bestfriend!kei accidentally rats himself out for having a huge crush on you.
wc: 1.4k
usually, the air in tsukishima’s room smells like expensive laundry detergent and the faint, lingering scent of old books, but today it was saturated with something far more lethal: the scent of your shampoo. it was a tactical assault on his senses. he sat at his desk, pretending to care about a history textbook, but his brain was busy cataloging the exact frequency of the fabric of your hoodie rubbing against his bean bag chair.
he was currently enduring a very specific kind of torture, one where he had to pretend that your presence didn’t make his pulse do a frantic tap-dance against his ribs. it was exhausting. he deserved a medal, or perhaps a small kingdom, for the restraint he was showing by not simply collapsing at your feet and asking you to step on him.
“i’m heading out to the convenience store,” you announced, stretching your arms over your head. the movement caused your shirt to ride up a fraction of an inch, and tsukishima felt his soul temporarily leave his body through his tear ducts. “do you want anything?”
he didn’t even look up. if he looked up, he was compromised. the golden light of the afternoon was hitting your hair in a way that made him want to write a five-page thesis on the physics of light reflection.
“yeah,” he muttered, his voice a dry rasp that betrayed absolutely nothing—he hoped. “your affection. but whatever.”
the silence that followed was heavy enough to crush a small sedan. tsukishima froze. the words had slipped out like a rogue spy escaping a high-security prison. his heart was trying to punch its way through his sternum to find a more dignified owner.
“what?” you asked, tilting your head.
tsukishima finally turned, his face a masterpiece of practiced indifference, though his ears were glowing a shade of red usually reserved for emergency flares and fire trucks.
“what.” he repeated, deadpan.
“did you just ask for my affection?”
“i asked for strawberry shortcake,” he lied, the falsehood so blatant it practically grew a nose. “clearly, the lack of sugar is making you hallucinate. it’s a tragic symptom of your deteriorating mental faculties. go buy your snacks and leave me to die in peace.”
“kei,” you said, stepping closer. you didn’t call him ‘kei’ often. usually, it was nicknames or just a sharp poke to the ribs. when you said his name like that—soft, like something just shared between you two—it felt like a physical weight pressing against his lungs. “i heard you.”
tsukishima felt like a cornered animal, if that animal was six-foot-three, wore glasses, and was hopelessly in love with a girl who thought he was just a grumpy beanpole. he pushed his glasses up his nose, the plastic clicking against his skin. he wanted to vanish. he wanted to be a puddle. he wanted to be the very floorboards you were standing on so he could support the weight of your entire life.
“your hearing is as questionable as your taste in movies,” he snapped, though the bite was gone. his hands were shoved so deep into his pockets he might have been touching his kneecaps.
you didn’t back down. instead, you leaned into his space, your eyes shimmering with a mix of amusement and something that made his knees feel like they were made of overcooked noodles. “you’re blushing.”
“it’s the lighting.”
“it’s four in the afternoon and we’re in the shade.”
“the sun is reflecting off the neighbor’s roof,” he countered, his brain scrambling for any logical explanation that didn’t involve him admitting he would literally let you ruin his life if you asked nicely.
you reached out, your fingers grazing his forearm. the contact was electric. to tsukishima, it felt like being struck by lightning, except the lightning was warm and smelled like fruit. he felt a desperate, localized heat blooming wherever you touched him. he was a goner. he was a pathetic, shivering mess of a man disguised as a cynical middle blocker.
“if you wanted affection,” you whispered, moving even closer until he could see the tiny flecks of sparkles in your eyes, “you could have just asked. you don’t have to be a weirdo about it.”
“i’m not a weirdo,” he breathed, his height suddenly feeling like a disadvantage because he had to look down so far to see the person who held his entire cardiac rhythm in the palm of her hand. “i’m a person with standards. standards that you’re currently vibrating against.”
“shut up,” you laughed, and the sound was so bright it felt like a direct insult to every miserable thought he’d ever had.
before he could formulate a witty retort about your lack of decorum, you surged forward. you buried your face in the crook of his neck, your arms wrapping around his waist.
tsukishima stopped breathing. his nervous system went into a full-scale lockdown. he felt the soft pressure of your chest against his, the puff of your breath against his skin, and the world simply ceased to exist. there was no volleyball, no exams, no annoying teammates—only the weight of you.
his hands hovered in the air for a second, trembling like a victorian orphan in a blizzard, before he finally broke. he collapsed into the embrace, his long arms winding around you with a ferocity that bordered on primal. he tucked his chin over your head, squeezing you so tight he was worried he might actually merge with your atoms.
“you’re so warm,” he murmured into your hair, his voice losing every ounce of its defensive edge. it was a vulnerable sound, a complete surrender. “it’s annoying. everything about you is an inconvenience to my peace of mind.”
“is that so?” you teased, muzzling into his sweater. “should i let go?”
“if you let go, i’m filing a police report for emotional battery,” he threatened, though he was currently stroking the back of your head with a tenderness that could have melted a glacier.
he was so far gone. he was wandering in the desert of your attention and he never wanted to find an exit. the way you fit perfectly under his chin felt like a cosmic joke, a puzzle piece designed by a deity who specifically wanted to see tsukishima kei lose his entire mind.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence usually reserved for ancient artifacts. his expression was no longer bored or smug; it was tender. he looked at you like you were the only source of oxygen in a vacuum.
“i don’t want anything from the store,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a low, honeyed register. “i was being literal. i want you to stay here and keep making me feel like my heart is going to explode. it’s a very interesting sensation for me. i’d like to study it for the next fifty to sixty years.”
you beamed at him, a smile so radiant it probably could have powered a small city for a month. “fifty years? that’s a long time, tsukki.”
“i’m a very thorough student,” he whispered, leaning down.
when his lips finally met yours, it was a bit clumsy at first—the height difference was a logistical nightmare—but then his hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you upward, and everything clicked. it tasted like strawberry lip balm and the kind of quiet, domestic forever that tsukishima had spent his whole life pretending he didn’t want.
he kissed you like he was trying to memorize the texture of your soul. he kissed you with the bottled-up desperation of a thousand nights spent staring at his ceiling, wondering if you could hear his heart screaming through the walls.
when you finally broke for air, he kept his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes closed. his glasses were slightly crooked, and his hair was a disaster from your fingers running through it. he looked human. he looked happy.
“forget the store,” you breathed, clutching the front of his shirt. “i think i have everything i need right here.”
tsukishima let out a huff of a laugh, a genuine, throat-deep sound that vibrated through both of your chests. he pulled you back into the circle of his arms, burying his face in your shoulder once more, determined to never let another inch of space come between you again.
the history textbook remained forgotten on the desk, its pages fluttering in the breeze, utterly useless compared to the lesson he was currently learning about the gravity of a girl who finally loved him back.
n: this was supposed to be a crackfic but i somehow turned it into a sweet fic.
Synopsis: [Obi Akitaru x Scientist Reader] A chance encounter with the charismatic captain of the Eighth Company leaves you more than a little enamoured. Obi Akitaru is nothing less than thorough in his own pursuit of you.
Contents: Romance, smut, humour, fluff, angst.
CW: Explicit sexual content (some rather ... inventive sex positions, inspired by the amazing @radish-breath - see end of fic for some the rejected position names, LOL)
WC: 12347
"Hey Licht, I've got the analysis of those samples you sent through. Call me when you get a chance. We need to talk."
Receiver pinched precariously between shoulder and ear, you adjusted the large box of files on the mahogany table.
It was the sturdiest table you'd been able to find. It needed to be, considering the sheer number of analytics reports that had piled up across its barely visible surface over the past few months.
Sighing, you ended the call which had re-routed for the second time.
Not that you were surprised.
Licht often outsourced analytics to your department here in the biodata sector of the Second Company. The Fifth often operated as an independent research unit, and seldom, if ever, took on such requests from other companies.
While your lab was fitted out for biological analysis, the state of the art chromatographic apparatus, x-ray diffraction, and the scanning and transmission electron microscopes, were often commissioned for other companies, depending on the urgency of the requirement.
The characteristics of Licht's samples definitely fell under the category of 'top priority'. It would have helped if he actually attempted to answer his connecting line once in a while.
Sighing, you collapsed into your swivel chair, head tilted back to give your stiff neck some relief.
The phone dial tone sounded loud in the organised chaos of your office, and you fumbled past the notepad and assorted pens to reach it.
"Licht? Answer the damn phone when I - "
"Oh, hey, can't talk right now. In the middle of something."
"You asked for these results."
"And they're important!"
"So - "
"Our Captain's coming over for a division meeting. He said he'll pick up the documents."
Your fingers tapped out an impatient rhythm on the tabletop.
"Does your Captain have a scientific background?"
"Not in the slightest!" came the cheery reply.
Sighing, you switched the phone over to the other ear.
"Look, those samples from the battle site showed evidence that Doctor Giovanni has been in the Nether. Even if you don't have time now, I expect a proper meeting in the future."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line before Licht sniffed.
"Okay. We'll have our meeting soon. But I gotta get back to work."
Hanging up, you stared at your phone, frowning. It was almost as if your analytics had provided a result that Licht had already been aware of.
There was a sharp, cursory knock at the office door. Himiko peered in, spotting you behind the stack of papers.
"Captain of the Eighth company's here to see you. Said you had a report for him?"
The conference room was on the ground floor, away from the clinical sterility of the labs. You seldom ventured out here during the day, and the bustle of medical personnel through the corridors took you some time to navigate.
When you eventually reached the large double doors, they were open, a sign that whatever meeting that had transpired between the captains was now over.
A man was standing at the head of the long oval table, eyes trained on the various group photographs and portraits adorning the walls.
You recognised him as Captain Akitaru Obi, from the profile shots and grainy, black and white images on newsprint.
Then he turned, and there was little to no preparation for the way your bowels seemed to grow wings and swoop up into the region of your throat when he tugged at his tie and offered you a friendly lop-sided grin.
"Ahh, these meetings are kinda stuffy, huh? Are you the one Licht told me about?"
He was coming forward, hand outstretched, and you had no choice but to take it, thoroughly overwhelmed by the sight of him.
You'd heard by word of mouth, of course, about how the Captain was the epitome of charisma and strength, in spite of not possessing any ignition ability. Nothing had quite prepared you for this, however.
Now that he was standing directly before you, you could appreciate the sheer width of his shoulders, the way the fabric of his formal coat bunched over the shift of his biceps, his considerable height, all amalgamating to a form that should have been intimidating, but was not quite.
Warm, whiskey-tinted eyes were fixed on yours, putting paid to the idea that this man thrived off authority. He greeted you as a respected equal, even as his large, slightly roughened palm dwarfed your own.
His smile grew a trifle wider and you could have sworn that all the test tubes in your lab upstairs had begun to clink and chime off each other in some form of angel's chorus.
"So what are these reports Licht was going on about?"
You cleared your throat, not trusting that your voice would emerge as readily as you'd like.
"Uh ... ah. Yes. Licht sent me some samples for analysis, from the battle site where one of your men encountered Doctor Giovanni."
Obi's expression grew serious in an instant.
"Oh, yeah, he spent a lot of time at the scene afterwards. I don't know exactly what he was after, but I'm guessing you do?"
You summoned up courage you had no idea you possessed.
"Right. I think it'd be better if we went up to my office? Maybe we could discuss it more ... privately there?"
The conference room certainly wasn't ideal for this kind of talk, and you shoved down the traitorous thought that having him in your office would allow you to spend more time gazing without interruption upon this Adonis of a man.
Obi agreed immediately, and you found yourself leading him to the elevators, and to the office beside the lab that formed your hallowed domain.
You cringed internally at the sight of your desk. If you'd known who your guest would be, you'd have taken more time to clear up here.
Obi, however, looked about in what appeared to be excitement and appreciation.
"Oho, look at all this stuff! Is that a real B54 grenade? I thought they got rid of old stock."
You regarded him for a moment in surprise before nodding vigorously.
“It is! What you’re holding is actually the prototype. Our previous head of research improved on the design afterwards.”
Fortunately, the report for Licht’s analysis had been placed at the top of one of the piles of papers and folders, so you didn’t have to sift for an embarrassingly long time through them in order to find it.
“Please, take a seat.”
You perched yourself on the edge of the chair beside him, opening up the folder.
“Would you like the condensed version?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and you tried to tamp down your hyper-awareness of his breath along your cheek, the brush of his sleeve against yours.
“These samples show a very high concentration of iron, manganese and chromium, in a very specific ratio. The kind you’d expect to find in soil and residue from old subways.”
Obi frowned, taking the analysis sheet from your grasp.
“Subways? Like old train stations?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, there’s only one known sample that matches this ratio exactly.”
“Which is?”
“A sample we’ve obtained from the Nether.”
He sat back, letting out a low whistle. You watched him, allowing him to gather his thoughts. As disarmingly pleasant as he appeared, it was now that you could see the machinations of a true leader take over, the myriad possibilities that were being mapped out in his mind.
Handing over the entire folder, you tugged slightly at the hem of your skirt.
“When I spoke to Licht, he didn’t seem surprised. I suppose he suspected what kind of result this analysis would provide.”
Nodding, Obi pursed his lips before his eyes shifted over to you again.
“Anything else of importance?”
You hesitated, and he waited patiently.
Reaching over to the file in his lap, all while feeling like you were taking a massive liberty, you pulled out one particular set of stapled pages, an analysis you hadn’t been asked to run.
“I … took the liberty of running this heat distortion test. Licht didn’t ask for it, and it was probably unnecessary, but … I wanted to be sure. Some of the metallic fragments showed signs of recent heat deformation in their particle structure.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“Meaning?”
“Someone’s been down there very recently. Someone who packs some serious firepower. Your team should take care when they … if they head down there.”
He regarded you steadily, and your spine straightened as his gaze wandered over your features, as if searching for something. Whatever it was he was looking for, it seemed something in your countenance had allayed his worries, because he grinned abruptly.
He really shouldn’t make faces like that all of a sudden. It was bad for the heart.
“Well, thanks a lot for the hard work from your side! We’ll put this to good use, for sure. And I’ll make sure Licht gets hold of these.”
He tapped the file against his knee, and you rose hurriedly, not wanting to keep him for too long.
“A pleasure, Captain.”
Obi waved off the formality, standing and glancing appreciatively around your office once more.
“No problem. I’d have looked through your collection of relics, if I had more time on my hands.”
“You’re welcome to. Any time. If you want to. I know how busy it gets.”
The words were out before you could reel them in, punching them down behind the remnants of your self-respect.
Who even says that?
Obi didn’t seem put out, though. He brightened at the prospect, a soft laugh escaping him, in spite of the gravity of your prior conversation.
“Well, over at the Eighth we’re all about forming bonds with those who’ll support our efforts. You didn’t have to use division resources to run the heat distortion test, but you did. That tells me all I need to know.”
He tucked the folder under one arm and shot you a conspiratorial wink that turned everything below your waist molten.
“Look forward to working with you!”
Did he mean that?
Was he simply saying it as a formality, or out of politeness?
You sighed as the door closed, sinking into your chair like a deflating balloon.
It didn’t matter, even if he did.
He was Captain Obi, figurehead of the Eighth company, a standout leader within the Fire Force. There was no earthly possibility of him even remembering your face once he’d stepped out of your office.
The next encounter you had with Captain Obi was a chance one.
An annual clearance fair was being held, where a number of public and privately donated items were auctioned or sold off to the public to raise funds for the Fire Force.
Not every Company participated, as some needed to be on standby for emergencies, and others simply didn’t have the resources to spare on such an activity. Like every year, however, the Second was a standard instalment, under the insistence of Captain Huang.
Under regular circumstances, you’d be placed on duty with the second-hand books, but this year, you’d requested a change to music. Your collection of relics had yielded a jackpot, as someone had donated boxes of old CD’s, digital song archives and even LP’s and a record player.
Your excitement at such a haul meant that you’d spent hours of your free time cataloguing and sorting the items. You were sure that there were plenty of collectors like yourself who’d love to get their hands on such memorabilia.
The day of the fair proceeded much as you’d come to expect. It was a great turnout, and you’d spent a merry few hours sharing anecdotes with, and selling CDs to the people who came by your corner of the stall.
Just as you were about to start packing up, a few members of other squads, who’d spent the day on duty, started to pitch up, examining the displays. Among them, you noticed some of the rookies of the Eighth.
Your encounter with Obi had rendered you ultra-aware of the members of his squad, and their activities. Not that you were following their exploits on purpose, or anything.
“Hey, Captain Obi! There’s records on sale over here!”
No, no, no, wait, hold on. You weren’t ready for this.
Straightening and dusting off your jeans, you spied Kusakabe Shinra, the talented new member of the squad, happily surveying the table you’d set earlier. He offered a friendly grin and wave, the sharp teeth a trifle disconcerting.
“Hey, hope you don’t mind. It’s just that our Captain loves these, and he – “
You waved off his concern.
“No, it’s no problem at all!”
“Oi, Shinra, what’ve you got there?”
Good heavens.
You’d recognise that towering form anywhere.
Obi was not wearing a suit today, and looked far more comfortable out of such apparel. The plain black t-shirt, which would not normally invite undue attention, fitted his form like carved cloth on a marble statue, barely concealing the ripple of his abdomen as he moved.
No, you couldn’t be caught staring like this.
Moving your gaze forcefully up to his face, you noted, faintly, that you were in the firm category of ‘lost cause’.
Out of the dim lighting of the station halls, his skin boasted a healthy tan, the wind slightly lifting the dark hair above the soft, bristly undercut he sported at the nape and sides. He dipped his head slightly in order to meet your gaze, an all-encompassing warmth trickling into your limbs like honey as the corner of his mouth curved in recognition.
“Oh, it’s you! Is this all part of your cool collection? Whoa, hey, Shinra, check this out. She’s got the Deep Purple triple LP and the original photographs of their live performances.”
Before you knew it, Obi was elbow-deep in your table of offerings, spouting trivia that would only be known to a true fanatic, while Shinra muttered apologies and attempted to neaten up the piles of items in his Captain’s wake.
You laughed and assured him that it was no issue.
“It’s fine, don’t worry, I’ll sort this out.”
Obi waved a Led Zeppelin album under your nose.
“Huh? No way! Of course we’ll help you with all this.”
One of his large hands dropped onto Shinra’s head, ruffling the youngster’s hair.
“Shinra, we’re gonna make sure that this lady doesn’t lift a finger to pack these boxes ‘cos she’s been on her feet all day, right?”
“Yes sir!”
You could have sworn that before today, you’d never wanted someone to be the father of your hypothetical children.
Coming to a decision, you produced your secret weapon.
No, you hadn’t been saving this one for a rainy day, when Obi might have decided to visit your office again. It was just … buried rather deep.
“This one’s a real treasure, Captain. I don’t think there are many remaining copies of – “
Just like that, Obi was looking over your shoulder, no barrier of musical paraphernalia between you any longer. Distantly, you heard Shinra complaining because he’d moved the table out of the way in his excitement.
“Is … is that Ride the Lightning?”
“It is,” you all but croaked.
He reached around you, and you were subjected to the highly intimate sensation of his bicep curling across your arm, the clean scent of his aftershave.
“You’re right,” he whispered, and you chanced a glance up at him, at the softly reverential look in his eye. “I’ve been searching for this one for … “
“Hey, Captain, don’t get carried away! You gotta pay for all this stuff and you splashed out last week arranging that barbeque, remember?”
Shinra’s oddly responsible reminder broke Obi out of his trance. He looked down at you, breath fanning across your cheeks, and something about the nature of your current pose, so close to each other with his fingers half engulfing yours as you both held onto the precious album, seemed to knock him back to the realm of propriety.
He cleared his throat and retreated a step, leaving you immediately longing for the pleasant heat he brought.
“Ah, you’re … very, very right, Shinra.”
His attempt to match the caution of his young subordinate was terribly endearing.
Obi made his way back to the other side of the table, reminding you strongly of a giant, friendly guard dog that had just been told he would have no access to the frisbee in the neighbouring yard.
Catching his slightly forlorn look at the CD in your hand, you offered him a warm smile.
“Tell you what, why don’t we make it a bundle? You can have this CD for half the price, and these LPs for free, if you help me with packing up. They won’t last long in our damp storerooms, anyway.”
You knew, in that moment, that you’d never grow tired of watching this man’s face light up as it did then.
“You heard her, Shinra!”
“Sir!”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a pleasant haze (at least, for you) as the Captain, with the help of Shinra, sealed away the remaining stock in cardboard boxes and carried them over to the large trolley that would be wheeled back to the storeroom.
As you worked, you found that it was surprisingly easy to chat to him. He had that conversational manner of leaping from one related topic to another, chaining together a series of exchanges that fell into effortless camaraderie.
It was clear now why he was such a popular figure amongst his squad members.
You took the opportunity to quiz him on his music preferences, which of those he hadn’t obtained for his own collection and assured him that if you ever found those artists, you’d be sure to hold onto them for him.
You also tried your best not to show too much interest in the way the sinew stretched and muscle played beneath the tawny skin of his arms when he lifted each heavy box with little apparent effort.
By the time you’d returned to your office, there was an irrepressible smile etched on your face, one that you were quite sure made you look as if you’d been concussed with a CD the size of Amaterasu.
Over the next few weeks, it seemed that the universe was intent on placing Captain Obi in your path in ways most unexpected.
More of Licht’s analyses were being routed to your office, for you to undertake personally. It also seemed that, contrary to your earlier belief, Obi remembered you just fine.
Considering the nature of the Eighth’s work in the field, they were more often than not being patched up at the Second, and with the recent increase in the squad’s number, this was becoming a regular occurrence.
On one of these occasions, Shinra and Arthur had been in the med bay when Obi had arrived unannounced at your lab.
You’d been in the middle of conducting the new batch of genetic tests, this time on the species of insect used by the white clad to carry out the Evangelist’s orders. Over the auto-mechanical hum of the autoclave and centrifuge, you hadn’t heard him enter through the double doors behind you.
He coughed to get your attention, and you spun on your heel, micropipette in one hand, eyes widening.
“Captain Obi!”
Placing aside your equipment, you hurried over to him.
“I didn’t know you would be coming today – “
He shook his head, taking in the laboratory around you.
“Nah, just decided to drop by. Some of the recruits are getting patched up.”
The ease with which he said it caused something heavy and hot to lodge in the region of your chest.
He’d just … dropped by?
Realising that you were standing expectantly before him, he slapped a hand to his forehead.
“Wait, am I supposed to be wearing a lab coat in here?”
None of the experiments you ran here were especially dangerous, and he was wearing his protective gear, but who were you to turn down such an opportunity?
“Well, sure, it adds to the experience of being in a lab, right?”
Grinning, you selected one of the spare coats that you always kept on hand in a cupboard nearby, choosing the largest size available for him. Obi stepped forward as you gestured to him, helping him into the garment.
He grunted slightly as it stretched over his shoulders, his fingers catching and tugging at the sleeves. You moved to the front to ‘assist’ him with buttoning up, but as you pulled the edges together, it was clear that they would never close over his formidable chest.
With some effort, you managed to squeeze one button in through its respective hole.
There was a moment of tense silence before the threads gave way and the tiny, plastic round zinged off into the echoing depths of the lab.
Taking in the now empty space where the button had been, you saw one of Obi’s pectorals pulse with deliberate intent as he stared down at them with regret.
“Ah, sorry about that. Can’t get ‘em to stay still.”
Your mouth twitched.
Obi’s lips drew into a quivering line.
The snort of laughter that escaped you was shortly echoed by one of his own, both of you shaking with repressed merriment.
Wiping away moisture from the corner of your eye, you placed your hands on your hips.
“I think you’ve just outstripped every one of our velocity tests.”
“Just give me a protein bar beforehand, and I’m your man.”
“Your services are that easily bought?”
“For you, maybe.”
Was he … flirting?
Maybe in jest, or as a quick rejoinder, but you were pretty certain you hadn’t misread the intent.
Trying not to stammer out something monumentally stupid, you straightened, glancing away from him. You were well aware of his eyes traveling over your profile, but you were not so sure that you could stand up to direct scrutiny right now.
“Would you … like me to show you around? While you wait, I mean.”
“Sure! Licht keeps his workspace shut down tight, so haven’t spent much time in there.”
You talked him through the basics of some of the instruments and specialised rooms in the lab facility, and he followed along, a rather adorable frown of diligent concentration taking precedence between his brows.
When you reached your current set of experiments though, there was no mistaking the shift in both your moods.
He stooped, eyeing the insect remains in one of the small, sterile sample jars.
“So this is it?”
“Not quite. This is a related species we found in the southern peninsula. They’re highly resistant to fire, so … I suppose I was hoping to find some clue in their genetic make-up as to how they’re being used.”
Nodding, he stepped back.
“Is this related to the experiments Licht is running?”
“There’s no overlap, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m conducting peripheral research while he focuses on the meat of the matter, so to speak. We’ve got the equipment here to enable fast output for larger amounts of data.”
