron, who, in his drunken rambles, said he often dreamt of you bathing in dragonfire (“That’s just because you’re a pervert, brother,” Aerion had said.)
It was not you who waged the war after all, but rather your father; and you were all that was left to pay for his sins. No one else seems to see it that way, though.
“She lost her home. And her family with it…” Baelor’s soft voice cuts through the tension in the candlelight dining hall. He slices through his steak with a knife and fork, if only to perform the act, because he had long lost his appetite waiting for you. “Surely, we can’t expect her to feel at ease here so soon.”
“She’s been here for five moons turns and married to you for four,” his father argues, soft but still strikingly stern. “Your mother was pregnant in half that time.”
Maekar makes a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “Please, father, continue talking about bedding my mother at the feasting table— I wanted to lose my appetite anyway.”
Baelor is sent to fetch you a moment later, not under his father’s command, but the king’s.
“Make her understand that she is not just your wife, but the Realm’s future queen. And that certain duties are required of her,” he’d said, firm but not entirely unkind. “We have been gracious hosts, yes, but she was brought here to be made an example of. Surely she knows by now that our courtesy is not a kindness she is owed.”
He finds you in the gardens, where he’s learned that you spend most of your evenings, on the farthest end where the tiger lilies grow. It was the sigil of your house, of which you are now its only remaining member.
You’re already awaiting his arrival in the center of the wooden gazebo, having heard his footsteps on the cobbles and the greetings he shared with your handmaidens around the bend. You stand at the center of it with a large book clasped to your chest and smile when you see him, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Your Grace,” you greet with a bowed head.
“I think we’ve moved past the need for such courtesies, princess. Call me Baelor,” the older man hums with a tender smile. The steps of the wooden structure creak under his weight as he rises to meet you — a pretty girl donned in a dress of black velvet, as if you were waiting for another funeral. “Did the handmaidens summon you for supper?”
You nod once and tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he stands before you, weathered hands clasped behind his back.
“They did, Your Grace.”
He tilts his chin and gives you a stern look, made of raised brows and glimmering brown-blue eyes.
You clear your throat and correct yourself. “They did, Baelor.”
“Then why are you still hiding yourself out here, my lady?”
His mismatched eyes soften around the edges as they flit back and forth between both of yours. A kind smile hints at his mouth beneath his greying beard. The one you give him in return is much sadder in comparison.
“We both know nobody wants me there, Your Grace,” you tell him.
He flinches slightly, chin jerking, as if your words have offended somehow. “Surely you know by now that isn’t true. It was my brother who was asking after your whereabouts, actually— As was my father.”
He doesn’t tell you that that’s only partially true.
He thinks you already know, besides.
“Well, it was your nephew who stole my clothes in the shower this morning,” you confess with a cynical grin and something sad swimming in your eyes, as your fingers fidget on the leather-bound book between them. “I heard him laughing as he ran off down the hall with them. And since no one would retrieve a fresh dress for me, I had to walk back to my quarters naked.”
Baelor swallows through the anger that rises like bile in his throat. “I will see to it that he is properly reprimanded, princess, I promise you—”
“And what of the cook who spat in my oaten porridge this morning before handing it off to me, Your Grace?” you ask with a dry laugh.
“Who?” Baelor blurts, features hardened in a flicker. He smells of leather and musk and a freshly cooked meal when he takes a slow step closer to you. “Tell me who it was, and I will have them punished—”
“It won’t change anything,” you shrug. “I come from a family of traitors, Your Grace. I will be sneered at wherever I go until the day I die—”
“I will protect you from them—”
“If you punish one of them, you’ll just create a thousand more,” you say with a laugh, though there is very little humor inside it. “I know this marriage was arranged to make you seem merciful, but you really should’ve killed me with the rest of them— It would’ve been kinder, Your Grace.”
Baelor softens again at your confession and fights the urge to comfort you physically. The hands behind his back tighten into trembling fists instead.
“I don’t expect you to feel at home here so soon, my lady, but I do hope with time—” He cuts himself off when you scoff a humorless laugh. His brows lower in confusion; his lip flickers upward in a faint half-smile. “What is it?”