“You’re okay with that? Not knowing what he uses your results for?”
Turning to him, you shook your head ruefully.
“I understand how it probably looks to you, but … I’ve never cut any corners with the analyses I run. If these are the tests requested, then I have to do my part and trust that the other companies will make good use of them.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“Except for when you run tests you weren’t asked to?”
Captain Obi’s visit to your lab seemed to set the tone for your encounters with him afterwards.
Your respective duties were always top priority, but on the occasions when the Eighth company’s path crossed yours, he’d always made a habit of hailing you and filling you in on the exploits that had filtered through to the rest of the Force.
You’re not quite sure when you started to simply call him ‘Obi’ during your interactions. It was as natural as the way your body seemed to gravitate to his, the way his mannerisms ingrained themselves in your memory, the drift of one loose thread through the air until it tangled hopelessly and inextricably with another.
At some point, you’d registered that this had passed well beyond the well-trod boundary of a harmless crush, at least, on your part. You knew full well that the territory you’d set one tentative foot into was perilous and rife with potential hurt.
It was unlike you to court danger and the crushing weight of another’s feelings (or absence thereof), but there was something about Obi that made you want to take those risks.
It was perhaps, something about the manner by which he never turned away from his own duty, the barefaced rush of sheer determination and gall he displayed in the face of entities possessing far greater power than himself, that never allowed you to shy away from what you felt.
It was almost as if you were determined to prove that you were worthy of even possessing such desires for him. That was personal, something you could process without much in the way of return from him.
Surely this was for the best?
Without the shackles of expectation, there was nothing that could prevent you from talking to him freely, laughing with him, sharing stories and bonding over the latest albums or gadgets you’d managed to unearth.
There was nothing at all to act as a safety net for a free fall you had no desire to be rescued from.
There were times, you’d come to discern, when your spirit of abandon, your reckless freedom of affection, had visible results.
You were, after all, a scientist. Observation was your forte. In this case, however, the results were shelved without any thought for implication.
There were times when you’d catch him staring for longer than propriety would normally allow, or times when he’d slip in some small gesture that seemed oddly familiar and intimate.
For instance, when physical contact between you shifted from a platonic slap or fist to the shoulder, to touch that lingered on your elbow or branded the small of your back with brief, unconscious heat.
There were silences between words that hung heavier in the air between you, especially when you knew where duty might take him next.
The brush of his skin on yours took on new significance when he watched for your reactions, when his teasing took on an edge of gentle magnetism, as if he were helpless to the way he drew you in further with the slow, steady pull of his own orbit.
It was ironic that in a world filled with negative connotations surrounding uncontrolled fire in all its forms, that one of the bastions of your defence had ignited such a flame in you.
Even if you told yourself that you were prepared for it, you weren’t.
You knew full well the risks he took each time he entered the fray. It was surprising, all things considered, just how fragile human existence truly was, even Obi’s larger-than-life presence that had become a near-constant in your life over the past few months.
When you received the news that this time, he’d been badly injured during a mission, you’d all but flung aside your tasks to make your way, helter-skelter, to the med bay.
Obi was lying motionless in the bed assigned to him, some members of his squad in neighbouring beds, some sitting nearby, covered in dirt and stains, but not much worse for wear.
You watched from the neutrality of the doorway for a moment, taking him in, the slow, laboured breathing, the smudges of crimson at the edges of his bandages, the soft fan of his dark hair across the pillow.
You’d known all along that he wasn’t, by any means, indestructible, but here you were, only able to watch him, with your fingernails digging hard into your palms.
It wasn’t your place. You shouldn’t even be here.
Turning on your heel, you started the slow journey back to your office when someone called your name.
A young officer, features deceptively delicate, violet eyed, was standing in the doorway.
Maki.
Her name comes to mind with ease, for all that she’s in another company. His company.
“Did you … want to visit the Captain?”
“Oh, it’s not … I won’t bother you all now. I’m sure he needs his rest.”
She took another step towards you.
“But it’s no trouble at all. He won’t be awake for a while, probably.”
“I really don’t – “
Maki moved aside from the open doorway, gesturing for you to enter with an insistence that was hard to refuse.
“There’re plenty of chairs here. And I’m going out to grab something to eat. Please.”
She leaned into the room and had a hushed conversation, after which two other squad members shuffled out after her, their voices echoing down the corridor.
You gave yourself a brief grace period within which to recoup your dignity, before straightening and marching towards the room with determined steps.
When you took your seat near his bed, you were suddenly aware of the exhaustion that crept, light-footed, into your limbs.
At some point, you must have drifted into a light doze, because when you awoke, pinching the bridge of your nose and inhaling deeply, you noted that Obi’s eyes were open and that he’d been watching you.
The bruising on his face and neck was heavy, one of his eyes almost swelled completely shut, but you didn't miss the fleeting expression of heavy tenderness, hidden too late for someone with as open a countenance as he possessed.
Choosing to put this aside for now, you leaned toward him.
“Obi?”
His voice was hoarse, but no less vital, even its weakened state.
“Shedding tears for a big, strong fireman?”
You sighed dramatically.
“Is this the fate of every woman in a lab coat?”
“At least bring a lace handkerchief.”
“I don’t own anything in lace.”
“I can fix that.”
“Easy, Captain, you can barely stand as is.”
He uttered a short laugh, followed by a heavy wince and you groaned.
“Okay, enough of that. You should be resting.”
“Hey, how are – “
“They’re all fine.” You cracked a small smile. “You’ve really raised a resilient squad.”
“They’ve practically raised themselves.”
You fell into a comfortable silence, the air between you no less electric with unspoken intent.
“A giant infernal?” you eventually query.
“Multiple cores. Took the entire squad to take it out, but they pulled it off.”
He caught the tap of your fingers against your knee and turned further on the pillow to face you.
“Licht’s probably going back to the scene.”
“All right, then this time, I’ll go with him.”
“Keep alert. Whoever created that infernal is still out there.”
“They probably won’t hit the same place twice,” you reassured him.
It’s almost a reflex, the way he reaches for you, less to keep you beside him as much as it is a means to anchor himself.
There is a lurch somewhere inside you, a feeling of being off-balance, for him to show such vulnerability so openly. You know his nature well enough, and yet, it never fails to bring your heart to a momentary halt.
Akitaru.
You want to say his name, the way not many do, but you can’t, not yet. You still haven’t earned the right.
Instead, you take his hand, registering the heaviness of it. You trace over the hardened knuckles with your thumb, allowing the calluses on his palm to catch on your own skin.
This is a hand that knows the weight of taking a life, and in doing so, releases suffering beyond measure.
Without much thought, you tuck your hair behind one ear and stoop, pressing your lips to the top of his fingers. You let the contact linger for as long as the message needs to be conveyed, noting the slight catch in his breathing, and then you’re standing, making your way to the door.
You’re not sure if he calls out to you, but you know that you can’t look back.
Two days later, you were sorting through the mass of analytics to be forwarded to Licht in your office.
You’d been somewhat on edge during the field survey, but following Licht’s lead, you’d rapidly become absorbed in obtaining samples from the battlefield. There was, indeed, a plethora of new data to process.
Stacking another set of gas chromatography results in their respective folder, you stood to stretch your back when you heard a commotion out in the hallway.
The door to your office swung open and hit the wall with a smack.
Obi’s imposing form filled the entryway.
Behind him, Shinra and Arthur, who had also been recuperating in the rooms below, jostled each other as they attempted to look past his elbow.
You raised an eyebrow.
“Should any of you be up?”
“See, I told you that we shouldn’t – “
Shinra hissed, interrupted by Arthur’s shove.
Obi folded his arms and regarded you sternly, the kind of look he’d use for reprimanding a junior officer.
“Why didn’t you come see me when you got back?”
Arthur raised a hand.
“Because she reports to Captain Huang, not – “
This time, Shinra stepped on his foot.
You shoved your hands awkwardly into your coat pockets.
“Uh … caught up in running some samples?”
“That’s not an excuse! When you return from site, you need to report back.”
“Now, hold on – “
“And you just … kissed my hand like a … a fairy prince and hoofed outta there!”
“Holy Sol, lower your voice!”
Arthur looked dumbstruck.
“She … but … chivalry is … “
Your ears were about to undergo their own form of combustion.
“All right, I admit that I could have handled that better.”
Obi’s bandaged hand was now propped on his hip.
“That’s right. At least let a guy know you think he’s hot before you pull a stunt like that.”
“Wha – That’s not – “
Shinra snapped to attention as if he was undergoing inspection.
“With all due respect ma’am, please admit that Captain Obi is the hottest man in the eight divisions!”
“Oho!” Obi slapped his shoulder, “Always a hype man, Shinra.”
What on earth –
No. No, this was a test of your will, and perhaps, your sanity.
Inhaling sharply, you matched Shinra’s posture.
“Captain Obi!”
He raised his eyes to yours, full of that proud, gentle kindling you realised he’d never tried to conceal.
“You’re the hottest man in the eight divisions!”
The grin that split his face could probably have given rise to a new sun faster than the white clad’s machinations.
“You’re pretty hot stuff yourself, Miss Analyst.”
He raised an arm, leaning his elbow on the doorframe, eyelids lowering slightly, and suddenly your breathing felt a trifle laboured.
“Take you out for dinner at six?”
“Ask me again when you can actually hold chopsticks.”
Contrary to the assumptions of many of your colleagues, you did know how to dress for a date.
When you were sure that Obi had fully recovered, and had a day off, almost two weeks had passed since the rather bizarre confrontation in your office.
True to his word, he made sure that he confirmed your meeting.
Logically speaking, you knew that you had no reason to be nervous at all, considering the man you were going to be spending the day with. Obi would be sure to put you at ease almost immediately, and it would, in all probability, be a relaxed and informal outing.
The coil in your abdomen was more the effect of anticipation and excitement. You could hardly believe that this was going to occur.
You’d arranged to meet Obi at the central square not far from the Eighth’s headquarters. By the time you reached there, it was early afternoon and the weather looked perfect for a stroll.
Obi was waiting for you near the fountain, leaning against the low boundary wall, looking relaxed and gut-wrenchingly handsome in fitted jeans and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the white vest beneath.
He brightened immediately upon seeing you, raising a hand to his chin and looking you over with blatant appreciation.
“A lovely lady approaches. Should I ask if she comes here often?”
You adopted a similar thoughtful pose.
“I don’t know. What does the firefighter’s manual say?”
“That I should sling you over my shoulder and haul you away.”
“Like a pile bunker?”
“You’re much prettier than a pile bunker.”
“You like me that much?”
He threw back his head and laughed, eyeing you with honest affection as he gallantly offered the crook of his elbow.
“Let’s get going!”
“Where to, Captain?”
“Oi. None of that Captain stuff. You know what to call me.”
His skin is shockingly warm under your touch, and you try to tamp down the sweet pang of desire that spikes so naturally as you take in the way he’s attempted to neaten his hair, the intoxicating scent of his body, the way he leans toward you so that the considerable curve of his shoulder presses reassuringly against yours.
“Akitaru, then.”
He beams and squeezes your hand gently against his side.
“Now that’s better. There’s a new place I wanted us to try out. It’s got a great view over the water.”
Indeed, it does.
It’s a small café, serving seafood and simple, hearty meals. Obi watches you fondly as you eat with enthusiasm before tucking in to his own spicy stew.
“Good?”
“Delicious!”
You level your chopsticks at him.
“Arthur told me that his favourite meals are the ones you buy him.”
He looks down into his bowl with a soft grunt of amusement, but you can tell that this information pleases him deeply.
“Yeah? Well Arthur told me he’d have nothing but court food, right before he ate enough to clean out my wallet.”
“Are you that easily taken advantage of?”
“By kids and beautiful scientists, apparently.”
“When have I ever taken advantage of you?”
“Hooked me with that CD … “
“You wanted it!”
“And then with your eyes.”
You still couldn’t fathom by what means he made the corniest pick-up lines sound sensual and dreamy.
While waiting for coffee, you watch the pale lines of sea foam ebb across the bay beyond, the silence that stretches between you acknowledged as a space within which a myriad possibilities exist.
When Akitaru’s hand closes around yours, thumb running across your wrist, it’s as if he’s returning a warmth you never knew had been missing. Resting your chin in one palm, you take him in, allowing yourself to revel in his presence.
“I didn’t think you’d want … this. You know. To go on a date,” you offer, in response to his questioning look.
“Why’s that?”
“You’re on the Force. You’re a Captain. I thought you might not have much time for things like this.”
He is silent for a moment, staring out across the placid water. The wind stirs the stray locks of dark hair that are already curling out of their neatened state. He tugs your hand a little closer to him across the varnished surface of the table.
“I mean … you’re right, in a way. I haven’t paid too much attention to relationships. And the job itself is pretty high risk.”
He turns his gaze on you, earnest and searching.
“But you know … I like seeing the people around me safe and happy. What’s the Force safeguarding if it isn’t something like this? Just being able to sit by the sea with someone you care about and have a good meal. It’s worth it, right? I like being alive, and I like that you’re here with me, and that’s enough.”
The simplicity of expression belies the depth of sacrifice and duty you know full well he possesses, down to the core.
In that moment, you want to be closer to him than ever, and from the soft darkening of his gaze, he’s reading you with an ease that you’ll always find breathtaking.
Akitaru brings your hand up slowly, brow furrowing as his eyes drift shut. He traces firm, slightly chapped lips over your fingers, your palm, the inside of your wrist.
Such delicate actions seem, somehow, incongruous coming from someone like him, and are all the more alluring for it.
The feather-light touch, the dizzying caress of his breath and the way he holds you in place to receive his attentions, all brings to mind the suggestion of how he could pin you down in other ways.
You sit with him for a while, not speaking, basking in the way his eyes drink you in.
He doesn’t let go of your hand, even when you leave the café.
The evening air is still and pleasantly warm, and Akitaru shifts his grip from yours to the small of your back. The steady heat of his large, open palm steals into you, steals away coherent thought as he guides you back to the familiarity of your apartment.
In your open doorway, a passage to something heavenly, he pauses and hovers before you, tilting his head down to yours in the way you’ve grown to love.
You know, in that instant, that he won’t come inside, that he wants all the sweet, heavy fullness of romance with you, specifically, before he can indulge any further. You suppose that the joys of living, within the precious confines of drawn-out time, can be found here too.
Your mouth opens like a flower beneath the weighted press of his. Fingers curling around the broad breath of his neck, you lean into it, show him how you’re willing to take him, tugging lightly at his control.
Before the kiss grows messy, he parts from you with a soft, wet sound, breath blowing across your cheeks in a heavy wash. You take some satisfaction at the small break in his voice, the way he licks his lips to retain the taste of you.
“Go out with me again?”
“Do you really have to ask?”
His forehead brushes yours, touch tracing like a shadow up the side of your body and you feel the curve of his smile.
“Doesn’t hurt.”
“Yes, Akitaru, I’d love to go out with you again.”
He taps you gently under the chin before stepping back and away, making his way down to the street, taking with him some loose thread that threatens to unravel and spill you all over your own threshold.
There's no other term to adequately describe it: Akitaru courts you, in what he obviously thinks is the proper way.
He makes you laugh until your sides protest, waxes lyrical about his dreams, loves to talk about his squad, and never fails to make you feel a part of his many-faceted life.
He has decided that you belong, and you've taken the only place you could occupy as far as he's concerned; a partner, a lover, a friend.
The more you learn of him, of what many would perceive as his myriad flaws, the more your desire and deep affection for him grows.
He loves to potter about in a vest and low-slung tracksuit bottoms, singing off-key, occasionally shooting you a dopey glance as he hits some particularly romantic lyrics.
He tries to fix things at his home, or at work, and invariably makes them worse (much to the dismay of his lieutenant), after which he stands back, hands propped self-righteously on hips, and blames the original construction.
His apartment, once you've seen it, is exceptionally neat, a reminder of his formal firefighter training and disciplined lifestyle. It is, however, dotted with mismatched items he'd picked up as memorabilia, a dented helm from his first official mission, the candid photographs of his squad, a battered basketball, miscellaneous workout equipment and, of course, an extensive record collection.
He's a competent cook, not as skilled as Hinawa, from what you'd heard, but able to hold his own with basic ingredients.
It's something he loves to engage in when you're over, giving you what he calls the 'full experience', with brawny arms on display as he chops and tosses, clearly showing off.
The only complaint you had was that he was almost a little too considerate when it came to the physical aspect of your relationship.
You'd certainly progressed beyond the chaste kiss in the doorway on your first date.
When you were curled up on the couch beside him, fingers interlaced as his arm hung over your shoulder and down to your side, there were many occasions when the soft kisses exchanged grew to something more heated.
You could feel it, in the way his breathing grew heavier, the way his torso lifted slightly under your touch, the way he'd groan against your lips when your fingers grazed through the delicious, shorn expanse of his undercut.
It wasn't that he hadn't been sexual with you either.
You remembered clearly the evening when the gentle drag of his teeth against your shoulder, the slide of those roughened palms underneath your shirt and along the length of your sides, had left you clutching at him with almost embarrassing intensity.
He'd brought his hand around to your front, resting on your stomach just above the waistband of your jeans, a wordless request for permission.
You'd traced over his lips, marveling at how the passage of those eyes left you so incredibly sensitized to the light contact.
Of course, you'd nodded.
He'd exhaled, hot against your throat, before his fingers had slid down, down, tracing a line of fire beneath the hem of your underwear, to where you needed him most.
The spasmodic jerk your body had given, your faint gasp, had earned you another nip, this time just below the collarbone.
Then, he'd touched you, parting your soaking folds, finding his way with unerring, steady ease to the glistening pearl at the apex.
Your thighs had tightened, quivering, against the movement of his palm as he'd stroked you, pleasured you, gripped your waist to hold you effortlessly in place as your head fell back against the sofa.
You'd realised then, as one digit breached you and you'd uttered a cry of delight, that if his fingers were any indication of the size of him, then you were certainly going to have your limits tested when the time came.
Right then, you'd been more concerned with the way he'd insisted on maintaining eye contact as he'd spread you, plundered you, running on pure instinct as he'd watched the changes in your expression, switched to different angles to see what response he'd elicit.
As in everything he did, Akitaru was thorough, eager, ceaseless.
When he'd finally tipped you over the edge, into a golden, molten-edged free fall, you'd scrabbled helplessly at his shoulders, mouth opening in a silent scream, the pounding of your pulse loud as a drumbeat.
The kiss he'd snared you in then was searing, teeth knocking against teeth, on the verge of primacy, adoring in spite of that, and yet ... he'd never truly given in.
There was still restraint, cording his neck with effort, escaping his lips in low pants, in the hunger with which he watched the harsh rise and fall of your clothed breasts.
He wanted, but wouldn't allow himself, not yet.
You saw in this a boundary of his own making, a war he wouldn't lose against the same unfettered power of nature that he faced daily in his duty.
Even as much as you'd wanted him to let go, to be with you fully in that moment, the duality of brute strength and tenderness, which defined him in every sense, was even more intoxicating to you.
It served as a constant reminder as to what he held inside himself, your Akitaru, an inferno greater than any your mind could conjure.
It was a rainy evening, and with the final rush of the day over, you made your way back to your apartment.
Akitaru's company had been called out to deal with reports of infernal activity in the Nether.
You told yourself that it was useless to wrap yourself in a mantle of anxiety and ceaseless worry, but logic seldom asserted itself in your mind where he was involved.
The tasks of the day fled from your grasp as quickly as they’d arrived, and before you knew it, the day was done.
There was still no word from the teams sent underground.
You reached your apartment, switched on the lights, dropped your satchel in a corner.
The rookies were down there too, in the dark.
Their faces flashed through the sorting deck of your memory. All so young. Practically kids. You knew exactly why Akitaru cared so deeply for them, for their training and preparation for the field.
He'd do anything for his squad.
The thought was supposed to bring you comfort.
For the rest of the evening, you attempted to regain some measure of a regular routine. It's what he would have expected of you.
You cooked, and watched the food cool on your plate, and the one you'd set out for him, before transferring both portions to containers for storage.
You cleaned the bathroom, ran a load of laundry.
Then came the pacing.
At 2 am, your phone buzzed.
Half asleep, you snatched it from where it sat on the small side table, next to the sofa where you'd temporarily dozed off.
"Akitaru?"
Your greeting was firmer than you'd expected. You took pride in that.
He sounded exhausted, voice rough-edged and hoarse with the kind of emotional vulnerability he wouldn't reveal readily.
"We're back. All safe, but ... Shinra. He's in a critical state. They're doing all they can to save him."
The expedition into the Nether yielded explosive results, including the revelation that Shinra's younger brother was a top priority rescue target from the white clad.
Shinra had survived a terrible injury, thanks to the efforts of your own division's Captain Huang.
While the samples and data for analysis had rolled into your lab by the bucket load, Akitaru had been occupied with collating all the intelligence into a comprehensive report, to be presented at a meeting of the top brass.
Through your assistance of Licht, you'd managed to summarize the mountain of analytics into a more digestible form, easily discussed and dissected.
You hadn't expected Akitaru to drop by your place on this particular evening, the day of the meeting.
When you answered the door, it took you a moment to process his presence, so unused as you were to seeing him in his Captain's uniform, a navy suit and tie replete with the badges of his station and level of command, as he’d looked when you’d first met.
He remains still for a moment, imposing and professional, before he crosses the threshold and steps into the enfolding circle of your arms.
You hold him as tightly as your strength allows, taking in the scent of him, the crisp shirt that rustles with unfamiliar texture beneath your cheek, his warm, solid form beneath.
Akitaru tips his head downwards, kisses you, and you know that this time is different.
You almost don't register the way he shoves the door shut with his foot before his arms wrap almost convulsively around you, his hat knocking against the top of your head and tumbling off to the floor.
He'd never been this hot, this urgent in his attentions before.
You can barely breathe beneath the force of his lips, and you find that you don't really want to.
When he breaks away for air, you bracket his face between your hands.
"You - "
"Need you. Please."
It's almost as if some wild, ancient spirit has sliced you both open down the middle, flooding both your veins with unadulterated, primal desire.
Your cardigan joins his hat in an untidy pile, followed by his coat. He kicks off his shoes as he backs you further into the room.
The husky plea in his voice, the near desperation in those infinitely warm, amber-shot eyes, the way his fingers dig into your hips, are like a dozen golden arrows that pierce, dripping with molten intent, right through the core of you.
You must have given him some signal, because in an instant, he stoops, grasping you firmly just above the knees, lifting you with an ease that twists your gut in knots of anticipation.
You're now met with the enticing sight of his broad back, rippling under the confines of his shirt, as he carries you in a classic fireman's lift. He ignores your impotent slaps against his shoulder as you protest, breathless with laughter.
Akitaru hones in on the bedroom like an amorous missile, unstoppable in his intent.
In an instant, the world seems to tilt as he tosses you down on the sheets. You prop yourself on your elbows, biting your lip as he surges forward to hover above you.
"What's this Captain? Not even going to give me a show?"
Your coy smile turns to an open-mouthed gasp as he presses you into the mattress under his body, overwhelmingly powerful, gentle at the same time. Something hard, hot and rigid slots right against you, the tip sinking into the gusset of your underwear.
"Aki - "
It's almost embarrassing, how needy he turns you in the space of a few seconds, just by kneading his erection directly over where you're most sensitive.
His mouth is right next to your ear, soft, eager pants and groans easing their way out. You take some pleasure in the idea that he's just as lost in these sensations as you are.
"Oh, God I'm - wanna take you so bad."
Pressing a palm to his cheek, you redirect that lust-hazed glance back to you, drawing on his focus.
"Do it, then. However you want. Akitaru, please - "
Your begging takes on a high edged note as he grinds down into you again, letting you feel the size of him.
The frenzied desire to be bare, to render him so in turn, takes precedence in your mind.
Fingers tug impatiently at buttons and zippers. Your sleep shorts and top join his trousers on the floor beside the bed, his belt still hanging from the loops.
Akitaru's hair grows even more wildly disheveled as you push through it, encouraging him as he impatiently slides down your underwear and flings it somewhere in the region of the pillow.
Surprisingly, you're nowhere near as self-conscious about your nude state as you imagined you'd be.
In spite of your breathless urgency, Akitaru takes a moment to look you over, spread out before him like a feast to dine on.
The look he is wearing is enough to keep you wet for as long as he wants.
It almost feels wrong, for someone with such an open, lovable demeanour to look like this; one corner of his mouth crooked in an inviting smile, the carved planes and dips of his body gleaming in the dull light, the flush of arousal on his face and neck.
Somehow, the sight of him far outshines the image you'd built in your mind. Now, you can see the light scattering of hair across the broad chest, thicker between the pectorals, forming a dark line of heavenly anticipation down the middle of his abdomen.
Scars litter his powerful form, dark and slightly refractive from exposure to intense flame, lighter and raised above the skin where he'd suffered lacerations.
This is a body to be revered by a lover, to be touched, tasted, spanned a hundred times over by teeth, tongue, splayed palms and devouring eyes.
At leisure, you'd trace each and every one of those testaments to his bravery, but right now his hand is already dipping between your legs in a remembered dance.
Placing one of your fingers between your teeth, you bite down to suppress your moans as he spreads you once again.
Akitaru sits back slightly to appreciate the sight of you, neck arched, gripping the eiderdown above your head, legs apart, the gleaming coating that covers his exploring digits.
By the time he adds a third curling, stretching, dipping appendage, you're writhing, begging him, one of your arms snapping down so that you can claw at the smooth curl of his bicep as he works you.
He leans forward, pressing his face to the side of yours, groaning heavily.
"Can't wait any more, beautiful."
"Then don't. Please, inside me, now."
You lift your hips off the bed, wanton and eager, bucking under his touch. Within a matter of seconds, you register that he'd separated himself from you, fingers sliding out with careful consideration, even now.
Breath hitching at the feeling of emptiness, you struggle to even your breathing as he fishes through the pockets of his retrieved trousers for a condom.
Upon finding it, he raises his eyes to you, warm and mischievous.
"Wanna see me get out the hose?"
You clap a hand over your mouth, before shifting it aside, expression growing serious.
"Can you do it double time, Captain?"
He tears the wrapper carefully, pulling down the hem of his briefs.
"You got a fire that needs dousing, ma'am?"
Arching your back, you cup your breasts, fingers fanning over your ribs.
"It's spreading really, really fast, Captain. Need you to plug up the source right now."
His grin is boyish, delectable, even as his cock springs free, jouncing from the motion of his underwear, and he palms the condom over.
"Looks like I'm gonna be putting out fires all night."
He places his hands beneath your knees, drawing you effortlessly across the bed towards him. You squirm and utter a small, breathy laugh as the heftiness of him smacks against your lower abdomen.
He isn't overly long, thankfully, but he is thicker than anything you've seen in your fairly limited experience, broad around the middle, curving slightly towards the head. When you reach down to wrap a hand around him, the heat of his flesh and the sheer weight of him makes your legs fall further open of their own accord.
Akitaru slips a hand beneath the small of your back, raising you before he draws you forward, into his lap.
"Easier if you're on top."
The words are now grated out as you settle on him, bracing your arms on his shoulders. His control is hanging on by a thread, and the sight of him like this, subject to your will, gives you a sense of power that is arousing beyond measure.
You are conscious of how wet you are, inner thighs already slick and frictionless. He can feel it too, as you slide along him, working up the swivel of your hips.
Nose to nose, his adoring scrutiny is almost too much as he watches you, each contortion of your features as he slides between your labia, uttering a soft grunt as he registers your heat.
Then, the tip breaches you, pushing in with a hard, slightly uncomfortable stretch. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders as he works himself in, sweat beading his brow, the tendons of his neck standing out as he whispers soft curses.
You take a moment, breathing heavily, to adjust to his size. After the initial entry, his width makes you feel beautifully full, on the edge of overwhelming, that slight curve allowing him to drag against you in ways that make your calves tighten.
You start the slow undulation of your hips, to help both him and you, walls fluttering and squeezing as you swing in a small circle, taking him further in.
"Fuck, that feels - "
He closes his eyes and hisses, holding onto your waist as if he's attempting to control a runaway train.
Somehow, you know exactly what will draw these reactions from him. There's something about Akitaru, the upstanding, heroic leader, coming apart inside you, that turns you more than a little wild.
Still swaying, holding onto him with everything you have, you widen the circle, you lower back and thighs taking the strain. He slides deeper, almost fully inside, and now you lean back, hands landing firmly above his knees.
The sounds coming from where you are joined are positively sinful as you sway and buck, drawing the kinds of pleasured, pleading moans from him that could fuel your dreams for decades.
Then he grasps you a little tighter, drawing you against him, and at this angle, he hits a place inside you that draws out a loud cry, your body jerking, rhythmic movements cut short.
"You like that?"
Shuddering, your gaze falls to him again, noting the change, the assertiveness now surfacing, even as lust possesses him to this degree.
You nod and he surges into motion beneath you. You're not sure what he intends, but you utter a soft complaint as he pulls out, leaving you with an ache that needs to be remedied immediately.
Then he turns you around, pushing your thighs apart, pulling your back into the solid wall of his chest, and your eyes widen slightly as you take in the new arrangement.
You're facing your bedroom vanity table, the long mirror over the top giving a prime view of the bed and both of you on it.
"Akitaru, what are you - "
"Giving you a show, sweetheart."
Your arm curls upward, over his shoulder as he rubs against you, and your abdomen tightens at the sight, the flushed head of his cock pressing forward, disappearing, and then he's raising you, the breadth of his shoulders so much wider than yours.
Your hand flails in the space between your bodies, before you snare him, guiding him in once again.
A choked gasp escapes you as this time, you're seeing and feeling it all at once.
Eyes glistening, you watch as he splits you open, an explosive groan escaping him as he also takes the sight of you in, labia parting, the slick length of him moving back and forth as he stretches you open again.
You've never done anything like this before in the bedroom, and judging from the misted, drunken look he wears, this is a first for him too, perhaps saved away in the corner of his mind for an occasion like this.
The curve of him catches you at a different angle, all the more excruciating for how slowly he draws the motion out, bringing you back down until you're completely sat over him.
Akitaru leans back, letting the inhuman strength of his abdomen and hips do the work for both of you. The angle between your thighs widening further, the view you gain turns explicit in ways you cannot process.
There, you can see him, the slow rise of his pelvis impaling you, labia pushed apart to accommodate each thrust.
He takes his time in spite of his earlier urgency, dipping, lifting, grinding inside you in small circles, mimicking your earlier movements. The pearly evidence of your arousal is now seeping past the base of his cock and coating his sac.
Your head falls back, but you fight the urge, arousal and mortification warring across your face as you determine to keep your gaze on the magnificent sight he's gifted you with.
It's clear, from his expression, that Akitaru thinks this is possibly the best thing he's done since forming the Eighth Company.
The sensations grow more intense as he increases his pace and depth, spearing into you with devastating precision. You cling to him, keeping the rhythm as best you can, but it's clear that he is taking steady control.
Heat spreads through your lower body, coiling tightly just below the navel, and now the bed beneath you is slowly gaining a sizable patch of damp, spurred on by his reckless, relentless attentions.
Between the delirium he has induced, you note that Akitaru's arm has come up, bracing along the back of your neck. His knees push against yours until you're completely at his mercy, moaning, gasping, swearing at him, begging him to give you everything he has.
"Aki - oh God - please - I - "
"That's it, angel, take it like that - "
"Fuck, I'm - you're so deep - "
"Pussy so wet, so good, I can't - "
"I want it, all of it, fuck me - "
"Gonna give it to you just how you like, my - "
Some vital checkpoint has been reached because the world shifts once again, and you realise that you're being moved forward, off the bed.
"Wait, what - "
He lets out a huff of amusement against your ear.
"Lemme see if I can - "
Your eyes snap open as you feel one of his feet hit the floor.
He couldn't be -
The arm that had been propped across your shoulders now descends, hooking around the back of your knees as he lifts, taking your entire weight.
He is standing, holding you aloft with one arm, cock still buried inside you.
You're taking great sobbing breaths, torn between disbelief, hilarity and gut-wrenching, animalistic arousal as he resumes his punishing pace with no apparent effort.
It isn't rapid, simply a slow, deep rut, each thrust spreading you open to your limits, forcing the air from your lungs.
Your hands clutch fiercely at those rippling shoulders, raking up marks which he takes little to no notice off, your mouth falling open in ecstasy as he takes you for a ride that nothing else will ever compare to.
The wet slap of your flesh against his echoes in the bedroom, compounded by the close, intimate visual he is now providing in the mirror of the plunge of his cock, the way he moves slightly from side to side, churning, earning throaty, near-panicked cries from you.
It's ridiculous, it's driving you to the brink of insanity, it's tearing up every expectation you had of sex with him, and it's Akitaru all over, overthrowing what should be physically possible with the sheer strength he possesses.
Each mounting pulse of pleasure, the pressure against that low, white hot spot that sets you quivering every time he strokes it, the sweet words of encouragement, juxtaposed with how thoroughly he fucks you, is enough to rip you from the confines of building euphoria and hurl you straight into its waiting jaws.
There is a moment where you have no recollection of where you are or how you arrived there, the raw, blinding bliss of an orgasm that faintly registers as a Richter Scale nine across the quaking landscape of your body.
Then another hits you, less sharp, leaving you shuddering helplessly in his hold again. He leaves himself inside, pressing snug against you, locked in the vice of your spasm.
You hear his ragged moans of approval, the hoarse, heated whispers of how good you are, how tight around his cock, so beautiful when you come, easy angel, just like that.
Finally, he lowers you, moving you both towards the bed.
You slump forward, elbows hitting the covers, now aware of the fact that your thighs are completely soaked with the after-effects of your orgasm. Akitaru leans over you, grounding you with the comforting weight of his body.
As he moves to pull out, you realise that he's still hard, almost painfully so, given away additionally by the labored heave of his breath.
Boneless with pleasured exhaustion as you are, you won't let that slide. Your hand shoots out, clasping his bare hip, and he startles before letting out a low sound of amusement, hot breath intimately stirring the hair near the shell of your ear.
"Giving you a break, sweet thing."
It takes you a moment to recall how to speak, throat dry and heavy from the noises he's been dragging out of you.
"Dont need ... a break."
"But you just - oh, fuck."
The last was a drawn out, sensuous hiss and your devious smile is hidden by the blanket beneath you.
While he'd been focused on your voice, you'd managed to keep your balance, bent over the bed, feet bracing on the floor as you cross your ankles. The squeeze you'd exerted had certainly been noted.
Akitaru had best learn not to underestimate you.
Raising yourself again, you arch your back, presenting him with the tantalizing view of your raised rear.
You push back on him, the sensitivity from your orgasm receded to a dull ache during the brief respite he'd so graciously given you.
Shooting a coy glance over your shoulder, you take in his sculpted form, muscles gleaming with a sheen of sweat from his exertions. His hair is plastered to his forehead, peaked nipples rising and falling beneath the telling flush that has spread down, all across his chest.
What a magnificent sight he presents, and you wouldn't miss the grand finale for the world.
He keeps still for a moment, head thrown back, seeming overwhelmed, but then his chin drops and the look he levels at you serves as an immediate reminder of the fact that you're still very much at his mercy.
You're prepared for it, though, and you ride it out once again, lip caught between your teeth as he presses his large palms to the mattress on either side of you, taking what you've given him.
You clutch at his wrists, uttering short, sharp cries as he fills you, pace increasing, the bed rocking beneath the steady pounding he gives you.
Keeping your ankles tightly locked, you urge him on, reaching up to the side of his face, his skin hot and damp under your fingers.
You're not exactly certain about the words that spill from you, an endless stream of praise and desire, that he's so big, so good, to keep fucking you like that, to never let it stop.
His hand shifts beneath you, pressing on your abdomen, tilting you so that he can probe deeper, and your speech devolves into incoherency once more.
Two hard thrusts and Akitaru comes with a stifled roar, teeth gritted, fisting the blankets as his hips still their movement. He lets out an explosive groan before his head drops to your shoulder, chest shuddering with each shaky exhale.
It takes a while for you both to regain some form of movement, which involves him sliding sideways, collapsing on the bed beside you, while you turn to face him.
Another minute passes before the broadest, practically uncontrollable smile curves your lips, and he echoes it with a wide grin of his own.
"Uh ... sorry about - "
You bury your face in the soft covers, shoulders shaking with laughter.
"What the fuck was that?"
"It was - hey, but you enjoyed it, right?"
"You need to give it a name. Right now."
He raises himself on one elbow, cocking an eyebrow.
"You ... wanna do it again?"
"Yes."
Akitaru runs a hand through damp hair, giving it serious thought.
"How about ... "
"It had better be nothing to do with a power cobra."
"But baby - "
"No."
He blows out a petulant breath, eyeing you sideways. You stroke his cheek.
"Come on. Think."
“The Pile Bunker?”
“Isn’t that your weapon of choice?”
“Among others.”
It's not every day that you see a big, strong fireman recoil from the smack you aim at his arm.
He twirls a finger in the air.
"How about ... Captain's Hoist?"
"Hmm. Getting there."
He sits up abruptly, pads naked across the floor to the shelf where he keeps his memorabilia. You watch him curiously, not least because of the highly engaging way his backside flexes as he moves.
Producing one of his LPs with a flourish, Akitaru approaches the bed again. You recognise it as the Led Zeppelin collection you’d sold to him, on the day of the fair.
“Got an idea?”
He points out the list of songs on the jacket, tapping against one in particular.
“Think I got you here?”
You cover your mouth with false modesty.
“Oh my, what would Burns have to say about this?”
His grin takes on a decidedly devilish aspect.
“That I’m a false prophet, sent to tempt you with my juicy pecs and - “
He cuts off with a stifled laugh as you tug him down onto the bed beside you (no easy feat). Your fingers stroll across said pecs before he playfully nips them, drawing you close against his side.
“So, it’s settled then? ‘Stairway to Heaven’ has a nice ring to it, huh?”
“As long as you’re the one helping me ascend, Captain.”
Later, he lies with his head cradled against your chest, one sizable arm draped across your middle.
He is drifting off to sleep, combined exhaustion from the long hours at work, the high-stakes meetings and the mission that the Eighth Company was still recovering from (and the sex), all working hand in hand to transport him to the softer world of dreams.
You card your hand through his hair, now freshly washed, and remember a time when his presence wasn't a constant.
That time seems so distant now, when he's here, heated skin against yours, breath fanning across your throat, the solid, vital weight of him pressed against you.
Even with the state of the country as it was, torn apart by forces yet unknown, with the risks he took every day as part of his job, you know that Akitaru was meant for this, for returning to his squad, and to you, where he was safe, warm, treasured and loved.
For every other uncertainty you faced, this was one scientifically verifiable conclusion that you'd stake your reputation on.
After all, you'd barely scratched the surface of exploring every possibility laid out before you both, like a road fabricated from gold, and the 'Stairway to Heaven' wasn't even the half of it.
jack abbot x f!attorney!reader
ao3
content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, age gap, swearing, brief mention of alcohol, co-opting christianity for my benefit (sex), being mean to robby but like lovingly. like ur brother, gingko trees as a plot device, tom cruise mention
words: 16.7k sry i <3 dialogue and write it before the rest of the plot
a/n: the backpack thing actually happened to me before and also idk how to write
synopsis: It’s routine. The first Friday of every month you make your way down to the emergency department with a stack of insurance claims in hand to harass Robby with, and you leave through the door with Jack Abbot, fresh off his shift and half a step behind you, muttering something lowly in your ear that makes you laugh. You’ll both stop off at your office just long enough to haphazardly toss the paperwork on your desk. And then you’ll go to the roof. You’ll pretend not to notice the hand hovering over the small of your back, and he’ll pretend not to notice the way your shoulder brushes his. Routine.
You’ve never seen a grown-ass man leap, but when you materialize beside Michael Robinavitch, ready to take advantage of his daily five minutes of quiet and drink his rapidly cooling coffee before he got down to business, with a stack of papers in hand, you think his skeleton might break from the violent flinch that racks his frame.
“God, what are you, a kamikaze lawyer? Are you heat seeking?”
“Why, you offering?”
It’s routine.
The first Friday of every month you make your way down to the emergency department with a stack of insurance claims in hand to harass Robby with, and you leave through the stairs with Jack Abbot, fresh off his shift and half a step behind you, muttering something lowly in your ear that makes you laugh. You’ll both stop off at your office just long enough to haphazardly toss the paperwork on your desk. And then you’ll go to the roof. You’ll pretend not to notice the hand hovering over the small of your back, and he’ll pretend not to notice the way your shoulder brushes his.
Routine.
So, like clockwork, the first Friday of the month rolls around, and with it comes you, metaphorical sunglasses on, sauntering off the elevator like you love the emergency department. Like you can’t wait to run around roleplaying Bolt from the titular Bolt to beg for signatures. Like this is exactly where you were hoping to be.
You click your pen, the sharp sound a tiny gavel sealing his fate.
“Come down to reject another insurance claim?” comes from your left.
“God forbid a woman have hobbies, Dana,” you scoff.
“Jack’s busy, ain't around for you to longingly gaze at.”
“I do not gaze at Jack,” you say defensively, hands abandoning the file they were holding on the desk to fly between your eyes and hers as you try to stress your point. “I look.”
She lets out an unimpressed mhm, her unconvinced eyebrows twitching in doubt at your self-proclaimed non-gazing status.
And you know that you really need to get these papers signed, but Dana sprang this on you out of nowhere, so now you have no choice but to pivot to a time-sensitive Gazegate investigation. Your mind begins to sift through all the evidence. You don’t gaze. You are totally in control of your physiological reactions to Jack.
Your face drops marginally. It’s not your fucking fault that you want him. As if it’s your fault that all you can think about some nights is his voice gasping out your name.
Minor desperation overtakes your frame and bleeds through your hushed words as you imagine Jack Abbot clocking you gazing at him.
Just embarrassing. Your lust is sickening.
“I don't gaze," you insist before dropping your voice and glancing at the attending. "Do I gaze?”
Robby’s eyebrows involuntarily shoot up, transforming his frozen, resigned face into one of are you fucking kidding me?, the statement making him consider whether he needed another cup of coffee or, maybe, a different career altogether.
Perhaps one without insurance claims.
His lips part around a question he doesn’t quite ask—words rising, then retreating as his throat bobs with the effort of swallowing them back down. Robby glances at Dana for a lifeline, but she's bloodthirsty for drama.
Robby finally exhales a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. "Do you... do you want me to answer that?" he asks, his voice laced with cautious amusement, hesitant to step in the trap you lay at his feet.
You’re silent.
His head drops into a single solemn, affirmative nod—your judge and jury. “You gaze.”
And there’s something on the tip of your tongue, locked, and loaded, and ready to fire—something connecting the word gaze to Myrna’s little nickname for him.
It doesn’t make it out.
Instead, you pick up the cup sitting to his side—the one patiently saying drink me, Robby! before it totally becomes cold—and silently reclaim it as your own, drinking the burnt coffee in one long, resigned sip.
Robby doesn’t speak.
It’s at that moment, of course, that Abbot appears—steady footsteps cutting through the low hum of the floor.
Jesus Christ. His hair was disheveled, curls sticking up at odd angles from running his hands through them all night and his black shirt, lacking any scrubs censoring the offending article, clings to his biceps like it was divinely tasked with ruining your concentration.
Your eyes catch there, unwilling to move, like staring is involuntary. A distraction you feel in your teeth. One you’d like to feel in your teeth.
As he approaches the desk you’re situated at, his eyes flicker up from the tablet in his hands just long enough to take in the scene: Robby’s flat stare, and your glare as you stand there, empty cup in hand.
“Robby,” Abbot drawls, loaded with the kind of dry amusement that suggests he’s made peace with your brand of destruction long ago.
His gaze slides pointedly to the cup, then back to Robby’s face.
Your victim looks up at him, forlorn, and mutters, “Can you just…?” His voice is flat, resigned—tinged with a special kind of despair reserved for the aftermath of you. Morosely, he half-heartedly gesticulates in your direction, trying to tell the man to control his animal.
Robby sets the cup down on the counter and picks up your pen, scrunching the sleeves of his hoodie at his elbows, wanting to end this.
Aforementioned animal owner has the audacity to smirk—half-awake and still deciding if he should be charming or infuriating—rolling his shoulders and then sighing before moving toward the desk, his movements slow and deliberate. He watches Robby for a moment, then shifts his attention to you.
“Any chance you’ll let him live to see tomorrow?” Voice dry but not quite masking the very real curiosity beneath it.
You shrug and slowly narrow your eyes as though the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. “Depends.”
Typical lawyer.
“Get to him before that coffee does,” Jack advises like he’s giving medical advice, and Robby levels him with a flat stare because he knows that with you around, he is never going to get coffee, let alone have coffee get to him.
Jack huffs in amusement, shaking his head as he moves to join the taller man, tablet tucked under one arm.
“Still have a couple things to do,” Jack grunts to you lowly, and you glance down at your watch because surely you have the time right.
His shift should be ending.
And yet.
“What idiot starts his little tasks at shift-change?” you laugh, enjoying the unamused glance thrown your way from still-on-the-clock doctor—unimpressed, deeply earned.
“Wait for me?” Jack asks, already knowing the answer.
A small smile teases the edge of your lips in response. “Was going to anyway.”
With a low, reluctant breath, he straightens up, scraping a hand through his hair. He turns on his heel and strides through the department.
Dana looks up from behind the desk. Her gaze briefly meets yours, right eyebrow perched slightly above the left, as if to say not gazing, huh?, before she turns her attention back to the task at hand.
Jack’s off doing end-of-shift stuff, Robby is signing his life away, Dana is doing what Dana does, presumably—Christ, you would think these people were employed.
Floundering, you look around. So, no banter?
You’re already bored. You glance down at your watch, hand exasperatedly waving in the air as the numbers register. You'll have to act like you're employed soon, too. Your carefully structured morning—insurance claims, harassment, fifteen-minute break—crumbles before you.
God, so bored.
Eyes drifting around the department, your fingers start drumming an erratic rhythm on the surface of the desk, rebelling against the feeling of being out of place. Fingers dance along, down the length, adjusting a stack of papers, nudging them at an odd angle just to see if anyone will notice. You move on to your next victim, Dana’s hand quickly behind yours, returning the papers to their rightful place without so much as a glance in your direction.
Fluorescent lights glare down overhead, highlighting everything in a blinding white that dulls your senses.
You let out a low sigh, turning a tablet upside down in its dock. It’s not even fun.
Purposeful activity swirls around you in a slow tempoed symphony, a rare lull settling into the emergency department. To your left, Robby curses the claims in front of him in a hushed voice—and it’s a nasty, personal beef between him and that paper—pen scratching along the documents with resigned effort.
“You always act like I’m asking you to sign a voluntary execution agreement,” you sigh, a note of exasperation creeping into your voice. “I just need your signature, not someone to rewrite the Ten Commandments.”
That poor pen, you think, watching his reluctant grip tighten around it, the pen enduring its fate like a prisoner of war. Nowhere for it to run.
You lean on the counter and your head tilts, arms giving way and your body sliding an inch closer, observing with interest that his signature is essentially just a line. M——. You so could have done these yourself, if you really wanted.
You force yourself to choke back a laugh as expression tightens with each flick of the pen, the simmering annoyance contained just beneath the surface begging to be released.
Fingers beat slower this time, cadence matching the melody around you, watching as the charge nurse moves to undo your minor disruptions.
A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.
Time passes slowly.
This hospital should have more legal issues. You wonder who you have to talk to about that.
Robby flips the page.
And from across the room, you hear it. It’s soft, and warm, and, honestly, you have no idea how you hear it over the clamor of the emergency department, but it always lands on your ears deafening, like a clap of thunder.
And you have no reason to be jealous. Jack is, by all relevant and up-to-date nomenclature, your friend.
You trace the sound to the origin, and there he is, emerging from South 19, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips.
And, sorry, but that is your laugh. That’s the one you hear low and throaty in your ear when you’re walking too close, and you say something that catches him off guard. The one that haunts your dreams and wakes you up, the sound echoing in your ears. The one you would make a homily of, listening to it day in and day out, saying amen with devout obedience at every pause.
You blink, zeroed in and always devastatingly dramatic.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe the whoring out of his laugh—because apparently everyone gets it these days, because apparently, he feels magnanimous in the same way Oprah does—is his way of politely rejecting you.
Maybe it’s time to dedicate yourself to some religion somewhere and spend the rest of your life on your knees, lest another man tempt you.
Feigning nonchalance, your hand comes off the desk, very chalant eyes still fixed on Jack as you lean towards the blonde opposite you.
“Dana, you’ve lived here a while, right? What’s the convent scene like?” Robby lets out a snort at your question and the tip of your index finger firmly taps the papers beneath his palm three times to refocus him. “Sign the fucking documents, Michael.”
He obediently turns to the next page where you had so painstakingly and lovingly flagged exactly where his signature was required, and a mix of amusement and mild exasperation creeps across your cheeks, pulling the corners of your mouth into a small smile as he scrawls his indignant line across the pages.
“How about you go tell someone their insurance doesn’t care about their life. You’ll see how easy it is to sign these things then,” he says, turning to the next page.
“Are you kidding? I know you heard what happened to that UnitedHealthcare guy,” you click your tongue. “I ain’t doin’ all that.”
Robby doesn’t dignify your callus comment with a response, attention fixed firmly on the paper, willing it to absorb his frustration. The scratch of his pen dissolves into the steady drone heart monitors and residents trying their hand at cheating death. He flips the page, and his broad shoulders raise with his frustrated inhale, posture betraying his mounting irritation as he methodically—mechanically—works through the stack of forms.