“Don’t pretend like I’m anything other than a prisoner here, Your Grace,” you tell him.
“Well, excuse me, Your Grace, but the three of those seem to be mutually exclusive in my experience.”
Baelor falters. His chest flares with a white-hot feeling, like a sword shoved into his chest and twisting. The war has already taught him what that sort of carnage feels like, and he feels his hurt pooling like blood in his mouth just now.
He doesn’t know why your words hurt him so, only that they do — only that they shred any remnants of hope that he could have a somewhat happy marriage here with you; that he could have learned to love you as he did his first wife.
His softness slips away just as his silly daydreams do. His kind features harden in an instant as he tells you in an unfeeling monotone, “Your food is getting cold, my lady. There’s a plate waiting for you in the feasting hall— where the king is eagerly anticipating your arrival. It is not wise to keep him waiting.”
He leaves without another word.
You stay in place and try to catch your breath when he’s gone.
Dinner goes about as well as any feast surrounded by your captors possibly could.
You stomach a small bite of steak, if only to please the king sitting to your right, but start to feel sick almost instantly.
The charred edges remind you of the bodies they burnt on the battlefield, piled on top of each other, far too many to bury. The savory juice pools warm on your tongue, and you can’t help but think of the blood, which sat heavy in the air the early morning your father lost the war he started.
You sit silent, clouded by thoughts of war, between the men who saw your family slaughtered. No one addresses you for the majority of the dinner, not until the king sucks cabbage from his teeth and wonders aloud: “Is it not past time you gave your prince another son, my lady?”
You think he says it to be polite, or to start a cordial conversation with you, though it only makes you feel sicker.
Baelor huffs a faint laugh. “Let us not spoil our meal with such talks, father—”
“I pray for it every day,” you answer in a quiet monotone, always so meek in your way, but never once taking your eyes off the older man at the head of the table. “In the Godswood outside of the Keep.”
Baelor’s head snaps in your direction. A palpable look of confusion twists his scruffy features as his mismatched eyes dart over your profile. “Truly?” he hears himself ask.
You nod once. “Just as I pray for the king’s long, healthy reign, Your Grace.”
The quiet venom in your words does not go unnoticed.
You turn away without another word, and no one bothers to speak to you for the rest of dinner.
You think you’ve gotten away scot free until you’re summoned later that night, after you’ve long traded your heavy black dress for your cream night gown. You’re tying the silk lace at the chest of your slip when your handmaiden knocks and slips inside — a young girl from Lorath, who had also lost her family in the war. She is, perhaps, the only person in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms who doesn’t look at you like you’re a total traitor.
“Princess?” she greets in a low, accented voice.
“Yes?”
You turn to glance at her over your shoulder and find the girl fidgeting awkwardly in the entryway. “It’s Prince Baelor. He has requested your presence in his chambers.”
Your heart stops and does a backflip as it plummets to your stomach, where it sits like a leaden weight and makes it very suddenly hard to breathe.
Baelor requesting your company in the feasting hall, or in the study, or in the gardens was one thing — but him requesting your presence in his quarters was entirely another.
You clear your throat and turn away, hoping that your handmaiden doesn’t notice the flicker of fear that passes over your features in the mirror. “At this hour?” you ask, voice trembling.
“He insisted, princess,” she tells you.
You do as requested and make way to his chambers. You are in no position to turn him down — you are his property, after all, in more ways than one; as his wife, in the eyes of the Seven, and as his prisoner, but the rule of Targaryen law.
Baelor had been nothing but kind to you, to be sure. By all accounts, you got lucky in receiving him as husband, instead of any other Targaryen heir or your head on a pike next to your father’s. You’re still alive, yes, but not quite living; still alive, but not quite free.
You’re escorted down the cobbled corridor to his quarters by your handmaiden and a white-cloaked knight. The oak is hard against your knuckles when you knock on his chamber door; the golden knob is heavy in your fist when you swing it open following his muffled command. You find Baelor standing at the round table by an open window, pouring two goblets of wine, still clad in his all-black day garb.