The muted scuffle of boots against the ground alerts you of his presence as Abbot settles behind you, close enough his body heat warms yours.
“Free Luig, man,” he gruffly throws his two cents in.
“Luig?” you twist around, words laced with faint incredulity. “Y’all on a nickname basis?”
“Always have been,” he shrugs with such nonchalance that, for a second, you’re almost convinced they have always been.
You nod. Free Luig.
Caught in the crossfire, Robby closes his eyes momentarily and chokes back a groan. The headache was coming on already. It was way too early in the morning, and he was accosted before you even let him get his coffee, and now he has to listen to the two of you engage in what he and Dana and the rest of the staff with money in the pool could only assume was foreplay.
His pen etches into the paper one last time, a reluctant sigh escaping his lips as he finishes the final signature, his annoyance pooling into a little storm cloud over his head. He shoves the pages toward you with a motion that could rival a cat knocking a glass off the counter, his expression tortured, and you reverently accept the signed stack with flourish, a holy scripture freshly inscribed by a weary messenger of God.
“Thank you, sir,” you chirp, gingerly shuffling the papers and bowing your head.
“You’re too good to him,” Jack says, as if he genuinely expected better from you, nodding toward the older man, already rubbing his temples and back to pretending the two of you didn’t exist.
“He deserves a treat.”
He can’t take it anymore. Robby bolts—bolts—into the chaos of the department like a petty villain in the night.
You don’t even get a chance to double-check that his ridiculous little M—— is scrawled on every line it’s legally required to be on. He knows exactly what he’s doing, too—that smug twitch of his mouth giving him away as he disappears behind a random curtain.
What in the hell.
You tuck the files under your arm and slip a hand into your front pocket. Just as you’re about to let the let’s fly, Abbot roll off your tongue, your hand freezes, strangely empty.
You’re missing your pen.
That bastard still has your pen.
You inhale, long and tempered, because you don't want to be overly dramatic.
You don’t want to be overly dramatic because, okay, you get it, it’s a pen.
But pens don’t last down here in the emergency department, and every time you materialize, you end up giving Robby a pen, and you never get that pen back. And then Jack comes complaining to you because every time they work together, despite the growing number of pens you’ve surrendered to his cause, Robby never has a pen and then expects a pen from him. But the pen that Jack gives him is also your pen. So, then he’s asking you for a pen—which, really, no biggie, you’ve already looked up how much it would cost to buy Pilot so you could give him unlimited pens—and then you’re giving Jack a pen and then you’re also giving Robby a pen and then Jack is giving Robby a pen and you’re freaking hemorrhaging pens on three fronts.
You’ve Pavloved the poor men into carnal pen desire.
So, you stop yourself in your tracks, glancing towards your companion just enough to catch the angle of his head and smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Your shoulders shake as a huff of laughter leaves you.
There is no pen in his pocket, either.
Routine, you suppose.
“Anyone know where Robby went?” you ask, eyebrow arched, back to surveying the faces around you.
Jack nods over your shoulder, once again directing your attention across the room and you follow his line of sight, eyes landing on Robby’s stiff frame, hiding in plain sight. Two steps from him, a woman is standing way too close for his comfort, hand on his arm, the recipient of a very intense one-way conversation.
You’re so going to make fun of him for this later. Maybe even in the emergency department group chat that you’ve weaseled your way into.
“Explain,” you demand, ravenous for the gossip.
“Guy came in last night, not doing great. Advance directive on file, medical POA too—directive was signed after. The kids are pissed.”
He lowers his voice, conspiratorial, and you reflexively shift closer to hear him.
“Now they’re trying to bribe half the staff with Daddy’s things for comfort treatment.”
The word daddy leaving Jack’s lips makes your eyes freeze in place, the only visible crack in your armor. This is really not what you need to be thinking about this early in the morning. You give a sharp shake with your head, trying to physically eject the thought.
Man, that family is totally legal’s problem.
You deflate. Which means that’s your problem, really, and you know as soon as you get back to your office, you’ll be losing a game of rock-paper-scissors for who has to be on the way back down here, and you hate ancillary document infighting.
“Okay, well that’s…” Your eyes narrow slightly, contemplating. “…awful?”
“Was that a question mark?”
You shrug. Maybe.
“Any chance you think I can get his attention?” you question, acceptance of the fact that a new pen is about to be classified as missing in action settling in your pocket.
And then Jack forces you to look at him, hand slowly curling around your bicep, and you’re struck by the inexplicable, primal urge to flex to show him, hey, I could hunt and gather. I could do anything you need me to do.
And then you have to fight the other urge to check your watch, because God forbid you give the impression that there’s anywhere else you’d rather be, but you are positive now that it’s barely seven in the morning and you stomp that primal urge down because you cannot start your yearning and lusting this early. Especially with this new legal problem on your radar.
“Looking for something?” he says, and somehow it sounds like an insult.
“Theft charges,” you reply dryly.
His mouth twitches.
“If I am ever in that position,” he commands, voice gentle but unmistakably pointed as he tugs your focus back from Robby. Selfishly, Jack wants all your attention on himself. “Just put the pillow over my face, and press—”
You blink, drawing back. “Goddamn.”
“—create an airtight seal—”
“Just sign the POA, girl.”
“Bet you used to charge a premium for those.”
“Just, like, two thousand. That’s, like,” you expel a dramatic breath from your lungs, feigning introspective mathematical precision, and rock back on your heels. “Twenty beaver pelts back in your day.”
“Twenty?” His head reels back, his voice fading out at the end in an octave that you’re not quite sure he possesses, and the commitment to the bit makes your chest tighten. He leans forward again. “Real proud of those autogenerated documents, huh?”
“No one used to copy-and-paste like me, baby.” You bite your lip.
A beat passes.
He demands your gaze, insistent, possessive.
You suck your teeth and lower your voice, a teasing lilt rising to suffocate the longing that tries to break through. “So, I’m in your deathbed fantasy, huh?”
Enraptured by the way the left side of your mouth starts to smile before the right follows suit, he allows his eyes to flicker to your lips, too quick for you to catch.
He doesn’t even blink. The hand on your arm tugs you forward, gentle but certain, and you stumble closer to his body. Your tongue, usually razor sharp and biding time until the next joke, dulls.
You blue screen.
Why is his hand big enough to wrap around your arm like that? Dear Lord, has he always been this warm? You can’t remember. Whatever used to be where your brain was immediately betrayed you and fucked off, leaving in its place a panting dog. Does he need you to bark? You could bark. You have no qualms with barking.
He leans in close, voice fighting to be heard over the crackling PA system probably calling for an attending in some fucking room, and then you were no longer in the emergency department. Ringing overtakes your ears and you imagine the hand on your bicep somewhere a little higher.
“Sweetheart,” his drawls, sinfully wrapping around each letter, like he knows exactly what it does to you. The word drips from his lips with maddening ease, dragging down your spine like molten lava. “You’re in my every fantasy. Welcome to the conversation.”
You blink again. The PA system calls out another pleading demand for whoever was listening at this point, effectively eliminating you and Jack, and his voice—steady, warm, smug—fills your brain with cotton, making it hard to ration, or think, or breathe.
You’re what?
His eyes dance around your face reverently while the slightest ghost of a smile takes residence on his lips, memorizing the subtle flush traveling across your cheeks and your wide eyes—no longer the color you were born with—blinking uncomprehendingly up at him. He tucks some things away for later, too—the way your breath hitches in a shallow, uneven burst, and how your lashes flutter like they can’t decide to stay open or not while you process his words. In the back of his mind, he decides he likes making you speechless. He tucks that away for later, too.
Then the corners of your lips twitch, your voice slipping out before you could stop it, soft but teasing, “Careful, old man, lest someone label you a poet.”
His responding laugh is quiet, low, self-satisfied—just for you, as it should be, thank you. And when his hand loosens its grip on your bicep and trails down to brush his fingers against yours, your breath stalls.
For the first time, you realize that you’re not in control of anything here at all, let alone your physiological reactions to his proximity. Jack Abbot holds all the cards in a perfectly imbalanced stack against his chest, and, despite your best efforts, you’ve never been good at poker.
And then you feel it.
You are fucking gazing.
You very explicitly recall your job description reading: Hours: 7am-5pm, Mon-Fri.
So why, then, do you find yourself swiping your security card back into the stairwell, beginning your ascent just as the numbers on your watch creep to 6:48am on a Sunday.
Actually, you know why. A text.
You were tucked in bed, comforter woven from warm springtime sunbeams, thoroughly enjoying the walk on the fuzzy line between waking and slumber. And then, without warning or pause, your body was violently ripped from the veil like a loose tooth at a little kid’s freaking birthday party, phone buzzing, SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D. plastered across your screen and, below it, a text.
Roof, it read.
Well, yeah, Jack, you thought blearily. Roof. Of course, roof.
You say bark, I bark.
Your comforter was off, and shoes were being tugged on before the screen even dimmed from inactivity, the rational thought of changing out of your sad excuse of pajamas nowhere in sight. Heading into work on a Sunday before the sun was even up.
Nothing wrong with getting a head start on next week, you hum to yourself as you wait for the elevator to ding at the twelfth floor, and then you pause, disgusted with the stray thought. Since when did you want to willingly participate in capitalism more than required?
All because of a man?
Mental You takes the cookies out of the oven and giggles and twirls her hair and dreamily sighs out a yeah.
You step off the elevator and immediately cross the hall, shoving the door to the stairwell open, feet trudging up the steps.
At least you’re also getting paid for it. Not that you need to be paid to see Jack.
I’d pay to see Doctor Abbot, Mental You giggles.
You finally get to the roof, thighs burning, though not as much as they used to—shoutout to Andrea at the gym—and push open the door.
Or you would.
The door jams, halting your hand mid-motion, and you sigh.
Without thinking, you wind back and slam your shoulder into the damned thing. It flies open with a dramatic groan and you’re all but launched forward, right shoe catching awkwardly on the ledge. Gravity seizes the opportunity with enthusiasm, zealously pulling at your body, and you guess that your bag must want in on the action too, because it shifts the weight of everything inside, throwing you off balance, the momentum carrying you in a parabolic arc directly into the path of the bloodthirsty door, who vengefully desires nothing more than to claim your life and perhaps its rightful resting position in the frame.
And then time is slowing down in that unique and humiliating way it does when you realize with horror that you’re doing something that would land you on TikTok.
And then there’s another moment, fleeting but vivid, where you register how ridiculous you must look: clad in pajamas, bag swinging, your body a perfect picture of chaos.
And then it happens.
You collide with the door in a graceless, full-bodied tackle that rattles the hinges and might as well announce your presence to the entire city.
By the time you stumble away from the ring, vehemently declining another round with the door, your legs stinging where the exposed skin met the cold metal, you notice Jack already leaning against the far side of the railing, figure outlined by the slowly rising light of the sun.
At first, you think he hasn’t noticed your grand entrance, but Jack has always had the uncanny ability to see everything you don’t want him to see, and also you would have to have been dead to not have heard all that. It’s the single shake of his tense shoulders that betrays him, and, really, you have to give him credit where credit’s due, because he’s trying.
He’s trying so hard to not make fun of you right now.
You can feel it.
You straighten up, and you’re of half a mind to try and salvage the scraps of dignity you still have left, but, ultimately, you find that you just don’t care that much. You also find that it was so much colder than you thought it would be, given your current attire.
A coat, you think miserably. Anything. Anything at all would have been better.
“I swear it wasn’t like that a couple days ago,” you huff, brushing invisible dust off your sleeve as you lick your wounds.
Abbot finally allows a single soldier through the front lines in his battle against laughter, letting out a sharp chuckle that cuts through the cold morning air.
“You always know how to make an entrance,” he observes, similar to the way he’s observed cloud cover.
His eyes drag down to your legs and his brow subtly creases, trying to conceal the way his brain short-circuited for half a second.
“Shorts,” he mutters, blinking slowly, shoulders rising in a steep inhale. “That’s…a choice.”
"Yeah, well, you know..." you wave a hand in the air dismissively. "Sleeping."
And you realize, fuck, you really don’t care about your wounded dignity and stupid outfit if it makes Jack Abbot look at you like that.
A comfortable ease settles over you while something warm settles in the pit of your stomach, one that only he seems capable of conjuring. You take a deep breath, the cool air biting at your lungs, the tension from your stairwell match melting away as Jack’s presence steadies you.
“Wait, you come up here without me?” He clarifies, voice a little rougher than he means it to be, unwavering stare locked on you. “But it’s—this is mine.”
“I really don’t think you can have, like, a monopoly on the roof, Jack.”
“I was hired first,” he argues, like that alone justifies his claim to the space.
“Jack, how is it a monopoly if you let me in?”
He doesn’t answer, just stares at you flatly like that answers it.
“I literally work, like, eight feet below where we’re standing right now,” you stress, foot tapping against the ground in emphasis. “You understand that, right?”
He shrugs, corner of his lips creeping up. “You don’t have to beg, kid. I’ll let you use it,” he says, smug. “I’m magnanimous like that.”
You don’t even know where to begin tearing apart the words that just exited his mouth. But your mouth, your traitorous mouth, does. “I’m not begging.”
He leans in then.
“Do you want to?”
He knows it’s the only way he can throw you off the same way you so unknowingly do to him.
Sure enough, you lag behind his response, mouth parting as power is diverted from mandibular control to turn the gears in your brain, each one creaking with effort as they try to process what the fuck just came out of his mouth.
And he says it to keep your blinders on, to distract you from the way he almost said ours instead of mine, and to distract you from the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like they want to reach for you but are stuck in purgatory, unsure if they’d be welcomed.
But Jack notices it too much.
He notices his twitching hands, and the way your laughter lingers in his chest longer than it should, and the way your voice threads through the spaces of his day and ties his heart in knots in ways he doesn’t even know where to begin untangling. He doesn’t say anything, but he feels it, thick and unyielding, curling around his ribs and threatening to suffocate him whenever you’re near.
So, his arms fold over his chest, absently creating a protective barrier, his eyes falling somewhere distant.
And then cut to you sideways, softening despite himself, cracking through the flimsy pretense of just-friends banter you both cling to like it might protect you from the inevitable. It’s a game you keep playing, tossing a live grenade back and forth.
But he won’t drop it.
If there is one thing that Jack Abbot has in abundance, it’s patience. He is patient—he learned it long ago under the blanket of gunfire and the oppressive heat of the sun, and mastered it with bodies bleeding out beneath his hands. And he is tenacious. He is so fucking tenacious it would make your head spin. And he would toss that live grenade days, months, decades until you reacted too slowly and it went off.
And then the moment is gone and you’re dancing back over the line to friends. He punches your arm lightly, the movement too calculated to be casual, his fist moving forward unaccompanied by the fluidity and self-assuredness you’ve seen him possess with florescent lights above him and a body below. His knuckles burn your arm where they glance across it, and your eyes whip between the afflicted site and him, mind already curating a scathing retort.
He waits, daring you to notice how long he lingers in moments like this, how he drags out conversations just to keep you tethered here next to him, close enough to pretend you’re his.
But you step closer, eyes taking in the way his shoulders seem to be pressed down by an invisible weight—one that you wish you could become Atlas to alleviate, if just for a moment.
Bad night, you observe.
Bad night, indeed, Jack’s body screams in reply.
When the shrill alarm alerting him of 5pm pierced the fragile fog that had settled on his brain, it felt as though the world was gunning for his sanity. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily on his chest, and his body, tangled in sheets that seem to have turned into chains and a sweat-soaked shirt plastered to his body, drags heavily, joints creaking as he began to extract himself from his fabric prison.
Thirty-three minutes of deep sleep, Jack’s watch spat in his face.
Kill yourself, watch, he grunted back.
But time, relentless and indifferent and, in the back of his mind, named Gloria Underwood (no relation, you tried to convince him during one of your rooftop meetings once. It’s a common name, Abbot.), marches forward, dragging him along with its cruel cadence and another hellish shift in the books.
And presently, you see his tense body standing—like the soldier he’ll probably always be—at attention, shoulders rigid, chin tilted defiantly as if daring the universe to shove him just a little further, just until the ground beneath his feet disappears, and hands clenched so tightly at his side that you think you should take him downstairs to check for open wounds.
The thing about the veteran that you clocked long before the start of soft smiles, and the banter, and the myriad rooftop rendezvous is this: when he has a bad night, he gets philosophical.
“Do you think God cares?” he deadpans—which is insane to you, because who opens like that?
You gently lean your demon-possessed bag against the AC unit and walk forward to settle beside him where he leans heavily against the opposite side of the rail. “Like, in general, or…?”
“The death,” he lists, ticking it off like it’s a mildly interesting footnote. “The helplessness.”
“I don’t know. Kinda used to want to ask God that,” you admit, your energy shifting to match his vaguely existential one. You try kicking at a rock to diffuse some of the tension and somehow miss entirely. “‘If you’re so loving, why do you allow so much suffering and injustice.’”
“Don’t question it anymore?”
The question makes you pause. You guess you didn’t question it anymore. You were surrounded by it every day, as was he—the predatory insurance companies and the maladjusted American healthcare system. It wasn’t as though you’d been exposed to the trademarked horrors, but the past six years were taxing enough. Year after year, case after case, you internalized the knowledge that the things meant to help you weren’t really there just to help. And that knowledge takes its toll.
So, no, you don’t really question it anymore.
But you do let it steal parts of you. It isn’t outright draining—more like a faucet that didn’t shut off completely, allowing a single drip to escape at a time, every couple seconds, every day, for years. Not something someone immediately identifies and fixes, but something that, when you do notice it, you kind of throw your hands up in the air like, well what the fuck now?
That’s where you’re at. Well, what the fuck now, indeed.
You laugh, the sound unbidden and a touch more bitter than you want it to be. “No, it just became a pride thing.”
And then the soft confession escapes you before you could beat it back with a bat and send forth some retort that would get you a huff of air through the nose at worst, and a scoff and shake of the head at best. The words cross your unspoken boundary of keeping it light and ambiguously sexual—they toe the line of being vulnerable. “I guess now I’m afraid that he might ask me the same question.”
Part of you really hopes he ignores the words. Part of you hopes that the words would fall on deaf ears and any response would die on mute lips. Part of you hopes that the world would open up and pluck those drifting words right out of the air before they could reach him.
But Jack is there. Jack is always there, and Jack always fucking saw you before you saw you, and he always heard what you said before you knew what you said.
And he would always be there throwing you a life-preserver, a way out.
He tries to salvage what’s left of the levity from your grand entrance and nudges your shoulder with his.
“It’s a really stupid question, anyway,” he utters softly, gently, the understanding of a man who has seen worse draping over the words.
A life-preserver that you would enthusiastically grab like you’ve asked for one every Christmas for the past thirty years. His eyes head turns, and his eyes lock on to yours, inviting and warm, and you realize you’re so fucked.
You swallow, the familiar teasing expression reappearing on command, the left side of your mouth coming up in a smirk and your right eyebrow raising fractionally.
“Yeah. We should really be focusing on big picture stuff,” you agree. “Like, ‘How does Tom Cruise do all that?’”
“That’ll blow God’s freaking mind,” he grumbles.
You nudge his shoulder back.
Cold wind nips at your skin, and you shudder, your arms drawing in to aid your body in retaining heat. Your eyes dart to the side hoping you were as subtle doing that as you thought you were.
Definitely not, you assume. The troubled man’s fingers tighten on the railing as he wordlessly swings himself under to the other side, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders.
You begin offering up a weak protest, barely more than a whisper, until Jack’s eyes snap to you, cool and amused.
“Don’t get used to charity,” he murmurs, voice like velvet on steel. “Just say thank you, Jack.”
A meek thank you, Jack takes its place. A hum, noncommittal—casual—fills the space between you in reply.
The weight of it presses down, swallowing you whole. It’s warm from his own body, and it smells vaguely of the antiseptic you’ve come to accept as his cologne, and God, and it’s heavy. Not because of the fabric itself—that’s actually rather light, it’s still early in the season-change—but because it’s his. An ever-present fixture that emerges as soon as the temperature drops.
A constant.
And now it’s on you and it feels almost too personal, and you shift slightly trying to shake the intimate feeling off and just enjoy the moment as a girl with a crush on a man fifteen years older than her, but the bastard clings to you and settles into your heart.
“We should get you a new cologne, by the way.”
You said we. You had said we and Jack’s brain immediately latches onto the promise of something so domestic with you.
“Are you saying I smell?” he asks, expression unreadable but amused.
“Every day I sit in my office and pray you’ll take a shower.”
“You don’t have better things to pray for?”
You open your mouth to respond, but he’s on a roll.
“World peace,” he supplies, like it was the obvious office prayer.
It’s a good office prayer, you have to admit.
“I can’t wear cologne down there. Liability or something,” he continues dryly, and the next words seek out your pride with surgical precision, making a single, tiny cut. “You of all people should know that.”
He got you there again—you should know that—and that’s like three times in the span of ten minutes that he’s got you. You’re not quite sure what’s happening right now.
Deafening silence concedes the argument.
But as far as you’re concerned, you’ll let him have it. You have Jack on one side of you and the warmth of his jacket protecting you against the cold creeping in. You’re content.
And you thought Jack was content, too.
But apparently, he isn’t.
Can’t let the silence just freaking do its thing.
“Can I ask you something else?” he says, like the answer to that has ever stopped him before, “Why do you care?”
And the parallel between this question and the one about God makes your eyebrows furrow a little because, what does that mean? What does ‘why do you care about the suffering of human beings,’ mean?
“About suffering?” you say slowly, trying to find your footing.
“No.”
Your mouth opens a fraction, perhaps wide enough for a fly to be caught, while you work to follow what path his mind went down.
What, like, The Yankees? Yeah, you care about them. Obviously, because you love them. Any team that happens to be playing against Jack’s beloved Pirates, of course care about them, because you hate whatever team Jack loves. Annoying Robby? Sure. About Jack himself, absolutely. Fucking definitely, even.
You tick the entries off in your mind: career, first and foremost; your friends; Jack; your family that hasn’t talked to you in years; Dr. Abbot down in the ED; crippling debt payments from law school; that matcha place Samira showed you; the socio-political landscape of the world; former army medic, Jack Abbot.
You can’t imagine that Jack’s unprompted and vague question was about any of these things.
Your eyes squint not of your own volition. “What?”
“Yesterday,” he clarifies, tone clipped, ever a man of many words.
“What?” you try again.
“About that woman.”
You’ll shove this fool off the roof yourself, you decide. “What?”
He leans back, knuckles white from gripping the rail to anchor him, sighing that you’re the crazy one right now sigh—like he can’t believe he has to spell it out for you, word for word. “The one that was flirting with Robby.”
You actually look over at Jack then, confused. He’s not looking at you, his back now ramrod straight and jaw reflecting his fists, clenched so tightly you're surprised his teeth aren’t shattering from the pressure.
The woman that you had a very long, very tense, conversation with—brother’s presence intruding like a serpent in the garden, begging you to sin—about pulling her father off life support?
A laugh almost escapes you. You’re not sure he realizes how stupid he sounds thinking you cared about anything in that moment other than the way his hand wrapped around your bicep and the way he laughed, low and ruinous and lethal, and called you sweetheart.
Light and sexual, you chant to yourself.
“The one that wants her dad dead?” you bluntly ask—whatever, who needs light, anyway?
His shoulder draws up in a half-shrug, mouth opening in a wordless response. Finally, he settles on, “I’m just saying you seemed… very interested—”
“What, in my job?” your confused tone betrays the half-smile on your face.
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
"I mean, it sounds like what you're saying—"
"No, you looked upset at her—"
"—and it's definitely what I'm hearing—"
"Well, get your fucking hearing checked—"
“Are you jealous, Jack?” you press, cutting him off, pointed and a little smug.
“Yes.”
He says it so simply, and his voice is so soft, so confident, and it lands with decimating impact.
What happened to light and sexual, Jack?
It just swan dove straight over the ledge, Jack.
What the fuck is wrong with this guy?
Your next thought slams through you, so loud and so out of pocket, and you’re a little pissed because last time you had this thought, you told it to at least give you, like, an ETA next time. Your heart jumps a little in your chest. Maybe you don’t have to call that convent, you think. Maybe he isn’t a fan of polite rejection.
And then the third thing you cared about in yesterday’s interaction strikes you. Obviously.
“Jack,” you enunciate. You want your next words to be explicitly clear. “The only reason I was even looking for Robby was because he still had my pen.”
His jaw twitches. “What?”
“Holy shit, can we stop with the whats?”
“Okay, look, sorry if I need to make sure that my friend,” he spits out the word, duplicity-soaked label coating his mouth with a bitter aftertaste. “Isn’t pining over my- my fellow attending.”
“First of all, I would never pine,” you note. “I’m a maple, and I want that on record.”
For a turbulent second, Jack wants to grab you by the scruff of the neck and manhandle you like a misbehaved chihuahua because he’s serious and you make jokes when you’re feeling defensive—something that he usually finds endearing but simply can’t find it in him to do right now.
He doesn’t want you pining over Robby, he wants you pining over him.
And so maybe his response is fueled by jealousy, okay, sue him. He’ll bring it up to his therapist and then apologize to you, and you’ll say something like, I should invoice your therapist myself for emotional labor.
So, he digs in, tone sharp but surgical, and says something that he knows will get a rise out of you because he knows you—he knows everything about you.
“Maple? You’re so obviously an oak—you’ll never be a maple,” he fires back, voice incredulous, volume subdued, eyes narrowed in outrage. “You’re not even close to maple-level, be fucking for real.”
A strangled sound makes its way out of you, shocked that he would even think such a thing. “Of course you would say that you fucking ginkgo,” you snap.
“Gingko?”
You inhale sharply and force yourself to rein in your next sentence because there’s a feeling in your chest—one slowly rising, and it suspiciously feels like anger. Why the hell is Jack acting like this at seven in the morning on a Sunday, especially about someone that the hospital would sell out in a heartbeat over a wrongful prolongation of life lawsuit?
Pining over Robby? Is he fucking stupid?
Well, two can play this game.
You can be fucking stupid, too.
You can be fucking stupid, and—you want it known, labelled, and presented before the new J.D. recipient, prosecution attorney Jack Abbott, M.D., as Exhibit A—you’re not remotely capable of even pretending to be normal in a competitive situation.
“Sorry, Abbot, I didn’t realize you could even clock my pining over the volume of your giggles,” you counter hotly, throwing a trembling finger in his face at the scandalized look that crosses it. “Yeah. Giggles.”
“So, you were pining over Robby?” he confirms, and it lodges itself under your skin.
You’re sure if you looked down at your watch it would tell you that you have a heart rate of at least one hundred and eighty.
“Why the fuck do you care who I’m pining over?” you hiss, your voice dripping with frustration.
Jack opens his mouth, thinks better of it, then tries again—lighter, a silent prayer that maybe the joke can diffuse the mounting tension.
“I don’t care, but Robby is built like one of those car-dealership inflatables, and—” he shifts his weight to the left, leg aching.
But it’s too late. Your eyes narrow.
“Built like a car-dealership inflatable?” you echo in disbelief, hoping the words will help Jack realize the incredulousness of the statement. “What the hell does that even mean?”
That’s a great question, the prosecution thinks. He doesn’t even really know, but it’s out now and he has to roll with it.
“That’s your friend and now you’re being fucking mean,” the words press out through gritted teeth, humor long gone. “You’re just saying stuff.”
He agrees with you, he is just saying stuff, and Jack will apologize to his friend for the stray when his mind is clearer and blood pressure lower, even though the other man won’t have any idea what he’s talking about.
“Yeah,” he bites out, stepping closer. “But you kicked this shit off with your stupid maple thing, and now I’m stuck defending myself against a guy who walks like life’s spine-optional and he’s not sure how gravity works—”
“Shut up about Robby’s walk!” you yell in a rush, your voice shrill and piercing, the sheer absurdity of the argument making your hands fly into the air. “This isn’t about him! Or his- his saunter. This is about your—”
“This is not about me,” he cuts you off, too loud to be convincing. “I just think you deserve better spine-to-surface ratio, is all—”
“Because your body has such a perfect there-to-not ratio, right?”
“Ohhhhh, you wanna go there—?”
“No, actually, I don’t,” you snap back. Then, sharper, “Listen, Abbot—”
“No, you listen,” he grounds out, your name a heated whisper snapping against its leash. “You’re the one who made this weird. You got all defensive and—” Jack gestures around like it personally offended him, “And then you’re calling me a gingko. A gingko. Like that’s a thing regular people do in arguments.”
“Oh, I’m sooo sorry, Doctor,” you draw out the syllables in mock-sympathy. “Would you prefer that I use military metaphors? Would that make baby feel more emotionally validated?”
“Yes, it would!” the doctor hisses back, mouth a breath away from yours. “Maybe at least then I would know where the hell I stand in your metaphor jungle!”
There’s a beat—one that coils the tension tighter, and tighter, and tighter—and Jack’s eyes, always attuned to your body, snap to the frustrated pinch of your mouth. Then back up. Your breath comes in sharp, uneven bursts, a wild fire burning behind your glassy eyes, gravity giving up on strands of hair where you ran your rands through them.
Not for the first time, he thinks that you’re beautiful. Your beauty was noted and neatly filed away long ago at your first meeting, shelved next to other invariably true things like death, and taxes, and a subscription he forgot about charging his bank account.
Eyes snap back down again.
And fuck he wants nothing more than to slam his lips against yours, to win, to derail the argument—to get you to stop arguing for maybe the first time in your life.
You clench your jaw, and you take a deep breath.
Neither of you move.
Don’t even shift your weight.
Almost nose to nose.
Of course, you weren’t pining over Robby, he knows that.
Because in Jack’s mind, it’s simple.
You’re his.
And sometimes he forgets that this thing between you has never been verbalized and linguists and English majors around the world are probably still scrambling and conspiring to combine words and build syntax trees that won’t even scratch the surface of explaining how deeply you’re seared into his soul.
And he certainly forgets that in your mind, he’s not yours.
Then, of course, there’s also the fact that he hasn’t done this in years, not since his wife—so, admittedly, he’s a little rusty. He tried practicing, but this conversation isn’t going at all how he painstakingly and methodically rehearsed with Robby in the breakroom.
And then somehow trees were pulled into it, and he doesn’t know anything about trees—he could name maybe four types. He can’t even tell you what a gingko is. He honestly thought it was a lizard. He probably would have put money on it.
And also he loves your metaphors, you know that.
“There was a woman in South 19,” he starts slowly, forcefully controlled. The first words in an unspoken sorry. His hands twitch by his side. “She was eighty-two years old and told me I was too handsome to be a doctor. That I should be on the cover of Vogue.”
Your brain, which has been running on pure spite and cortisol, fumbles.
Silence presses down over you once more.
The roof is too quiet now.
Too stupid.
You’re angry and a little hurt. Jack’s angry and, you think, probably a little hurt, too—at the very least by the body-ratio comment and definitely by the gingko comment.
And you feel even more stupid because, through it all, you’re still swimming in his fucking jacket.
Unfortunately for you, you agree with the eighty-two-year-old woman in South 19. He should be on the cover of Vogue.
It’s your turn. You press your hands into your eyes hard enough you see stars, taking a small step back.
“Robby had my pen,” you mutter, reprising the explanation you started before the argument spiraled out of control.
Abbot blinks. “What?”
You sigh, loud and theatrical, hands dropping. “Robby had my pen, okay? And it’s—just—it’s always like this. I show up. He needs to sign. He never has a pen. I give him one, then you give him one, but it’s also mine, because you got it from me, and then I give him another, and it’s like—I’m hemorrhaging pens. I am singlehandedly keeping Pilot in business because of this freaking guy.”
He just stares at you.
You gesture helplessly. “So, yeah. I was looking for Robby. To get my pen back.”
Another beat.
Then Jack, flatly, “You picked a fight with me because of a pen pyramid scheme.”
“Okay, um, actually, you picked a fight with me,” you object, your mind scrunching up its sleeves and waving its fists in the air, ready to go again. Ballpoint trauma massages its shoulders, egging it on.
He watches you and shakes his head imperceptibly.
He’s in love with someone who’s bleeding office supplies.
The man runs a hand over his face, palm dragging slow, and when it drops, there’s something soft and aching behind his eyes. Not pity. Not amusement. Just this quiet, stunned affection like, God, it’s you. Even when you’re arguing over trees and tube men, it’s you.
Your shoulders start to slump, and you scuffle your shoe against the gravel, eyes fixed on the ground like you’re trying to disappear. All the fire from earlier is gone, and somehow that’s worse. He watches you there, wrapped in his jacket like it belongs on your shoulders, drowning in the sleeves, collar brushing your cheek a little every time you move. It’s recklessly easy to forget what started this fight—to forget that he can’t do anything in this moment but watch you shrink before him.
He wants to take your face in his hands, thumb the curve of your cheekbones and tilt your head up. He wants to bend down and let his lips press into the corners of your eyes, catching the unshed tears. He wants to press kisses to every inch of your skin—your temples, the tip of your nose, the crease between your brows—murmuring I’m sorry between each one like a prayer, drunk on adoration of you.
In a pathetic attempt at casualness, your voice breaks through his fantasy, “I’m ‘friend’ and Michael’s relegated to ‘fellow attending,’huh?”
Jack exhales, controlled and slow, not meant for your ears.
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” the veteran says quietly.
“I would argue what he doesn't know appears to hurt him the most,” you breathe a laugh, eyes still downcast.
He inclines his head and forces a gruff chuckle quietly to escape, the sound landing gently on your ears. Your traitorous heart stutters in your chest at the sound. And then his laugh pauses, and eyes narrow. He nods because, actually, you’re right about Robby. He should really ask him about that tomorrow.
All at once, in the back of your mind, you start to feel guilty.
You know that your friend had such a bad night and, presumably, a bad shift, that he asked you to come to the roof on a Sunday. And then you just called him a gingko and that was so fucking far from cool. The lump swelling in your tightening throat starts to teeter on impossible to swallow around. The tears you never learned how to suppress in an argument burn the back of your eyes.
But the sound has already burrowed into your heart once more and you can’t even remember why you were having a hissing match with Jack Abbot about trees and car-dealership inflatables. His stupid fucking laugh took your composure by the ear and shot it point blank in the back alley of a Wendy’s all within the span of three seconds.
You can’t help it.
“Hey, Jack,” you begin, your voice floating out and dying in the air as the sounds of the street rise to battle them.
You’re silent for a second.
You know you should quit while you’re ahead and leave down the stairs with a thumbs up and one last joke about returning to the door for seconds, but the words hey, Jack are already out, and true to the name, this is Jack, and now he’s looking at you with such affection in those confusingly beautiful eyes that all you want to do is tell him how, most days, he is the only thing keeping you sane, and how when you imagine your future, you imagine the calluses on his hands and arms wrapped around you from behind. And you want to tell him that you want nothing more than to see him every day, hell, you’ll take seeing him off hospital grounds. And, God, you want to text him the stupid updates throughout your day—that your matcha sucks today and you think the barista wants to set you on fire.
You want this nearing ancient, active suicide risk in your life beyond insurance claims, and Rooftop Club, and stupid fucking fights about pens and eighty-two-year-old women in South 19—even ones that are now confusingly flora based.
I think I love you, you want to tell him.
And for a moment you’re genuinely worried that you might say something conveying anything of a remotely similar sentiment—something definitely not light and sexual.
But then you hear yourself softly admitting, “For the record, you’re my best friend.”
The vulnerability makes you feel like you’ve been cut open, heart on display for the medic’s steady hands. The guilt gnaws at you, and you resign yourself to feeling like a fool, a lumbering joker standing in Jack Abbot’s jacket and your pajamas.
You start picking at the loose threads on his jacket sleeve.
His hand moves, slowly, the same way a cowboy would approach a skittish horse, and settles over yours, gently stopping the movement.
You drift your gaze up, just enough to catch his eyes with yours.
“You’re not a gingko, by the way,” you mumble, words barely making it past your lips.
His hand tightens on yours. It’s so marginal that you’re sure you’ve imagined it. His eyes stay locked on yours.
“Kid,” Jack says, and when he leans in, his voice drops, soft and steady and sacred. “Maples wish they had what you do.”
He angles his head just as the morning sun—surely a paid actor—breaks from behind the skyline and cascades over his face, bathing him in gold. For a fleeting second, the words of your mother ring in your ears and you think you finally understand what she spoke of when said that human beings are made in the image of God.
Slowly, your eyes begin to wander over the gentle slope of his nose, cataloguing the constellations of freckles across his cheeks, finding respite at the corner of his eye where his crow’s feet deepen as he squints, lashes battling the intruding light.
You agree. Surely something so beautiful couldn’t be anything short of divine.
The newborn light catches on what’s left of the copper stands in his salt and pepper curls and dances on the unshaven stubble dusting his face, and you decide that God was taking his job as Artist very seriously right now, pouring gold down from heaven and letting it mend every chip and heal every break, sculpting a kinutsigi statue before your very eyes.
The gravel crunches as he shifts, the sound effectively restarting your brain, your head whipping towards the skyline before he could comment on your very clearly and pathetically waxing poetic gaze.
What the fuck was that?
But you know exactly what that was, and it was not something that fell under the umbrella of keeping it light and ambiguously sexual.
You shift your weight anxiously.
“And you know Robby can’t help that he’s built like a broad scarecrow,” your quiet voice drifts into the air.
“I know, sweetheart,” and God his voice is so soft, somehow so steady, that you’re not sure how it has the ability to cut through you with such sharpness. “Still wouldn’t trust the integrity of his core.”
You nod. You could get behind that.
“I like your body ratio the way it is, Jack.”
He brings your hands clasped in his to his lips.
You had the first Friday of every month circled multiple times on your calendar. It was routine, one that Gloria knew and that Gloria respected. Which is why, you couldn’t for the life of you discern the reason you were thrown into the lion’s den of not routine when she decided that, actually, these insurance claims needed to be signed at this exact moment on some random ass Monday or, as far as you could gather, the entire hospital would crash down to the ground with everyone inside it and then the rubble would catch fire, too.
But you don’t argue. A trip down to the emergency department was always a joyous occasion in your book, and so you hoped it would stay.
And you stumble into the elevator, cup of coffee in a mug that reads soy milk on the front and hola milk, soy tu padre on the back in one hand, and a bundle of papers flagged for signature in the other. Your hips angle towards the paneling on the wall and you all but ragdoll your body into the buttons, aiming for the bottom floor and, regrettably, hitting the bottom three.
God forbid you have an easy start.
The elevator doors open with a groan, and the controlled chaos of the emergency department whirls around you, and you duck and weave around rogue employees, making your way through the halls, sniffing the air like a bloodhound in search of Robby.
“Jesus Christ,” vibrates out of his chest, eyes landing on you as you turn the corner. “Once a month isn’t enough for you people?”
“You people? Do you mean women?”
His hands come up and pull at his hair.
You take pity on him.
“Hey, Robby, don’t shoot the messenger.” You shrug, eyes already wandering around the floor looking for their natural target. You slide the cup of coffee in his direction, a silent peace treaty. “You don’t like it? Sue.”
Robby sighs and takes off his glasses as he watches your pathetic scan of the department. After the conversation he and Jack had after he came down from the roof yesterday—which was essentially Robby asking if he finally asked you out and Jack just grunting at him and leaving—he knows he should handle this with kid-gloves.
And he tries. He swears he tries. He would testify, hand on the bible, that he tried.
“He’s gone.”
And for a moment, the doctor almost feels bad because your head whips towards him and you resemble an abandoned shelter dog, eyes sad and brows furrowed. He makes the split-second decision to grab the cup of coffee and place it under his protection before you can do something drastic.
“What?”
“He’s gone. Day off. Today and tomorrow,” Robby declares, using his free hand to make grabby motions at the file he sees tucked in your arms.
His eyes squint in thought. “Yesterday and today, I guess, technically,” he revises.
You try to process the words, wondering why it didn’t occur to you that Jack might, like, not only exist in this building when it coincides with you.
You pull out your phone, eyes pausing momentarily on the coffee that Robby’s safeguarding before deciding it isn’t worth it. The screen reflecting your sad expression, you scroll to Jack’s number, thumbs tapping out a message, short and sweet.
And then you pause before hitting send, your gaze flickering up to Robby, who seems to be the poster child for enjoying himself, mouth greedily sipping coffee and lanky frame folded back in his chair. You tip your head to the side at the odd angle of his spine. Jack was right, he should do more core work.
“Are you lying to me right now?”
Robby looks up, head moving in a tight, rapid shake that screams exasperation with you. "Yeah, Jack’s actually fishing over in Trauma 1 right now.”
Jack hates fishing. Checkmate.
Ignoring him, you return to your phone, the message awaiting your command to go forth.
Jack was so going to hear about this.
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: so u hate me now?
You pause for a second, wondering if the two of you were at harassment level.
The way his lips seared into your hand flashes through your mind.
You decide to full send.
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: u hate me so much u quit ur job so u never had to see me again
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: is that it
And you don’t expect an immediate response, you just want him to know you know about the self-conjured hatred and you’re not happy about it. It was 8am on a Monday—a Monday that Jack freaking has off, apparently—and by all accounts, he should be in bed, snug as a bug.
But your phone vibrates in your hand. You look down.
SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: If you wanted to see me all you had to do was ask
What the—? The audacity stops your thumbs in their tracks.
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: im a very busy woman abbot
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: u dont even know what my calendar looks like abbot
And then before you know what you’re doing, you’re sending another text reply.
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: can i see u
Was that too desperate?
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: im waiting for u to return from way
Deliberate typo.
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: war
Nailed it.
SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: Way
Stunning O-Neg Attorney: kill your self
Three dots appear and then disappear as you see him try to formulate a response. They appear once more.
SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: I want to see you too kid
SSGT Jack Abbot, M.D: Not on the roof I mean
You have to fight the smile that tries to overtake your face, eyes glued to the words on your screen, not even looking up when Robby’s hand enters your sight, snapping in an attempt to bring you back to earth.
But you, with days that start when Jack’s ends, and Jack, who seems to spend most of his free time in the emergency department whether he’s supposed to be there or not, have schedules that rarely align. As lamentable as it is, you both settle for a professional backdrop for your interactions.
Maybe God heard your plea from the rooftop and decided to have mercy.
I want to see you too, kid.
And so that night you find yourself at Jack Abbot’s fucking apartment, perched on his couch with his legs stretched long in front of him, ankles crossed, prim and proper, and yours tucked neatly to the side, body twisted towards his. Every once in a while, his knee brushes against your thigh. You have a Coke Zero in your hand—taken from his fridge after you showed up with a case that he immediately scoffed at—and a very manly beer is in his. The Pirates game plays forgotten on the TV. There is a pizza on its way with your name on it, which, really, should have been here, like, an hour ago, but neither of you really remember or care.
You’re mentally planning which route you’re going to take home—God forbid he lets you go home—so you could stop off at whatever church you pass first and throw up a thanks, Christ, owe you one also sorry for not visiting in a while.
“Why don’t we do this?”
“What do you mean?” you question. “We hang out all the time.”
“No, you asked me to come over once because you burnt yourself making cookies and you said that your arm resembled raw chicken.”
“Didn’t it though?”
He cocks his head to the side, bringing his beer to his lips, and his eyebrows move up in agreement. It did look like raw chicken.
“And wasn’t it the sexiest piece of raw chicken you’ve ever seen?” you press.
The natural banter presses deep and steady beneath his ribs. Silver curls tip back and his body shifts forward after it, a little closer to yours, as he laughs, and you catch a whiff of something unfamiliar, brief and blinding.
It’s going to be a good night, you decide.
Jack’s stare softens, tender and warm.
“You’re staring,” you tease.
“I’m gazing,” he stresses.
And you knew that son of a bitch Robinavitch wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.
You’re going to kill Robby. And maybe Dana, you’re sure she was in on that. And you’ll include Princess and Perlah, too, just to cover your ass.
You made it this far into the night, you suppose. Nice while that lasted.
The beer rests forgotten in the attending’s hand, condensation slipping down the glass. The game on the TV recedes into static. Your silence echoes in his ear and his arm shifts along the back of the couch behind you, fingers flexing.
“You don’t have to get defensive about it, you know. Whatever… looking. Gazing,” he shakes his head, while he sets his beer on the table, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I don’t mind.”
That smell enters your senses again, there and gone before you could focus on it, and you start to think that maybe you’re having a stroke. It’s the only logical explanation—it licks up your spine slowly, spreading over you and burning through your body, and holy shit how is he completely unaffected by this?
The crowd cheering quietly on the TV from a home run—which you’ll be pissed about later—the condensation from your can pooling in a puddle on the coaster, the older man’s body pressed to yours enough to throw you off balance. His arm, strategically placed behind you, is close enough for you to feel, and his legs, once prim and proper, have separated, thigh pressing against yours.
You’re about to lose your fucking mind.
And like always, Jack notices. He notices everything about you.
You press the cold can against your cheek as you groan, trying to ground yourself, but the metal does nothing to cool the heat building low in your spine.
And then that scent teases you again, barely enough and gone before you get a chance to pin it down to anything beyond Jack Abbot’s Natural Pheromones, and you can’t take it anymore.
“Okay, what is that?” you demand. “Is that you?”
Before he has a chance to respond, and before your brain can tell your carnal desire to, like, chill, you’re in motion.
Your first movement is sharp, and deliberate, and probably warranting the intervention of a priest, head snapping towards his as you push off the couch cushion and lean over him, trying to identify the scent invading your brain. Your left knee leverages you by his leg as your right moves behind you for balance.
And you pause.
Your second movement is slow, and hypnotic, and cautious, head dipping to allow your nose to hover above the column of his neck. Belatedly, it occurs to you that you might be crossing the boundary into territory you hadn't realized existed until now, one beyond banter and jokes loaded with yearning. Which is also a crazy thought to have when you’re almost straddling your friend, because obviously that crosses a boundary.
But the heat radiating off the body in front of you is searing.
You know you’re too close, the space between the two of you thinning to a thread, but you don’t think that even God himself could pull you from your place.
His body is firm under you as you trail your nose down, following the flow of blood from his jugular, so close you’re not sure if you’re hearing his heartbeat or yours. You tilt your head slightly, tracking the faint whisper of finally identified sandalwood and tobacco that lingers in the dip where his shoulder comes to meet his collarbone. The scent is intoxicating, earthy and bold, and mixes with underlying sting of antiseptic and of something so fundamentally Jack Abbot.
It clings to him like an omen, sealing your downfall. Head swimming, you decide you would go to war for that combination—you were ready to lay your life down, to become a faithful martyr to his cause.
Jack freezes so imperceptibly that someone less attuned to him might not notice. But you do. You notice the subtle, sharp exhale, the way his shoulders tense and slowly fall just a fraction more sharply than before. His head turns towards you marginally, one hand twitching where it rests on the couch, but not saying a word, and you freeze too because what the fuck has possessed you?
But then you catch the scent again and it feels like stepping directly into the fire, the tension surrounding you, poised and ready to suffocate given the order.
“I’m serious,” you murmur, your voice quieter now. “What is that?”
You’re close now enough to feel the rasp of his unshaven jaw against the soft curve of your cheek.
Jack finally turns his head fully and his piercing gaze drops, catching yours, demanding and unreadable, pinning you in place. And then, with the faintest of smirks tugging at his lips, his reply cuts through the tension like that stupid-ass tactical knife he keeps in his pocket, sharp and teasing, his voice gravelly and steady and casual, “Cologne.”
And fuck him because cologne?
But the way he says it, words low and rough, and the way his body coils, daring you to break first—something that you were more than willing to do, you would do anything he said right now, anything to ensure that not a millimeter of space came between the two of you—robs you of any oxygen that probably at some point surrounded you and feeds it to the embers, leaving none for your taking.
Your lungs constrict, desperately seeking out the air that seems to be in short supply, and a soft gasp is all you can manage. Pathetic, you think.
In front of you, you feel Jack’s muscles tense, pause in measured contemplation.
All at once, he pushes you backwards, crowding you couch, his body closing in like it belongs there. One hand clamps around your waist, dragging you tighter against him, the heat of it searing straight through your clothes and skin and bones and sinew to directly brand your soul. The other trails up your side, singeing sensitive skin, until his thumb hooks beneath your jaw and his fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you there.
He slowly and cautiously leans in, his grip on you tightening. The distance—which you suspect he somehow invented, just to steal it back—shrinks. It could no longer be designated as platonic in any meaning of the word, though you’re starting to wonder if anything was ever platonic between the two of you.
Your voice sounds far away and foreign to your ears, lips barely moving and lungs barely containing enough air to get the word out, “Cologne?”
He hums and leans down further. His nose barely brushes yours and you’re certain the skin melts off of your bones in his wake, “It’s sandalwood and tobacco and called Cowboy,” he whispers, breath intermingling with yours.
And while the space around your bodies seems suspiciously devoid of any breathable air, every breath leaving his lips enters into yours, leaving you lightheaded. Jack’s unwavering eyes drop from where they burn into yours down to your lips.
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and, Jesus Christ, his eyes are sliding shut and he honest to God groans, the talons of desperation clawing up his throat and shredding him from the inside. It escapes low and taut, as if only the only thing holding it together from crumbling under the weight of longing are the last vestiges of his frayed restraint which, admittedly, don’t seem to be faring much better. And then it travels, and it might be the lethal combination of lack of oxygen and too much anticipation and most importantly of Jack, but you think you can see the soundwaves vibrating the air as it advances towards you.
You’ve never heard an angel, but you have never heard a sound so holy.
A traitorous synapse fires and a rogue thought populates in your mind. You gasp as you try to catch your breath, “I thought you weren’t allowed to wear cologne?”
Jack’s eyes stay closed while he releases a slow, resigned sigh. “There is something deeply wrong with you.”