“You weren’t sleeping, were you?” he asks in lieu of greeting.
You shake your head as you walk to his side, white slip flowing behind you. “No, Your Grace.”
“Baelor,” he corrects with a kind smile and a pair of glimmering eyes. He’s already had a few cups before you got here; you can see it in his glassy gaze, smell it on his breath.
Your fingers shake when they reach for the chalice he passes you.
“No, Baelor,” you say.
You bring the golden-rimmed cup to your mouth. You still haven’t quite gotten used to the taste of Tagaryen spirits — they’re far too bitter, you’ve found, too dull. But even still, you tip your head back and down the contents in three swift swallows.
You feel the burn trail from your throat, to your chest, and down into your stomach. You revel in the way it prickles at your skin as you set the cup back to the table, wiping your slick mouth with the back of your free hand.
Baelor watches in silence as you head for the made bed across the room. You reach for the tie in your nightgown in a movement that looks utterly mechanical — like you already know what’s about to happen, like you plan to get it over with as soon as possible.
His stomach ripples with excitement while his chest flares with hurt.
“Could we not have a decent conversation first, princess?” he wonders with a quiet smile, that he hopes covers the pain in his eyes. “I don’t see any reason why this cannot be cordial.”
You glance at him over your shoulder. Zero emotion graces your features as the edges of your slip inch down your collarbones. The urge to cry was beaten out of you some moons ago; not by Baelor’s command, or even the king’s, but you were tortured for it nonetheless. This is what your lord husband doesn’t seem to understand — just because he has been nothing but kind to you, does not mean the rest of the world has been.
“There is plenty reason, Your Grace,” you tell him in an unfeeling monotone, moments before your nightgown pools around your bare feet with a quiet thud, leaving your form utterly bare and kissed by candlelight.
You try not to feel dirty when his hands are on you. You try not to think about how many people he’s killed with them — how many of your brothers and cousins died under his sword before they lost the war. You try not to think about how utterly gentle Baelor is with you despite such carnage, as he guides you slowly into the center of his bed.
His body is lean and muscular when it presses on top of yours, burying you further in the crimson silk and cashmere blankets below. You can feel every inch of him on top of you, and you hate it — you hate how much you like it.
His scruffy legs slot between yours before he pierces you with his long cock, of which you can feel every ridge and vein as he fucks slowly into you. You can feel the minimal pudge of his belly as it presses into yours, and his heart drumming wildly behind his hairy chest when he smothers your breasts against his sternum. His fingers are warm and calloused as they trace up your arms and wrists and palms, entwining with shorter ones and pressing them into the pillow on either side your head.
He’s in you, on you, and all over you.
It’s maddening.
So much so, that you struggle now to distract yourself as you normally would. Usually, you’d add up all the stars you could see through the window across the room, or the cracks in the cobbles in the ceiling. You lose count quickly now, though, through Baelor’s whispered grunts in your ear, which fan warm across your skin and leave chills pebbling in their wake.
“Gods,” you hear him grumble. “You feel so good around me—”
He buries all of his moans into your neck, as if he were ashamed of them; as if he were ashamed of how good he feels. Something about it makes your stomach swirl with a newfound warmth. You can feel it leaking out of you now, and drenching the sheets below. You can hear it, even — in the faint schlick, schlick, schlick sounds every time he punches into you.
Your hips jerk when the coarse hair above his cock presses harder against the most sensitive part of you. Your breath catches and leaves in a high-pitched yelp before you can stop it. You burn red-hot with embarrassment a second later.
“Sorry,” you squeak out, chest heaving. “I’m sorry.”
Baelor halts his thrusts and pulls his head back for the first time in several minutes. His brown-blue eyes are glassy and heavy-lidded; his scruffy face is flushed and glowing with sweat; his thin lips are rosier now from the sloppy kisses he’d pressed absentmindedly to your neck.
You didn’t know he was so beautiful before now.