You don’t move.
Neither does he.
The world outside drops away, and all that’s left is the two of you, suspended in a moment so thick with tension, you’re briefly reminded of that Steve Spangler cornstarch experiment.
But the heat between you sharpens, hovers, coils tight in your gut. Your skin prickles, your breath catches, and you can feel him watching you—his gaze heavy, unapologetic, dark with intent. Every brush of fabric against your skin feels louder, every breath sharper.
That the only thing left is to decide who breaks first.
You’ll be damned if it’s you.
Jack just looks at you, eyes dark, jaw tight, like he’s barely holding himself together.
One hand comes to grasp your hip, firm and possessive, and he leans in close enough that his breath ghosts across your cheek, stealing the oxygen back from your lungs and returning it to his own. His mouth doesn’t find yours right away. It just hovers, lips brushing but never meeting.
His half-lidded eyes flick to your mouth, then back.
You try to breathe, try to say something, anything, but your body betrays you—something it seems to do a lot when it comes to the veteran, and maybe you should talk to a medical professional about that—hips shift without thought, chest rising with a quiet desperation to meet him.
And then, slowly, deliberately, he presses forward—his body flush against yours, the unmistakable growing hardness at your stomach drawing a sharp breath from your throat. A thigh between your legs like it has every right to be there.
His mouth finds your jaw, barely skimming it as he pulls the pin on the grenade you toss between one another, “Cat got your tongue?”
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
Because your pulse is pounding, and if he doesn’t touch you properly in the next five seconds, you’re literally going to set his apartment on fire.
And Jack knows it.
He’s the proud policy owner of renter’s insurance and he’s savoring every fucking second of it.
Throwing up a quick sorry, God, damnation it is, you fumble. You move a second too slowly, and that grenade, square in your hands, goes off. You break first.
Your lips brush his and time stops.
His eyes find yours, heavy and half-lidded, and somehow miraculously refocus on you, and you’re looking up at him and the words kiss me for real? drip like honey from your lips and when has he ever been able to deny you anything?
A large palm comes up to cradle the back of your head while he pushes you into the cushions, boxing you in, and then he’s kissing you—fucking finally—trying to make up for every second he had to keep his hands to himself, making up for every minute that he held himself back with the restraint he’s been choking on for months.
And, like everything Jack Abbot does, you’ve come to find out, he crashes over you like a wave. Movements clumsy, he moves to balance one knee between your legs, the other moving to the floor so he can put both hands on you. Without hesitation, his other hand comes up to cup your face, the movement surprisingly gentle compared to the way his lips move over yours, desperate and raw.
He doesn’t even give you a chance.
Another thing you’ve learned about Jack Abbot tonight was there are no such thing as half measures.
His tongue darts out and he swallows the soft moan of surprise that escapes you, and you feel Jack’s grip tighten, his fingers pressing into your skin, anchoring himself to you. The sound seems to rip whatever restraint he had left to shreds, a hunger that was so carefully veiled now spilling forth like the first crack in a dam. His lips trail down and find the hollow between your collarbone and neck, and every sound that you make in response to the deliberate press and drag of his mouth against your skin urges him on, nipping and biting, stealing the taste of a forbidden fruit.
“So responsive,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his lips ghosting along the column of your neck. “How much more can I pull out of you?”
His hands shake as they move from your waist, the small of your back, your neck—searching, anchoring, pressing in and testing the limits of the physical world because he thinks that whatever close this is is not close enough.
And then demonic, disgusting, monkey-brained Mental You whispers in your mind, he should never be pulling out, and you’re batting her away. But it doesn’t help that you agree.
You gasp, and he swallows it whole, palm skating down to grip your thigh as he presses you hard into his couch, his own between your legs flexing, shooting sparks dancing up your spine, the aching between your legs growing unbearable.
None of it is enough.
Not after the way you just fucking sniffed him like a freak.
Not after the way you said his name like a sin he should feel lucky to commit.
When he pulls back, you’re breathless, dazed, lips parted and swollen. He stays close, eyes burning, and brings his thumb to trace your lips.
“I’ve been trying,” he says, breath ragged, “so fucking hard to be patient with you.”
You fuzzily blink, no thoughts, head only full of anticipation and him. “Huh?”
You really try to make sense of what the man above of you is saying, but all he’s done is kiss you, and it’s so unfair because you can feel you soaking wet, and you’re over here in sensory overload and he’s over here trying to speak full sentences.
The response almost makes him laugh, and he probably would have, had the situation been any different. But you’re looking up at him with blown-pupils and shiny lips, and the last of his control shatters.
Warm hands smooth around the sides of your neck, gently yanking you up to him. His mouth descends to yours. Teeth nip at your lips, sharp and possessive, and you can’t help the desperate moan that escapes. He slowly thrusts against you, the motion making you lightheaded.
Suddenly, he’s pulling you off the couch and pushing you toward the bedroom like the demon in you left and entered him, barely keeping it together, and Jesus Christ who designed the floor-plan for this apartment? You’re going to sue the fuck out of them because the space between rooms is offensive.
He finally kicks the door open, half-collapsing onto the bed with you beneath him, and the second the mattress dips beneath your weight, his mouth is on your neck, your chest, your collarbone—biting, licking, tasting everything he’s been fantasizing about. His hands push under your shirt like he’s starving, dragging the fabric up your body with a kind of reverence that borders on desperation.
“You have no idea,” he rasps against your skin, voice shaking, “how many times I’ve pictured this.”
You arch into him, breath catching. “Who are you, Picasso?”
That’s all it takes.
He tears the shirt over your head, mouth following the trail of skin like a man on his knees in prayer—hungry and grateful and, honestly, a little bit unhinged.
When he settles, Jack blinks up at you and freezes.
It’s not lace, just solid black cotton. It shouldn’t punch the air out of his lungs.
But it nearly destroys him.
The way it clings to your skin, simple and unpretentious, it’s so you. If medicine doesn’t work for him, maybe he would go into art, just so he could paint strokes on canvases, not one coming close to capturing your beauty. It makes his heart clench in a way that he doesn’t quite understand. His hands twitch, desperate.
He bites back a groan, head dropping to your hip as if grounding himself, but the ache in his chest only deepens.
“You know,” Jack grunts, voice low and rough, struggling to hold himself together as he unbuttons and yanks your pants, blindly throwing them. “I’m oddly surprised by the amount of muscle you have.” A kiss is pressed right above your knee in emphasis, his tongue slowly moving over the small patch.
His hands don’t hesitate. Fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, he peels the fabric down your hips with forced, deliberate slowness, savoring every second. The cool air rushes to kiss your skin, and the contrast against his heated touch makes your breath hitch.
“Are you kidding?” you stutter out, almost insulted, and then you pull together whatever composure remains in your trembling body. “You know I go to the gym—I can’t be embarrassing myself.”
He drops the fabric somewhere forgotten and leans down, lips grazing along the curve of your thigh, sending electricity lancing through your body. His eyes flick up to meet yours. Too much composure remains in your body for his liking.
His left hand pins your thigh to the mattress, spreading you out, his thumb pressing so close to where you need him.
Slowly, keeping his eyes on yours, he leans in a breath away from your slick heat.
His lips curl into a slow, wicked smile.
“No, you embarrass yourself in other ways,” he agrees, eyes shining up at you.
He finally has you where he wants you.
Laid bare at an altar for his worship.
He closes the distance, licking a broad stripe. Slow. Deliberate.
Holy shit, his mouth is a slick furnace between your folds, it has to be because that’s the only way molten iron could be flowing through your veins, and his tongue comes out and flicks your sensitive nub, humming as he feels you clench.
Your back arches, hands fisting in the sheets or his hair—whatever in your reach, really—breath coming in shuddering waves, every nerve ending lighting up like a struck match. You reach for him—fingers in his hair, nails grazing his scalp—and he groans against you, the vibration rocking down your body.
“Jack—” you gasp.
He glances up, mouth slick. “Something you want?”
He ceases all movement, eyebrows raising in mock question.
You blink, not quite comprehending. “You bastard—”
“What happened to please?” he interrupts smoothly, hands flexing against your thighs.
“What happened to don’t get used to charity?” you snap, or try to, but it lands breathless and woefully unconvincing.
His thumb dips down, and his eyes follow, glued to the sight. The thick digit slowly sinks into your wet heat, before unhurriedly pulling back out. And again. And again, and you think that his degree is actually in ending lives.
Dark eyes flash back up. “Say please.”
You bite down on a moan, retort dying on your lips. Hips thrust, chasing the pressure, shame long gone.
Burned up by the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.
And his stupid fucking hands. You used to love those hands.
Silence stretches between you, taut and breathless.
Then you cave—because you were always going to. Because he knows exactly how to break you apart and make you beg for it.
“…Please.”
His mouth curves, satisfied.
“That’s better,” he murmurs.
His head dips back down, tongue skimming over your pussy, and his eyes slide shut. Groaning, he flexes his arms around your legs, opening you wider, pushing closer, and taking everything your body gives him. A holy communion for his taking.
Your back arches, tension drawing tighter and tighter.
Drawing your clit into his mouth, Jack sucks softly. Blinding pleasure rushes through your veins and your hips buck upwards, seeking out his tongue, clenching on nothing. A soft moan leaves your lips, desperately begging this piece of heaven to never leave your body.
Without mercy, he sinks two fingers into your cunt, draws them back, and slams them in.
“Jack—fuck,” you breathe. “Jack, I-I’m gonna come—”
A gentle encouraging hum fills your ears and you clench down on his hand, fingers curling, pressing against something absolutely fucking devastating deep inside you, and all you can do is gasp his name as burning ecstasy washes over you. You took some science classes back in school, but nothing could have prepared you for the nuclear fission—or, maybe fusion, the classes weren’t that good—that washes through your veins.
You can’t even fucking see. Or hear. The only sense you have is touch, specifically where Jack’s mouth continues, tongue gently flicking your swollen clit, working you through your orgasm.
Dude, what the fuck? you think as he kindly returns your eyesight to you.
He crawls over you, suspiciously absent of clothing, your soft thighs moving to bracket his hips.
“That was a lot of exertion,” your mouth says of its own volition. “Sure you don’t need a break, old man?”
“You’re the one coming apart, sweetheart,” Jack raises a brow, his voice low, the thick head of his cock catching against your entrance and pulling back, teasing. “A challenge, or you just stalling?"
“No idea, can I,” you gasp, breath hitching as the sensation sets off every nerve ending like a chain reaction, “Ph—fuck, phone a friend?”
Jack pauses just long enough to smirk, his breath hot against your jaw, his voice dropping to a rough whisper in your ear. “You really think anyone can help you right now?”
And before you can respond, he shifts his head slightly, his breath dipping lower, and then he bites down. A gasp breaks loose from your lips, sharp and involuntary, as he takes the skin between his teeth, and you whine, high and needy. The arm not supporting his weight snakes around and presses into your lower back, lifting you slightly off of his bed, smearing his precum on your stomach. He wants to hear that sound again, and again, and again.
He wants to see the way your sharp tongue stalls and your words falter and crumble beneath his touch.
It doesn’t matter if it takes all week, he has sixty days of unused PTO and willpower.
But your lips are moving, loaded with a different one. “I’m starting to think you’re stalling.”
“Can’t you just let me enjoy the moment?” he huffs out, already sucking a new blemish into your neck.
“Pretty sure you’re enjoying it enough for both of us.”
“Damn right I am.” Teeth graze the mark he’s just made, tongue following like an apology he has no intention of meaning.
“I’m gonna need an alibi, at this rate.”
He groans against your skin, begging you to stop talking.
Nipping the cord of muscle where your neck meets your shoulder, he mumbles, “I’ll write your statement.”
Your fingers thread in his hair and tug, hard enough to remind him you’re not completely helpless under him and it takes everything in him not to snap. He finally retreats from your neck, lips trailing up and capturing your lips with his.
You push him back with a soft grin. “Just make sure you spell vampire right this time.”
Jesus Christ.
He flashes his teeth at you and drops his head back down. Seeking out an unblemished spot on your neck, he bites down. The pain blooms hot, chased immediately by a wave of heat that pulses low in your body.
He slowly pushes into you with a broken groan, burying his head in your neck. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, sparks shooting up and down your spine. Your hands scrabble at his back, gripping hard, needing more—needing him. He holds you there, slowly stretching you open, and you seize in his grip, mouth open in a soundless cry as the all-consuming feeling of fucking finally crashes over you both.
He’s trembling. You feel it in the tight line of his body, the way his breath stutters against your neck, and then he exhales, guttural and wrecked.
“Jesus,” he whispers. “You feel—fuck—you feel like heaven.”
He doesn’t move at first. Just leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath ragged and hot between you. The cool drag of his dog-tags skims your chest with every sharp exhale. He wants to take his time—to drag this out until it’s unbearable. He wants you below him and moaning until your vocal cords don’t have anything left. He wants to burn every second of this in his memory.
“Jack, please,” you whisper, voice already frayed at the edges. You’ll be angry at yourself about this later, about Abbot making you so needy that you can’t even speak. You need him to fucking move, to do something, anything. “God, please.”
You say it again, and again, each repetition thinner, rawer. Like the word alone might crack him open, might finally tip the scale in your favor. “I need—” You break off with a gasp, hips shifting in a silent, wordless demand, but he still doesn’t budge.
“Please,” you try again, throat tight, lips brushing his. “I can’t… I need you to move. I need you.” It tumbles out now, shameless and urgent. “I want you. I’ve been good, I’ve waited—”
He stills like he’s savoring every syllable you offer up like prayer—like penance—his body tensing against yours, hand tightening its grip on you. He hears you.
He just wants to hear more.
“Please.” It’s broken now. Desperate. “Don’t make me beg—” but you already are, and you’d do it again, if that’s what it took to get him to fucking move.
“It’s okay, sweet girl,” he breathes into your lips. “I’m magnanimous, remember?”
And then his hips snap forward, rough, and your broken moan ricochets off the walls of his apartment. He’d be very, very shocked if there weren’t a noise complaint tomorrow, but he couldn’t care less. He wants fifty noise complaints by sunrise, minimum.
You gasp, sharp and shuddering, clawing at his shoulders like the only way to stay grounded is to anchor yourself in him. Your thighs tighten around his waist without thinking, dragging him closer, and the new angle presses him deeper, stars dancing behind your eyes. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, each one more brutal than the last, making up for the torturous stillness that came before.
Your back arches, trying to take more, begging him to give more, and he meets you there—half-growling into your neck, hands mapping, afraid if he stops, you’ll vanish. Like this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch you, and he’s determined to make it count.
He drags a hand down your body, teeth scraping against your shoulder as he mutters, “You asked me to move, sweetheart.” But he’s already unraveling too, eyes dark and unfocused, pace punishing. You don’t know where you end and he begins—all you know is the burn, the ache, the obscene need spiraling tighter and tighter between you.
There’s nothing careful left in him. Just possession. Just hunger.
“Fuck,” he grunts. “That’s really all you needed to stop talking, huh? Just needed me to fuck you?”
Your answer is a gasp, his name falling from your lips like a prayer—cracked and corrupt. He drinks it in like it’s holy, like the sound of it is sacred when it’s coming from you in this state—wrecked, open, begging. He groans, deep and guttural, like the name alone nearly breaks him. “Say it again.”
“Jack—” breathless, sobbed, nearly swallowed by the slap of skin and the scrape of his breath at your ear.
He could die like this. Right here. Right now. Buried in you, name on your tongue, legs locked tight around him like you’d never let him leave. He’d march into hell for you.
“God—fuck,” he pants, losing rhythm for a moment, hips stuttering. “L-like you were made for me.”
You tighten around him at that, a pulse he feels in every nerve, and he shudders like it’s too much, like your body’s trying to drag the soul from his chest. And maybe you are. You probably will.
He brings your wrist clasped in his hand by your head, the other slipping between your bodies to find your clit, rough fingers moving in tight circles, aching to push you closer to the edge with him.
“You feel that?” he growls, almost desperate now, voice roughened by strain. “You ruin me.”
“Jack—” you cry out, high and trembling, and that’s all it takes.
He’s relentless now—driving into you like he’s chasing something only your body can give him. Each thrust lands deeper, harder, pulling broken sounds from your throat before you can even catch them.
You try to focus on anything—the iron grip of his hands on your wrist, the cool scrape of his dog tags between your breasts, the hot press of his mouth at your neck—but it’s all a blur. Nothing anchors you. Not when your body’s burning up from the inside out, tightening around him with every punishing roll of his hips.
“Look at me,” he grits out, voice ragged, pleading. “Come on, baby—look at me.”
You do, barely, your vision swimming, and the second your eyes meet his—dark and wild and so fucking gone—you snap. Your body seizes under him, climax crashing over you like a wave with no warning, no mercy. You cry out, shattered and gasping, every nerve ending alight and pulsing.
“That’s my girl,” he pants.
Your responding Jack is high and needy and he didn’t think his cock could get any harder but he swears to fucking God he almost blacks out.
He growls your name like a curse, and then he’s gone—hips snapping forward one final time as he buries himself deep, spilling into you with a sharp, strangled moan. His whole body seizes against yours, trembling with the force of it, and you cling to him like he’s the only thing holding you to earth. His whole body trembles, breath tearing from his throat like he’s breaking apart inside you.
He stays buried deep, gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
Like if he moves too fast, it’ll all come undone.
His weight presses down on top of you. The furthest thing from holy, your muscles still twitching from the aftershocks, his softening cock still in you, and you think you might start begging again, this time to never move from you. He inhales in your neck, slowly his lips find yours once more to press a kiss—slow, reverent—to the corner of your mouth.
It must be holy to feel so pure.
Your hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading into sweat-damp hair.
He sighs, low and wrecked. “Jesus Christ, kid.”
You’re still trying to find your fucking lungs and tell them get it together, we have work to do, as you scratch your nails on his scalp.
Eventually, you whisper, lips barely parting, “Jack, where is that fucking pizza we ordered?”
+ Jealous
Summary: You’re jealous of Dr. Walsh.
+Free Fallin'
Summary: On your birthday, your best friend convinces you to celebrate in a big way. The night takes a wild turn when you get a little too rowdy and accidentally fall off a bar table, ending up in the emergency room. There, you meet the charming and handsome Doctor Abbot.
+The Newlyweds
Summary: You and Jack are enjoying married life.
+My Home is at Your Doorstep
Summary: You, a social worker working on a case, are involved in supporting a patient facing the prospect of amputation. Feeling somewhat unequipped—you decide to reach out to Jack on his day off, asking if he would be willing to assist you in discussing the situation with the patient.
+Rebel Cowboy
Summary: You are a lawyer representing Jack after a patient's mother files a lawsuit on claims of misrepresentation and ethical misconduct. Initially, your focus is solely on ensuring that your client’s reputation remains intact. However, over time, the lines start to blur between your objectivity—and personal attachment to your client.
╰┈➤ +Firecracker
╰┈➤ +French Toast and Nutella
╰┈➤ +Random Drabble: Parent Teacher Conference
+Sometimes…
Summary: You meet a handsome doctor during an unexpected airport delay while travelling over the holidays.
summary: you stop providing camgirl services to your clients when you start your residency. except you can't let go of your favorite client, who, as you quickly find out, is your new attending physician for the next four years. he recognizes you immediately and is ready to stake his claim.
warnings: 18+! camgirl reader obvi, sex work, fear of sex work revealed to hospital coworkers, pushy patient (tries to set up reader w her son), mentions of clientele as a camgirl, possessive jack, jealous jack, inappropriate workplace relationship SUE ME!!!
notes: erg this has been in my drafts for so long and the "i'll pay for it" scene last week was the inspo i needed to finally finish! i don't get much into camgirl smut but trust its on the way. also jack's screen name "SgtMD" is pronounced "Sergeant, M.D."
masterlist 𓊔 request 𓊔 tag list
Two jobs would keep anyone busy. Juggling another job during your first year of residency?
Forget about it.
All throughout medical school, you balanced clinicals and classes with your camgirl gig. Study sessions were interrupted by scheduled video calls. You’d set up your laptop on your dresser, aim it toward your bed, and shrug your hoodie off before dialing whichever gentleman requested your services that night.
There were nearly two dozen clients who you met with regularly over the past three years.
Some showed their faces. Some just showed their lap. Some only spoke, urging you on verbally with no other input. Some wanted a show from you and nothing more. Some of them gave you too much information-- full names, jobs, routing numbers, and home addresses.
None of which you ever used. You were strictly providing online services: Video chats only. Other forms of communication, like your business email, were very explicitly limited to scheduling inquiries only. Any client who refused those boundaries was nixed and replaced with someone from your waiting list.
Since graduating with your doctorate in May, you’ve phased clients out. There wouldn’t be enough time to balance all of them with the demands of your intern year.
So, you let your clients know that you’re no longer in service due to a career change. You offer one more call for each of them as a last hoorah (final paycheck) and go your separate ways.
But there was one client that you can’t bring yourself to let go.
SgtMD
He was your third client ever. You’d seen him at least three times a week for the last three years, and looked forward to each meeting with a pounding heart and heated cheeks.
Each time SgtMD booked a call, he showed his torso. Always clad in a plain, black shirt with large biceps and broad shoulders, never anything else. There was a hint of silver stubble that trickled down his neck sometimes, usually on your first call of each week. A tuft of dark armpit hair you saw once when he stretched his arms above his head.
And SgtMD likes to talk.
He likes to tell you how beautiful you are. Likes to ask you to twirl around in the new lingerie he sent to you and then laugh darkly each time you obey. He likes telling you to “Take it slow, sweetheart. Just like that, yeah. Don’t worry about the extra time, I’ll pay for it.”
And you like him.
Most clients don’t make you finish. They want you to shake your ass or flash your tits or tell them they’re “such a good boy”. Nobody wants to see you come apart like SgtMD.
So, when you move to Pittsburgh to start your residency, you dropped them all... Except SgtMD. To him, you sent:
You: Hi, Sarge. I’m about to start a new job and my hours will be a little different. I want to see you as often as I can. I will email as soon as I have a fixed schedule so that we can plan to call. Remember you can always ask. Please don’t be shy. Your next few sessions are free since I’m changing things up on you. I hope I can see you soon.
His returning email came within two minutes.
SgtMD: Hey, Sweetheart. I’ll pay. Are you free at 5? I know it’s last minute, but it’s my birthday. I want to see you.
You: Happy birthday, Sarge. 5 o’clock is perfect. Am I invited to the birthday party?
SgtMD: It’s a date, then. No party, I’m working tonight.
So, the afternoon before your first shift as a resident, you find yourself baking a cake for him. It’s silly. It’s inappropriate. It’s crossing every boundary that you’ve ever established as a sex worker. And, really, there’s no point in making it, because you’ll end up eating it alone when you get off your shift at 8 a.m., anyway.
Yet still, here you are, logged onto the call at 5 p.m. on the dot with a lit candle. Your black scrubs are folded outside of the frame, ready for you to throw on once you’re off camera.
Now, you’re wearing a pretty white lace set that SgtMD bought you for your birthday last year. You’re not sure he remembers, but something tells you he just might. He’s thoughtful, in the unconventional ways that a man can be thoughtful with a sex worker.
He remembers your birthday every year. He sends you flowers each time he orders a new lingerie set for you. Every holiday there’s a bouquet waiting for you at the post office with a sweet, hand-written note.
You keep them all posted to a corkboard in your bedroom next to other keepsakes like photos with your friends and concert tickets.
The screen dings, and you see his image pop up. His broad, thick shoulders taking up the whole frame. Black shirt tugging between his large pecs, and the typical trail of grey stubble down his Adam’s apple.
“Happy birthday.” You grin into the camera.
“Thank you, sweetheart. Always so thoughtful, so good for me.” His voice is as rough and deep as always. It winds a knot in your stomach. “Blow that out for me.”
You purse your lips and blow a gentle puff of air onto the cake, the warm illumination leaving your face.
“What does the candle say?” He asks. You catch a glimpse of the ends of his hair as he tilts his head. Auburn and grey. Fucking hot.
“It’s just a 1.” The temperature is warmer under your embarrassment than it was with the open flame of the candle. “I thought it’d be a nice gift if I told you that you’re the only client I see now. The only one.”
He leans back slightly as if your words have physically stunned him. Running a big hand over his neck, he exhales slowly.
“Wait, sweetheart. Are you just saying that? Or is it really just me?” You wish you could see his face. Usually, his lack of personal identifiers isn’t something that bothers you. It’s easy to understand why someone wouldn’t want to stare at themselves while they were on a call of this nature.
But here, now, you wanted to see if there was a blush on his cheeks. You wanted to know if he looked excited or concerned.
“It’s just you, Sarge.”
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
Two hours and three orgasms later, you're walking through the doors of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center for your first shift. It’s the most he’s ever gotten out of you, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t ready to fall asleep after so much stimulation.
But it’s only 7 p.m.. Night shifts have always been your preference. Even before getting a job in medicine, you preferred the overnight stocking gigs or the late night video chats.
You like the dark. The night is gentle and unpredictable.
“Hi,” you greet the charge nurse at the hub with a small smile, tucking your bag into one of the cubbies under the desk. “It’s my first day. Do you have any idea where I can find Dr. Gloria Underwood?”
The blonde woman nods once, and you look over your shoulder to find her already walking toward you. You’d met Gloria once previously over the summer when you had a virtual interview for the resident position. It was a panel of her, one of the day-shift attendings, and a few of the hospital board members.
“Welcome!” She greets cheerfully, but there’s a franticness in her wide eyes. “My gosh, it’s a bit hectic around here today. Usually I’d be the one showing you the ropes, but I’ve got a meeting with corporate and-”
“No worries,” you excuse, waving your palm. “Things get busy, I understand.”
“I like you already.” Her gaze trails to the other side of the nurses’ station. There’s two men, both in black, both looking at the screen of a tablet. “These are your attending physicians, Dr. Jack Abbot and Dr. John Chen. I’ll introduce you and they’ll walk you through everything you need to know.”
One of them is older, a stubble across his jaw and neck that glints under these harsh lights. He’s handsome, with light grey curls and dark eyes. Freckles smatter over his entire body as far as you can see. Face, neck, arms, hands, all covered in evidence of long summer days.
Next to him is the younger doctor, with a head of full, dark hair that matches his deep brown eyes. He’s also sporting stubble, though his is darker and shorter, closer to a shadow than anything else.
Before you can respond to Gloria, she’s already sweeping you over to the two men. As you get closer, you realize that Dr. Abbot isn’t wearing a black scrub top like Dr. Shen. Instead, he dons a plain black tee that reminds you all too much of SgtMD and the meeting you had before this.
It’s bad that you miss him. You know it’s wrong. It’s inappropriate. It’s probably unhealthy on some level.
But nobody has ever made you feel the way he does. Nobody has taken care of you so well. Nobody has ever shown you so much affection in their words and actions. And you’ve never wanted to return that care and affection before.
You shake your head as if it will manually remove the thought from your brain.
“Jack, John, this is your new resident,” Gloria introduces you.
“Only one this year?” Dr. Shen raises his thick eyebrows. “Are we broke?”
You snort, but quickly cover it up with a cough when Gloria’s sharp eyes dart to where you’re still standing at her side.
“Nobody wants to work nights,” she huffs. “Would the two of you please show her the ropes? I’m late for a budget meeting.”
Again, she’s halfway down the hallway before she gets a response.
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you both,” you say with a soft smile. Your eyes catch on Dr. Abbot’s slack-jawed face.
Your heart drops, realizing you’ve already made a bad first impression on one of the only people that matters here.
“I’m sorry about the inconvenience. I’m sure you’ve both already got enough to do without babysitting me through your shift.” A wince threatens to pinch your face in apology, but you try to remain confident.
“No need! Happy to help our residents.” Shen hands you the tablet they were both reading. “I’m going to do hand-off with Robby. Read over this chart and tell Abbot what your next steps would be.”
“Is everything ok?” You ask Abbot quietly once Shen is out of hearing range. “I’m sure the having-me-shadow-you thing is annoying. I promise you won’t even know I’m there.”
His head snaps to you, heated eyes meeting yours. His short curls have dashes of auburn throughout them that you can see now up close. His eyes are dark, pupils blown as he stares at your face.
“I’ll know you’re there.” There’s an edge to his voice that sends a shiver up your spine.
“What?” Your brows meet in the middle of your forehead at that. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Abbot, I don’t understa-”
You’re cut off by another doctor slinging an arm around Abbot’s shoulders and pulling him in for a hug.
“Happy birthday, brother.” He smacks his back hard.
Your heart sinks to your stomach as you piece it together. The black tee shirt, the auburn hair, the broad shoulders, your reaction to his voice. The birthday.
Holy fucking shit.
Dr. Jack Abbot is SgtMD.
Your new attending physician is the faceless man you’ve pined after for the last three years. He’s the man who sent you the earrings you’re currently wearing. Small, modest studs with a little emerald stone that he said was his favorite color.
Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Quickly, you snatch the tablet close to your chest, as if the secret truth is announcing itself on the screen, and move a few feet away. You try to tune out the waves of anxiety wracking through your body at the realization that he’s here and he’s hot and he’s staring at you while having an entire conversation with the attending you recognize from your interview.
The chart.
The thing you just spent the last 8 years of your life working for is here in front of you. You cannot let your personal life get in the way of accomplishing this.
The air you inhale is sterile. You breathe it out and let your eyes scan the chart.
13 y/o female ℅ SOB at rest. Sats 90. No hx of asthma. Sudden onset after tackle injury in lacrosse game Friday. PCP prescribed inhaler, no improvement.
The possible diagnoses flit through your head, overriding the anxiety of your personal life catching fire between these walls.
This is what you’re here for. To practice medicine. To be a doctor.
“You look at the chart?” Shen comes next to you. He makes a slurping sound as he pulls coffee through his already-empty cup. The clock just struck 7:01 p.m.. One minute into the shift. How is his drink gone already?
“I did. My first thought was a fractured rib that punctured the lung, but I don’t see any symptoms other than shortness of breath. Surely she’d complain of pain if there were a rib injury. My next thought is a respiratory illness unrelated to the injury-- still, sats are really low for a young, active girl. Hard to find a bullseye here,” you relay your thought process to him. He takes the chart, nodding as he reads through it again.
“I agree. So what should we order?” His dark eyes are much softer and sweeter than Abbot’s. You blink the thought of him away quickly, refocusing on the question.
“CBC, BMP, ABG, ECG, and BNP.” Your answer comes quickly. “ And maybe a D-dimer depending on what medications she’s taking. I didn’t any listed in the chart.”
He smiles widely and nods, revealing the stereotypical adrenaline-junkie smile that all emergency doctors seem to possess.
“Right on. Let’s go get her from intake.” He claps your shoulder and leads the way.
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
Shen takes you under his wing for the first half of the shift. He walks you through how to read and work the board, introduces you to every staff member that walks by, and shares plenty of stories-- comedy and horror-- of his time spent at PTMC.
When 1 a.m. rolls around and you’ve shadowed him through most types of cases, he cuts you loose.
“I need a coffee, and you need a patient,” he sighs, looking up at the board. “What do you see?”
“I can do the debridement in Central 9,” you suggest, turning to face him.
“Perfect. Go get ‘em, tiger.” Another clap on the shoulder and he’s leaving you.
You review the patient chart on the tablet before you enter the room. No matter how many patients you treated as a student doctor, it’s still nervewracking to go into a room alone. After rereading the chart, taking a deep breath, and letting the yawn you’ve been holding in for six hours go, you’re finally ready.
“Hi, Mrs. Sanchez,” you greet your patient as you enter the room. You introduce yourself and wince at the sight of the wound on her leg. “Gosh, this looks like it hurts. What happened?”
“I was taking the stupid dog out to the bathroom. He needs to go out on a leash because we live on a big property.” Her face crumples into a cute frown. “He took off and pulled me through the gravel backyard. He hates me, I swear!”
You sigh, shaking your head.
“Doesn’t sound like he has your best interest at heart,” you agree, earning a small grin. You pull the stool to her bedside and snap on a pair of gloves. “What breed is your dog?”
“My dog!?” She scoffs, wiping the smile off her face instantly. “No! My son’s. Little rat bastard that I never wanted in the first place.”
“The son or the dog?” You tease, opening the instruments on the sterile tray next to you. She chokes out a stream of laughter that lasts the entire time you’re unwrapping, earning a few giggles from you as she tries and fails to regain her composure.
“Things are going well in here, I see.” A familiar voice says from the doorway. Abbot steps into the room, rubbing sanitizer into his hands before looking at the patient chart. “I’m Dr. Jack Abbot, I’m the attending physician here.”
“This is Mrs. Hilaria Sanchez,” you introduce your patient because she’s still laughing too hard to get a word out. You’re wearing a wide smile of your own as you glance back at her. “She was taking her son’s dog out when he took off and dragged her.”
“Yeah?” He says it almost unconsciously, and still, heat pools between your legs. He isn’t even looking at you, and you’re quick to turn back to your patient before he does. The last thing you need is for him to realize the effect he has on you. “Should I be concerned about a hospital-induced laughing spell, Mrs. Sanchez?”
She snorts, wiping tears from under her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt.
“She’s just a very funny doctor!” She giggles again, and you can’t help the amused chuckle that tumbles from your own lips as you grab her a tissue from the counter.
“I said one thing!” You retort through your own laughter. “Ok, ok. We have to stop laughing so I can get these pebbles out of your leg. Talk about something else, please, Dr. Abbot.”
You’re careful not to look at him when you address him out of fear that he won’t react to you the way you do to him.
That’s one thing that used to bother you about Jack SgtMD. Since he never showed his face online, you could never tell if he was enjoying what you were doing, really. He’d groan and tell you how good you looked. You’d catch his strong arms moving sometimes, stroking himself off camera at a slow, steady pace.
Once, last year, he’d finished and came so hard that cum shot up into frame, dirtying his pressed black shirt. It was dirty and impulsive and he was so out of breath, you remember. You came immediately after him that day.
“How old is your son?” He prompts as he hands you the tweezers and sets the discard tray on the bedside next to her wounded calf. Again, you’re jolted back into the moment.
“He’s 25. That’s about your age, no?” She looks at you as she blots under her eyes with the tissue.
“Just about,” you reply, dropping the first rock into the tray. “What does he do?”
“He’s a lawyer,” she responds proudly. “And he’s very handsome. And single.”
You and Abbot both snort at the same time.
“Are you trying to set me up on a date with the same son you just called a ‘rat bastard’?” You raise your brows playfully at her before turning your attention back to the leg.
“Oh, please! You know I meant the dog!” She chuckles, swatting at your arm and missing by a mile. “I’m telling you. You two would be good together. Two attractive, successful young people.”
“Unfortunately, she’s taken,” the man behind you answers before you can even open your mouth.
You turn your head to face him, eyes wide as saucers as you process his words.
Did he actually just stake his claim like that?
Heat floods your face, neck, and ears as you reorient toward your patient’s leg. The sight of him there, in that same tight black shirt he was wearing earlier today when he had you beg him to stop making you cum, is too much.
“That’s too bad. I’m sure my son is cuter!” She winks.
You give your best chuckle despite the rising temperature, continuing the tedious task of plucking each piece of dirt and gravel from her six-by-three wound.
For longer than he should, Abbot hovers over your shoulder, humming each time you do something well.
It’s almost odd seeing his face. You’d never considered what SgtMD might look like. Based on the build of his torso and the grit of his voice, you knew he would be hot, and that was really enough to satisfy the knots he managed to unwind.
You were used to knowing clients only by their screen names and what they chose to show. It wasn’t a big deal, it was the nature of the business.
But this morning, it did bother you, just for a fleeting moment.
First, it bothered you not knowing what name to write on his cake. You weren’t going to write Happy Birthday, SgtMD on top of your pretty white buttercream frosting. Something about that name had been… defiled.
SgtMD was the man who coaxes orgasms with only his instruction, never a finger laid on your body but still managing to light you up with desire.
Happy Birthday, Jack would have been much more fitting.
Jack is the man who pays you for every session, even the ones where you’re ten minutes late because you had to finish a timed quiz or hit every red light on your way home from the library. He’s the one who insists on buying you pretty lingerie. Sexy, of course, but beautiful. Handsewn pieces custom made to fit the measurements he asked you for.
A little ache splits your heart as you face the new reality of your situation.
He recognized you. He knew you. Not your name, maybe, but your face. From where he’s standing over you, he’s observing the hands that he’s seen knuckle-deep in your pussy. It’s not new for him, just for you.
And as much as it embarrasses you to admit it, it upsets you a little bit. Makes you feel guilty for not being able to know his name from your residency offer letter and reject it.
And seeing his reaction this morning, him having to process your presence alone while you apologized for something entirely unrelated-- it releases a strange guilt that climbs up your throat.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say without thinking first, because you desperately need reassurance that you haven’t managed to go and fuck up your professional and personal life by being here.
You want him to tell you that everything is alright, that he’s not disgusted by you, that this doesn’t ruin his fantasy of you, that he won’t march to HR as soon as the shift ends and tell them that he can’t work with you because you have an inappropriate relationship.
You swallow hard, not knowing what to say now.
“Do you think this area needs a stitch?” Is all that comes to mind.
His dark eyes feel all-consuming, and suddenly you’re grateful that he never showed them during your calls, because the pressure of having to make yourself finish while he gave you this stare would be far too intimidating.
It isn’t unkind, it’s just-- intense. Everything he’s done today, actually, has been rather intense.
He bends down, and the smell of mint swarms your senses. His chest presses against your shoulder as he squints, searching for the made-up bleeder.
“Where?” Fuck that voice is even better in person. The breath of it brushes your ear just barely, and you suck in a sharp breath.
Instead of answering verbally, you point to a random spot on the wound with your tweezers. He looks from you, to the not-bleeding area of skin, back to you.
“Stitches?” Mrs. Sanchez asks, looking up from where she’s been scrolling on her phone.
“No, ma’am,” He reassures her quickly with a shake of his head. She nods, and he turns his gaze back to you. “I see why you thought to ask. Come find me after you’re done here and I can explain why it doesn’t need a stitch. I’ll be charting if you need me. Feel better soon, Mrs. Sanchez.”
He stands quickly, sheds his gloves into the waste bin, and leaves the room.
“Do you think it’s ok to add non-famous people to a hall pass list?” Your patient asks as soon as the door shuts behind him. Slowly, you lift your gaze from her leg to her face, arching a brow in question. “That Dr. Abbot is… phew!”
She fans herself with her fingers, eliciting a hearty laugh from you as you continue working and thinking about your attending because… phew is right.
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
Mrs. Sanchez is discharged shortly after you finish the grueling task of removing each piece of gravel from her open wound and wrap it under Donnie’s supervision. There’s a sharp ache across the entire length of your shoulders.
“Shoulders?” Shen asks as you sit down to chart, noting your pained wince.
“I was hunched over that leg for two hours.” You blink hard. “I’m seeing little pieces of gravel everytime I close my eyes.”
He laughs, wiping condensation from his drink with a sterile towel.
“Is she ready to be discharged?” He looks at the board. “We could use her room.”
“Actually, she’s been discharged. Just waiting for her son to get here and pick her up,” you say through a bite of the granola bar you keep in your scrub top. “He’s a lawyer.”
“Is she trying to set you up with her son?” He snorts, shaking his head as he looks toward the patient room where she’s rifling through her purse. “You’ll get used to it. Happens at least once a day. Everyone wants their kids to date a doctor for some reason.”
He leaves, taking his coffee with him into a patient room.
Just as you’ve found a comfortable position and typed out the first sentence of your patient care summary, Lena raps her knuckles from the other side of the counter. When you look up, you make eye contact with the man next to her.
He’s about your age, with dark, curly brown hair and a tanned complexion. Both features that match Mrs. Sanchez, who you turn to find excitedly waving at you both through the glass door of her exam room.
Laughing, you stand up and extend your hand in greeting as you introduce yourself.
“You’re Mrs. Sanchez’s son, I assume?” You ask as you round the counter. He nods, scratching the back of his neck.
“I guess it’s safe to assume that all the matchmaking texts I was getting were being relayed to you, then?” He breathes out a nervous laugh.
You chuckle in response, pulling your lips between your teeth before releasing them with another quick laugh. Before you can respond, you hear your name called from down the hallway. Abbot is walking over, and you note the slight unevenness of his footsteps.
So many quirks, and you want to know them all. You want to know him. All of him.
“You discharging Mrs. Sanchez?” He asks, leaning in to glance at the tablet in your hand, not once looking at the man beside you. You nod, maintaining his heavy eye contact. “Great. Mind if I observe?”
You shake your head, then gesture between the two men.
“This is Mrs. Sanchez’s son. He’s here to take her home. This is my attending physician, Dr. Jack Abbot,” you introduce the two of them to each other, taking note of the way Jack nods without a smile. On the way to her room, you stop to grab a wheelchair from the side wall of the hallway, but Jack takes it quickly, pushing it on his own. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”
He pulls the door to the room open, waiting for you to walk through. Shyly, you cast a smile in his direction and step inside.
For such a gentleman, you’re surprised he isn’t being welcoming to Mr. Sanchez. Surely, he isn’t jealous. Right?
“Hey, mom.” Her son enters right after you, moving to her bedside to place a kiss to her hair. “I’m so sorry this happened.”
They spend a moment arguing over the son’s dog while you sort her discharge paperwork and Jack prepares the wheelchair.
When you turn to face the bed again, Mrs. Sanchez points to you.
“Mijo, this is the girl I was telling you about. See? Very pretty, very sweet, very very smart. She’s a doctor, you know?” She nudges his side.
“This is your discharge paperwork, Mrs. Sanchez,” you say in an attempt to change the subject. “There’s instructions for how to rebandage the wound on this page. You’ll want to do it twice a day, when you wake up and when you go to sleep, ok?”
She nods, taking the packet of paperwork.
“Your leg may be a little bit tender. A little pain is normal as the skin heals, but if it gets too uncomfortable to bear weight, or if you start noticing any foul smells or pus coming from the wound, it could be a sign of infection. Come back in as soon as possible if that happens, alright?”
She nods and hands the paperwork to her son as Jack helps to transfer her into the wheelchair. He does it easily, lifting her body off of the bed and into the cushioned seat.
As he does, every muscle ripples down his arm. Somehow, every inch of him is huge. Fingertip to his bicep, where the tee blocks the rest of his arm from view, you watch his skin dimple as it flexes with his movements.
“Does she need to be on any antibiotics or anything?” Her son asks, bringing your attention away from Jack’s arms and back to him.
“Um, no. She’s all set to go.” You smile politely.
“I’ll walk them out,” Jack says, nodding to you. “Can you notify Lena that this room is ready to be cleaned, please?”
You nod, holding the door as he pushes Mrs. Sanchez through the threshold. She hooks a finger into your scrub pocket as she’s pushed out, winking coyly. Although you don’t understand, you smile and wave, wishing her a good rest of her night.
“Central 9 is ready to be cleaned,” you tell Lena as you approach the nurse’s station again. She gives a thumbs up and picks up the phone, nodding to the board. Pediatric bone break in South 12, and she’s writing your name into the box next to it.
You head there, smiling softly when you enter the room and introduce yourself.
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
You pick up cases for the rest of your shift, bouncing from room to room and having no time between check-ins to chart.
“God, it’s nice having another resident,” Ellis tells you as she plops down across from you to chart.
You grin, fingers clacking away as you hurry to document everything as quickly as you can. It’s already 6:45 a.m., the day shift is trickling in, and you have eight charts to start and complete before you can leave.
“Do you have a minute?” You swivel on your stool to see Jack standing at your desk. “I wanted to discuss the bleeder you asked about earlier with Mrs. Sanchez.”
Swallowing hard, you nod, standing to follow him. His limp is more pronounced now after a shift on his feet, and you wonder what he’s dealing with.
The continued reminders that you don’t really know him at all are both aggravating and unnerving.
“How was your first shift?” He asks you, leading you to a window that overlooks the bridge. It’s far from the swing of things, nestled between a staircase and elevator.
Only the two of you are here for the moment, but anyone could walk down the stairs or exit the elevators.
He’s staring out, watching the occasional car drive by.
“Um, it was good, thank you,” you reply nervously. “How was your birthday?”
He faces you then, a smirk tugging one corner of his lip up.
“Best one so far,” he says simply. His eyes are so full of something, not emotion, but-- passion, maybe? You aren’t sure what to call it, but it’s incredibly difficult to maintain eye contact and even more difficult to look away. “I realize I made you uncomfortable this morning, and I’m sorry. I was just-- surprised to see you.”
“What?” You frown, stepping back in surprise. “Dr. Abbot, you didn-- no! Oh my gosh, no, not at all! I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. I promise I had no idea that you work here. Really, I didn’t mean to ambush you or surprise you or ruin what we have.”
You snap your mouth shut so hard that you have to run your tongue along your teeth to make sure none of them chipped from the force.
The corner of his mouth raises higher, but he says nothing.
“Is this ok? Me working here, I mean.”
You hate how desperate you sound. The feeling sits low in your stomach, bubbling with anxiety as his silence continues.
“What kind of cake was it?” He stares back out the window.
“What?” You ask stupidly for the second time before realization dons on you. “Oh. It’s vanilla. With a whipped buttercream. I had some leftover batter, so there’s cupcakes, too. Actually, there’s two in my lunchbox if you want one.”
“You made me a cake from scratch?” He chuckles darkly. “You brought it to work?”
A bead of sweat runs from your hairline down the nape of your neck, and you wipe it anxiously. Shrugging, you wince a little at how pathetic he’s making you sound.
It’s not like you knew SgtMD would be here.
“You’re a sweet girl,” he comments, and you feel heat pool between your thighs.
Instinctively, you cross your legs and look down at your feet.
“I should probably get back to charting.” You wipe your sweaty palms off on the knees of your scrubs and push yourself to stand.
He follows, towering over you. Then, silently, he dips his hand into the front pocket of your scrub pants.
It’s only for a moment, but the heat from his palm makes your breath catch in your throat.
His hand emerges with a piece of paper between his pointer and middle fingers.
“You don’t need this. You’re seeing someone, remember?” His head tilts to the side, as if testing you. Your eyes flit to the paper he’s holding, something you don’t recognize.
“I-I-- what is that?” You pout your lips and return your gaze to his face, finding his eyes fixed on your mouth. Your pout gets more dramatic as he further confuses you. “Dr. Abbot?”
“Don’t call me that.” It’s stern. “Jack. I’m Jack.”
“Jack,” you repeat softly. It’s your first time saying it out loud. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He drags a hand down his face, laughing like you wear him out. The sight makes your heart skip a beat.
This look on his face. This is what you craved from him online, and here it is.
It was worth the three-year wait, no doubt.
Jack tucks the paper into his pocket and his eyes dart to something over your shoulder. You turn, following his gaze to find a man entering the double doors. Jack places a hand just above the curve of your ass, urging you back into the main ED.
“Robby!” He calls, dropping his hand, but motioning for you to follow with a tilt of his head. The man entering the ED turns, and you recognize him as the one who wished Jack a happy birthday this morning. The same man from your interview. “This is our new resident. I don’t think you two met this morning.”
He shakes his head, gaze moving between the two of you briefly before settling on your face.
“We did not. I’m Michael Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robby.” He extends his hand for you to shake, and you do, hoping you don’t look as fucked-out as you feel. When you tell him your name, he surprises you by saying, “I remember. I sat in on one of your interviews. Hard to forget someone with such an impressive resume.”
You laugh, waving your hand in front of you to dismiss his praise.
“Oh gosh, thanks Dr. Robby.” Nervously you glance at Jack, who is giving you an appraising look. “I’m really behind on charting, so I should probably get to that. It was great to meet you, I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe we could grab dinner sometime,” he suggests, and Jack clears his throat.
You were almost sure that he was merely suggesting a space to talk more about your resume. Almost.
“I’d love for the three of us to get together!” You play stupid on purpose. “I just moved to Pittsburgh so I could definitely use the restaurant recommendations. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
You catch Jack’s sneaky grin from the corner of your eye as you turn on your heels to go back to your computer station.
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
An hour later, the sweet smell of buttercream enters your nostrils. You hear a crinckling and turn quickly to see Jack looming over you.
“Holy shit,” you gasp, clutching your chest. “How long have you been here?”
He’s just standing there, holding your lunchbox and unwrapping your cupcake.
You have no idea how he knew it was yours, but alas, here you are.
He sets the lunchbox onto the counter next to you and pulls a stool from another charting station. Sidling next to you, he leans too far into your space, disregarding all professional boundaries.
“This is really good,” he praises. “You spelt ‘oophorectomy’ wrong.”
“Where?” You move closer to the screen, scanning your patient history portion of your last chart. His finger points at the correctly spelled term. “That’s how you spell it.”
He hums, chewing another bite.
“So you’re good at everything, then? Baking and spelling and-”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Dr. Abbot,” you whisper harshly, eyes darting for any listening day-shift ears.
“Told you not to call me that.” He clears his throat, tugging at the fabric that’s now pulling a little tighter around his groin.
Ok, maybe this is the thing you desired most from SgtMD. This was a view you were not getting over video chat.
You busy yourself grabbing another cupcake out of your lunchbox.
“Our shift ended an hour ago. Shouldn’t you be going home?” You press.
He was usually home by now. You knew, because he’d schedule calls with you four times a week at exactly 8:00 a.m..
“Nothing exciting to rush home for anymore.” He says it so offhandedly that you almost don’t realize he means your appointments. Then, leaving no room to the imagination, he adds, “Ive got you right here. We’re both getting paid now, huh?”
You choke on a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. Your tongue darts out to lick the peak of buttercream from the top of the cupcake. He blows out a long exhale, and his breath smells sweet as if fans over you.