“Don’t apologize,” he assures through panted breaths. He brushes a rogue hair from your temple and softens when you flinch on instinct, as though surprised by the sheer tenderness of his touch. “You can feel good, princess— It’s supposed to feel good.”
No, it’s not, you want to say. I shouldn’t like this. I shouldn’t like you.
“Do you want to keep going?” Baelor asks.
You nod wordlessly despite yourself; not because you’re his wife or his property but because, for the first time, you want to feel him.
You squeeze your eyes shut when his hips roll back again. You can still feel his stare on you when he pushes back into you, watching your features crumple under the sheer weight of your pleasure.
The pressure on your clit is unrelenting and only builds in time with the speed of his measured thrusts. A foreign feeling rises in the pit of your stomach accordingly, until you can feel yourself choking on it, like you’re moments away from bursting entirely.
“Stop—” you hear yourself say, though the word gets lost in a gasped breath. You repeat, louder this time, “Stop! Stop.”
Baelor abides without question. He stills on top of you as his pleasure-stricken features flood with panic almost instantly, worried he might’ve hurt you in some way.
“What?” he pants. “What is it?”
“It’s—” you start but cut yourself off a moment later, unsure of what to say, or why you had even stopped him in the first place. “It’s… It’s too much.”
“What is?”
You shake your head against the pillow, eyes wide and wild as they dance between his mismatched ones. “It feels… too good…”
Baelor exhales a heavy sigh of relief.
“Aye, my lady,” he nods with a quiet laugh. “It’s supposed to. I want it to feel good for you.”
You say nothing, just tighten your fingers around the ones still holding his.
“I can tell that it does. Feel good for you, I mean…” he confesses, voice low and melodic, as he tilts his hips back again. “You’re getting so much tighter around me—”
He clenches his jaw and grunts quietly when he pushes back into you. A quiet whine sounds in the back of your throat as your head jerks against the pillow, an involuntary motion spurred on by your pleasure.
“—Can barely move for how tight you’re squeezing me,” he moans through a breathy chuckle. His heavy eyes dart wildly over your blissful features, screwed together in a pained look that he knows is anything but. A lopsided smile quirks the edges of his mouth. “I think you’re already close for me, aren’t you, my lady? I think you’d cum for me the second I commanded it of you, wouldn’t you?”
You swallow hard, not trusting yourself to speak, or to otherwise form any intelligible turn of phrase. You hold tighter to his hands and clench your thighs around his hips, nodding wordlessly in response.
“Do it then,” Baelor tells you, so low it sounds almost like a growl. “Let me have it— Let me feel you.”
A squeal gets lost in your throat when his thrusts pick up speed again. The merciless pleasure begins to suffocate you, almost terrifyingly so. You couldn’t run from it now if you tried, not pressed beneath his body like this. The only thing you can do now is take it.
Baelor holds you while you cum, coos softly in your ear the entire way through the twitches of your orgasm: “That’s it,” he praises, choppy between his thrusts. “That’s it. So good for me— No, no, don’t stop— Give me all of it, sweet girl. Yes… That’s it…”
You’re left trembling beneath him as your high comes and goes. You hardly realize that you’ve slipped your hands out of his larger ones to wrap them around his pale shoulders — digging crescent shapes into the freckled skin, keeping him pressed impossibly close to your shuddering form.
You only vaguely feel his fingers on your buzzing skin as he wipes a tear from your temple that you hadn’t realized was there. You blink the burning haze from your eyes as you peer up at the man above you. Your heaving chest warms at the smile he gives you, quiet and utterly tender.
“See?” Baelor hums, petting you softly by the hair. “This doesn’t have to be all bad… We can be happy here, can’t we?”
The urge to cry wells suddenly in your throat. And it’s strange, because you don’t feel all that sad at the moment. Instead, you feel quite hopeful — for the first time since the war started, you finally feel like your life is one worth living.
“I don’t know…” you answer on an exhaled breath, leaning into his calloused hand when he presses it gently to your burning cheek. Your wet eyes dart back and forth between his brown-blue ones as you confess, “But I think I want to be…”