“You almost done? We could grab breakfast,” he suggests, eyes tracking your tongue as you swipe it across the top of the cupcake again.
“Mm, I kind of spent my ‘fun money’ on ingredients for the cake stuff,” you say, setting the cupcake back down and saving the chart. “I think I get my first check next week. Can we raincheck?”
“I’ll pay.” He sounds offended. “How much longer do you need?”
“I’m done, actually.” You rub your eyes and face him again. “And breakfast would be very nice, thank you, Jack.”
“It’s a date.” His words ring familiar from his message prior to yesterday’s call. “Go grab your stuff.”
As you obey, you can’t help but think about how much better it is taking orders from Dr. Jack Abbot than SgtMD.
Summary: You served with Team Ro under Captain Kakashi in the ANBU Black Ops. Over time, the two of you had grown close, and your attraction was undeniable. However, fate led you apart when the Third Hokage assigned you to an indefinite infiltration mission into the Royal family of Kirigakure. You assume the identity of Lady Akari for the next eight years, enduring your new life as a court spy until you put a new successor on the throne. Now that your mission is complete, you can return home to the Leaf Village. But your past lover, Kakashi Hatake, is the new Hokage. Much has changed over the last eight years: His cold heart has warmed, yet yours has been trapped in darkness. Is there any chance he can love you as he once did?
Inspired by Overgrown- FELIVAND
Masterlist.
🔞 MINORS DNI. SEXUAL CONTENT 🔞
Tags: ANBU Reader, Reader with trauma, mentions of PTSD and trauma, canon typical violence, happy ending, light angst, sorry but your parents are dead :(, future smut, fluff, flashbacks will be italicized, mentions of trauma, PURE UNADULTERATED SMUT, pretty tame considering my norm- pussy eating, a little on the rougher side of sex (Kakashi is a lil pent up 😌), aftercare
A/N: After like a month of being MIA, I have finally returned with the smut!! So sorry for the wait guys- due to life circumstances (aka quit my job lol), I should be able to post weekly again, so ayeeee! Thanks again for sticking it out- and enjoy this meal 😌
Kakashi flicked on the lights to his apartment with a smooth movement, causing you to squint your eyes as you adjusted to the sudden brightness. He must have seen you make a face from the corner of his eye, as you heard him chuckle lightly while pulling your shoes from his pockets.
“You alright back there?”
“Mhm,” you hummed as you ungracefully slid off his back. Gathering the hem of your dress to avoid tripping, you made your way to the sectional couch before throwing yourself down dramatically, stretching your legs as you propped yourself up on your elbow to watch Kakashi take off his shoes.
When he catches you staring, he quirks his brow up with a telltale smirk hidden beneath his mask. “Why are you looking at me like that?
“Like what?” You asked innocently despite the mischievous smile playing on your lips.
"Like you're plotting something," Kakashi replied, his voice dropping to that knowing, low register that always made you shiver. He approached slowly, each deliberate step bringing him closer to the couch where you lounged.
The sake-induced warmth still hummed through your veins, but something sharper was cutting through the pleasant haze now— a heady anticipation that coursed to your core as you watched him. His movements were measured, predatory, his dark eyes never leaving yours as he closed the distance between you.
"Maybe I am," you admitted, tracking his approach with hooded eyes. The slit in your dress had fallen open, exposing the length of your leg against the dark fabric of the couch.
Kakashi reached the edge of the sectional and paused, towering over you as he tugged his mask down. The sight of his uncovered face still sent a thrill through you— his strong jaw, the curve of his lips as they quirked into a sly smile. He braced one hand on the back of the couch and leaned down, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.
"And what exactly," he murmured, his breath fanning across your cheek, "are you planning, Sparrow? Something wicked, I hope."
The challenge in his voice was unmistakable, a dare wrapped in a trap. You didn't hesitate. In one swift motion, you reached up, grabbed his collar, and pulled. Kakashi's eyes widened in momentary surprise before he caught himself, his body now suspended above yours, one arm braced beside your head. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back as your arms encircled his shoulders.
"Brat," he breathed, but the affection in his voice was unmistakable.
You silenced him with your lips, capturing his mouth in a kiss that left no room for further teasing. The taste of sake lingered on his tongue as it slid against yours, and you drank him in greedily. His free hand tangled in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss with a hunger that matched your own.
The weight of him pressing you into the couch was solid and warm, securing you to the present when the intensity of his attention threatened to sweep you away. You arched against him, seeking more contact, more friction, more of everything he could give you.
Kakashi broke the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, down the column of your throat. The gentle scrape of his teeth against your pulse point drew a gasp from your lips, your fingers tightening reflexively in his silver hair. His hand abandoned its grip on your hair to trace a path down your body, skimming over the satin of your dress until he reached the bare skin of your ankle.
"I've been thinking about this all night," he confessed against your collarbone, his fingers gliding up your calf.
His fingers traced higher, slipping beneath the hem of your dress to caress the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The sensation sent electricity shooting through your body, making you gasp against his mouth as he captured your lips again. His touch was methodical, deliberate— the hands of a man who had memorized every inch of you and was now reclaiming lost territory with heavy patience.
When his palm curved around the swell of your ass, squeezing with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, something primal ignited within you. You planted your hands against his chest and pushed, using the momentum to flip your positions. Kakashi's back hit the couch with a soft thud as you settled atop him, your knees on either side of his hips, the fabric of your dress pooling around your thighs.
"Someone's feeling bold," he murmured, his hands settling on your hips as you loomed over him. "Taking control already?"
You rolled your hips deliberately against him, savoring the sharp intake of breath it elicited. "Is there a problem, Lord Sixth?" You teased, placing your hands on his chest for balance as you peered down at him with testing eyes.
His eyes darkened, narrowing dangerously as you grind against his hardening length. Before you could react, Kakashi's arms tightened around you. In one quick motion, he stood from the couch, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he secured you against him, his strength evident in the ease with which he held you.
"Not a problem at all," he whispered against your ear, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your body. "But don't forget who trained you."
A surprised laugh bubbled from your throat as he carried you toward the bedroom, your arms looped around his neck. "Show-off," you accused, nipping at his earlobe.
"You bring it out in me," he admitted, his lips finding the sensitive spot below your ear that made you gasp.
You giggled against his neck, the sound light and carefree. Kakashi nudged the bedroom door open with his foot and crossed the threshold with determined strides before gently sitting you on the bed. The mattress dipped beneath your weight as you gazed up at him, anticipation coiling tight in your core.
His hands moved to the intricate fastenings of your dress instead of embracing you. His fingers fumbled with the hidden clasps and ties, his brow furrowing in concentration.
"How the hell does this thing—" he muttered, tugging at a stubborn hook that refused to release.
Laughter bubbled up again in your chest as you watched the mighty Copy Ninja struggle with your dress. "Having trouble, Hokage-sama?" You asked sweetly.
He shot you a playfully exasperated look. "I'm a man of many talents," Kakashi sighed, leaning back with mock defeat. "But apparently women's fashion isn't one of them."
"Allow me," you offered lightly, rising from the bed with graceful movements that belied your earlier drunkenness.
You stood before him, watching his eyes darken as you reached behind your back. Your fingers found the hidden clasps with practiced ease, undoing them one by one. The dress loosened around your body, and with a slight shrug of your shoulders, you let it fall. The black satin slid down your skin like water, pooling at your feet in a dark puddle.
Kakashi's breath caught audibly as he took in the sight of you standing before him in nothing but lace panties, the moonlight from the window casting your skin in silver. His eyes traveled slowly from your face down the length of your body, drinking in every curve and plane with reverent attention.
"Come here," he said, his voice a low command that sent a shiver down your spine.
You stepped closer, positioning yourself between his legs as he remained seated on the edge of the bed. His hands settled on your hips, warm and strong against your bare skin. Slowly, he leaned forward to press a kiss against your stomach. His lips were soft, worshipping you as they traced a path across your abdomen.
Your fingers found their way into his hair, tangling in the silver strands as he continued his gentle exploration. Each press of his lips against your skin felt like a promise, a reclamation of everything you'd both lost during those eight years apart.
"You're wearing too many clothes," you complained softly, tugging lightly at his hair to make him look up at you.
His eyes met yours, crinkled with amusement. "Am I?" He asked innocently, even as his thumbs traced maddening patterns on your hipbones.
"Far too many," you insisted, your fingers moving to loosen his tie. "It's hardly fair."
"I've never claimed to play fair," Kakashi murmured, but he made no move to stop you as you slid the tie free from his collar.
You worked methodically, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness. Each newly exposed inch of skin received your careful attention— a brush of fingertips, a light scratch of nails that made his muscles jump beneath your touch. His hands remained on your hips, gripping you with possessive strength as he watched you with hooded eyes.
When you finally pushed the shirt from his shoulders, revealing the toned expanse of his chest and abdomen, you took a moment to appreciate the sight. Scars both familiar and new covered his skin— many of them acquired during your time apart.
But he was still just as beautiful.
"See something you like?" Kakashi asked with a cocked brow.
"I see a lot of things I like," you murmured, your gaze lingering on the defined muscles of his abdomen leading to his covered groin before meeting his eyes again.
You bit your lip as you straddled him, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. The feeling of his warm hands trailing across your bare skin sent shivers dancing up your spine as they explored the curve of your waist, the small of your back, and between your shoulder blades. His touch was reverent yet hungry as he struggled to maintain his control.
His mouth found yours in a searing kiss that made your head spin. Your hands slid down his chest, fingers tracing the ridges of muscle before reaching his belt. You worked at the buckle with growing urgency, fumbling slightly in your eagerness to free him from the confines of his pants.
"Someone's impatient," Kakashi breathed against your lips, amusement lacing his voice as your fingers struggled with the clasp.
"Eight years, Kakashi," you reminded him, finally getting the belt undone. "I think I've been patient enough."
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest against yours as you tugged at his zipper. "Fair point."
The hard length of him pressed against your palm through the thin fabric of his underwear, drawing a satisfied hum from your throat. Kakashi's breath hitched as you traced him through the material, his hands tightening on your hips.
Before you could continue your exploration, he moved with that ninja speed that had always thrilled you. In a single move, he flipped your positions, pressing you into the mattress with his weight as he settled between your legs. The sudden shift left you breathless, looking up at him with wide eyes.
"I’m taking over," he asserted, his gaze darkening as he lowered his head to your chest.
His mouth closed around your nipple, tongue swirling in lazy circles that made you arch against him with a cry. Your fingers threaded through his hair, holding him to you as heat pooled between your thighs. He took his time, alternating between gentle suction and feather-light flicks that had you squirming beneath him.
You ground against him, seeking friction, seeking relief from the building pressure. Your body remembered this dance, even after all these years— the way he could play you like an instrument, always building the tension until you were ready to beg.
"Kakashi," you gasped as his teeth grazed the sensitive peak, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.
He hummed against your skin, the vibration adding another layer of sensation as he moved to lavish the same attention on your other breast. His hips rocked against yours in a maddening rhythm, the fabric of his pants creating a barrier that you desperately wanted gone.
"Please," you whispered, unsure exactly what you were asking for, only knowing that you needed more of him. Your hips bucked upward, seeking greater contact as a desperate whimper escaped your throat. The friction was driving you insane— so close to what you craved yet not enough to satisfy.
Kakashi pulled back slightly, his eyes black with desire as he looked down at you. A roguish smirk played across his lips as you ground yourself against his hardness.
"Let me take my time, woman," he chuckled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your bones. "Eight years apart deserves a proper reunion."
You huffed in frustration, but the protest died in your throat as his mouth began a torturous journey down your body. He traced the valley between your breasts with his tongue, pausing to nip at the sensitive skin beneath your ribs, and swiped briefly under your navel. Each touch was deliberate, unhurried— a stark contrast to the urgency pulsing through your veins.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your lace panties, lightly pulling at the thin hem. When he finally pressed against the damp fabric covering your center, you moaned at the contact, arching into his touch.
"You're soaked," he observed, causing you to whine as he moved away again.
He slid the panties down your legs with agonizing slowness, his calloused fingers trailing fire along your thighs as he removed the last barrier between you. The cool air of the bedroom kissed your heated skin, making you shiver with anticipation as you felt his eyes settle on your core.
Kakashi settled himself between your thighs, strong hands gently spreading your legs wider. You could feel his warm breath against your quivering pussy, sending jolts of electricity up your spine. Your fingers twisted in the sheets as you waited for the touch of his mouth where you needed him most.
Instead, his lips pressed against the inside of your knee, then moved to your inner thigh. He worked his way up with frustrating patience, placing open-mouthed kisses everywhere except where you desperately wanted him.
"Kakashi," you groaned, frustration evident in your voice as you lifted your hips in a silent plea.
He glanced up at you from between your legs, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Yes?" He asked sweetly, his breath ghosting over your center without making contact.
"Stop teasing," you demanded, though the command lost some of its authority when it came out as a breathy whimper.
"But I excel at teasing," he replied, pressing another kiss to your inner thigh, dangerously close to your core but still deliberately missing the mark. "And you've always enjoyed it."
Your retort dissolved into a gasp as he finally—finally—ran his tongue along your folds in one long, deliberate stroke. The sensation was like a shock, sending waves of pleasure cascading through your body. Your back arched off the bed as his tongue flattened against your clit, the pressure sending hot pleasure through your veins. Your hands tangled in his hair, fingers pulling the soft strands as you anchored yourself to him.
"Oh god," you moaned as he sealed his mouth over your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking gently while his tongue flicked back and forth. The dual sensation had your thighs trembling, your body remembering exactly how skilled he was at this particular art.
Kakashi hummed against you, the vibration adding another layer of sensation that had you gasping his name. His hands gripped your thighs firmly, holding you open for his ministrations as he alternated between long, languorous strokes through your folds and focused attention on your clit.
When his tongue dipped lower to circle your entrance, your hips bucked involuntarily. He chuckled against you, the puff of air against your sensitive flesh making you whimper. His grip tightened, holding you in place as he returned to your entrance, his tongue pressing inside with intentional slowness that had you seeing stars.
"Kakashi," you panted, tugging at his hair as heat coiled tighter in your abdomen. "Please, I need—"
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes swimming in desire. "I know exactly what you need," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.
Without breaking eye contact, he brought his hand up, tracing your entrance with teasing fingers that gathered your wetness. When he finally eased two fingers inside you, the stretch and fullness drew a long, keening moan from your throat. His mouth returned to your clit as his fingers began a rhythmic thrust, curling upward to stroke that spot inside you that made your vision blur and muscles flex.
The combination was overwhelming— his tongue circling your clit with perfect pressure as his fingers worked inside you, stretching and filling in a way that had tension building rapidly in your ravenous core. Your hips moved of their own accord, rocking against his face as the pleasure mounted to an almost unbearable height.
"That's it," he encouraged against your flesh, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh.
The coil of tension snapped suddenly and violently. Your back arched sharply off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed through you, radiating outward from your core to the tips of your fingers and toes. Your vision went black at the edges as you cried out his name, your hands tightening in his hair, holding him against you as your hips bucked wildly.
Kakashi growled against you, the sound primal and possessive as his fingers continued their relentless assault on that perfect spot inside you. The pressure built again almost instantly, your oversensitive body climbing toward another peak before the first had fully subsided.
"I can't—it's too much—" you gasped, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you trembled.
A second, more intense wave crashed over you, and you felt a rush of wetness escape you, soaking his hand and chin as you squirted with the force of your release. Your thighs clamped around his head as your body convulsed, pleasure surmounting you as you gasped for breath.
When you finally collapsed back onto the mattress, boneless and panting, Kakashi raised his head. The sight of him between your legs, his face glistening with evidence of your pleasure, made you moan out loud.
Kakashi grinned at the sight of you, slipping his fingers from your sopping pussy, crawling up your splayed thighs with predatory ease. His mouth glistened, the lower half of his face slick and shining from you, his flushed lips parted. You felt your slickness smear across your skin as he bent to kiss your knee, your hipbone, your trembling belly, as he moved back up your body.
He hovered above you, his hair wild from your hold, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with want. “I’ve been dying to taste you since you walked through that damn door,” he rasped, bracing himself. “But you—” He punctuated the word with a kiss, slow and deep, “—are even better than I remembered.”
The kiss was filthy— your own flavor on his tongue, the greedy way he devoured your mouth. Kakashi made a sound against your lips, almost a growl, and you felt the rough press of his still-clothed cock nudging against your oversensitive, wet folds. You could feel the outline of him straining inside his pants, thick and needy, and that knowledge sent a new wave of heat through your belly.
You pawed at the waistband, desperate to free him at last. He let you, his hands braced on either side of your head as you shoved down his pants and boxers in one deft motion. His cock sprang free, flushed pink and glistening at the tip, the prominent vein along the shaft pulsing with each beat of his racing heart. He was thick and heavy in your palm, as perfectly intimidating as you remembered, and you stroked him slowly, delighting in the shudder that ran through his body when you thumbed the slit and spread the bead of precum down his length.
Kakashi pressed the head of his cock to your slit, running it through your slick folds, catching at your swollen clit with every teasing pass. Your pussy clenched in anticipation, fluttering and desperate, aching for the fullness you’d spent years imagining. You saw the way his jaw tightened as he watched your cunt flex around nothing, already begging to swallow him whole.
“Fuck,” he cursed in a groan, and you felt him twitch against your entrance. “You’re unreal.”
You hooked your legs around his hips, heels digging into the small of his back. “Are you going to stare all night, or—”
He cut you off mid-taunt, driving into you with a single, punishing thrust. The stretch was perfect, almost too much, and you gasped his name as your body bowed up to meet him.
He fucked you hard from the start, no slow build or gentle reacquaintance— just years of want burning through him, pistoning in and out with a relentless pace. Your nails raked down his back, scoring new marks into his skin as he drilled into your soaked cunt. The wet slap of your bodies and your wanton cries filled the room, each thrust shoving you higher up the bed, your head knocking against the headboard as you clung to him.
He leaned down, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark as his hips pounded you into the mattress. “Missed this,” he grunted. “Missed you— missed how you fall apart on my cock.”
You whimpered, too cock-drunk to form words. All you could do was cling to his arms, digging your nails in and taking every brutal, tantalizing thrust.
He shifted his weight, pulling all the way out until just the swollen head of his cock kissed your entrance, then drove in again, deeper, harder, grinding his pelvis against your clit. You made a strangled, grateful sound, your head pressing into the pillow as he set a brutal, unrelenting pace. Every thrust ground bone and will together. Your body was already spent, every muscle wrung from the aftermath of your last orgasm, but sensation wouldn’t let you go.
Kakashi braced himself, then leaned back on his knees, bringing your hips up with him. He hooked your ankles over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, until your knees pressed toward your chest and your ass lifted off the bed. You felt the obscene stretch in your hamstrings, the way it exposed you utterly, and the rush of heat as you registered how he looked at you— like he’d never seen anything holier.
He palmed your thighs, using his grip as leverage to piston into you, watching, mesmerized, as each desperate thrust made your pussy swallow him deeper. The drag of him inside you was devastating, the fullness relentless. Your hands scrabbled for purchase, finally locking around his forearms—hard and trembling with the force of his restraint.
“Fuck, Sparrow,” he rasped, not even trying to hide the animal in his voice. “Look at how you grip me.”
You looked down and saw it: flushed, wet flesh pulsing around his cock, the hungry way your pussy greedily clutched at every inch of him. You were soaked, your body a mess, the sheets under your ass already ruined and shining with your fluids.
And still you wanted more.
Needed more.
He reached down, thumb finding your clit with perfect aim. The electricity shot through your body, wracking your spine with pleasure. With controlled, circular movements, he coaxed your sensitive cunt to the edge again. Your jaw went slack, your vision blurred as familiar pleasure swept over you. The next orgasm hit you like a flashbang: instant, blinding, burning through all thought.
You shrieked, high and helpless, as your orgasm detonated in your core, through every fiber of your body. Your legs trembled violently, heels drumming against his back. Kakashi kept fucking you, driving through your climax, never breaking rhythm. He watched with naked satisfaction as you squirted again, your muscles clamping so tight around his cock that it forced him out, his dick slick and shining in the dim light.
He didn’t slow. His hand found your clit again, rubbing hard, relentlessly, dragging every last aftershock out of your spasming body. Your hips bucked wildly, beyond control, and your voice broke in a sob of his name.
When he finally plunged back into you, it was almost a relief— so full, so hard, so perfect. He leaned forward, folding you even tighter, until your knees pressed to your ears and his lips hovered above yours. His mouth muffled your cries as he kissed you, messy and desperate, swallowing every sound you made.
He locked eyes with you, his face raw and undone. “I—fuck, I can’t—” His voice broke, the iron control fraying at the edges. “Not gonna last—”
You met him with another kiss, devouring his mouth as he rocked into you, each thrust frantic, losing that legendary precision to pure, feral want. You could feel it— his cock twitching, swelling, the raggedness of his breath as he chased the edge.
You cupped his face, holding his gaze as you squeezed your core, milking him, dragging him down with you. His eyes squeezed shut. He thrust once more, pulled out quick—old habits, old reflexes—and finished in hot ribbons across your stomach. The pulse of it, the mess, the validation of his pleasure, made you shudder with a last, greedy aftershock.
Kakashi almost collapsed, catching himself with shaking arms before rolling onto the bed beside you. His body trembled with exertion, sweat beading at his hairline and dripping down his chest.
He looked absolutely wrecked.
You grinned, breathless, and poked him in the shoulder. “That’s what you call stamina, Lord Hokage? I thought you were supposed to be legendary.”
He cracked one eye open, mouth twisting into a crooked, sated smirk. “Give me five minutes. I’m out of practice.” He flopped back, stared at the ceiling, and let out a long, satisfied exhale. “Maybe ten.”
You glanced down at your sticky, ruined stomach and snorted. “You always were a messy eater,” you muttered, swiping a finger through the mess and popping it in your mouth just to watch his reaction.
Kakashi’s laugh was hoarse, bordering on delirious as he watched you with hazy eyes. “You’re something else,” he said, voice raw with fondness.
Kakashi made the first move—always the one to manage the aftermath. He stood, smirking as he surveyed the devastation on the sheets, and disappeared into the hallway. You heard the wet slap of a washcloth in the bathroom, the run of the faucet, his footsteps soft on the hardwood.
He returned, still naked, with a warm, damp cloth. “Mind if I…?” He offered, and you only smiled, stretching luxuriously across the bed.
He knelt on the bed, wiping you down with reverence, the cloth gentle across your stomach and thighs. You caught his wrist, pulled him down, and kissed him—soft this time, grateful, a sealing of something that felt ancient and new. He tossed the washcloth blindly to the floor and curled his body around yours, the two of you cocooned in the tangled wreckage of the bed.
You lay there, spooned against his chest, breathing in the scent of sweat and linen and something else—something clean, like a new beginning. You didn’t know how long you drifted, your heart beating slow and sure, your mind finally, blessedly empty.
“Hey.” His voice was soft in your ear, his breath tickling the baby hairs at your nape. Even boneless, you could feel his lips twist into a smile against your shoulder. “Are you alive in there?”
You made a vague, noncommittal sound, rolling your head to the side so you could see him through the curtain of your sweat-damp hair. “Barely,” you rasped, but you mustered a grin. “You trying to kill me, Hatake?”
His hand tightened around your waist, pulling you closer. “Not yet,” he said, “but the night is young.” There was no smugness to it— only the familiar, dry humor that had always made you smile.
You squirmed until you could face him, propped up on your elbows, and let your gaze trace the lines of his face. He looked relaxed, even peaceful. It suited him, this post-coital deposition. The tension that always lived in his shoulders and jaw had drained away, replaced by a loose-limbed ease you’d rarely seen in him.
After a time, he spoke again, this time softer— just for you. “I truly never believed I’d ever see you again.”
You bit your cheek, the admission settling between you like a bird’s feather landing in water. “You almost didn’t,” you said, voice barely above the hush of the air. “Some days… I thought Leaf would be better off without me. Cleaner.”
Kakashi pulled you back against his chest, his lips grazing your shoulder. “You make it better, you idiot.”
The words stung sweetly. You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his body and the steady, even thrum of his heartbeat pull you down. “We’re a mess,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.
He made a soft, dismissive noise. “Everyone’s a mess. At least we can be one together.” He paused, then added, “If you want.”
You smiled into his chest, too tired to answer with more than a gentle nuzzle closer.
Of course, you want it.
The darkness pressed in quickly, your vision blurring at the edges as you drifted. You half-dreamed his next words, the slurred, sleep-heavy murmur against your ear:
“I missed you every day. Even when I felt like I shouldn’t. I just… missed you.”
You felt the tightness in your chest loosen, replaced by something fragile and unfamiliar— hope, maybe, or just the long-awaited promise of home that now wraps itself around you.
Making you feel whole.
“Me too,” you murmured, letting the words float free as you drifted at last into sleep.
Finally, we get laid!!
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