sukuna knows women. he knows how to please them. how to make them moan, whine, cry. but knowing how to please a woman doesn’t mean he knows women. aka a woman’s cycle. in simple terms, sukuna has mainly grown up with men, his gramps, his brothers, toji — all he knows is a girl has a period, but he has never bothered to stay with a girl long enough to actually address her period.
well until his fuck buddy, you, open your door for him.
his arm wraps around your waist, tugging you towards his chest, lips locking with yours in moments. “Mmm,” he groans, tongue pushing past your lips, just to feel you press a hand to his chest. your lips break, air filling his lungs in disdain, eyes narrowing at you for pushing him away.
“you didn’t text me, dude,” you say, letting him pull away to drop his backbag on the floor, plastic bag in hand as he kicks his shoes off.
“got outta the gym late. lost track of time,” he walks two steps to the kitchen pulling out two energy drinks, a protein drink, and a couple protein bars. “fuck,” he cups his crotch, palming himself through his low hanging sweats. he opens his shake. “accidentally swiped on that video ya’ sent me from the summer. I watched the whole thing between my sets.” his hand tips back, throat bopping as he chugs the shake, eyes closing as he sees the video play back in his mind, hand still on his bulge.
you’re leaning against the column between your smaller than small living room and kitchen, eyeing the way he’s shamelessly groping himself in front of you, men. you sigh, internally.
“hey,” he suddenly appears in front of you, towering. his musky scent fills your nose as he cups your neck, the other resting on your hip. he slowly lowers himself, tilting your chin up with a thumb as his lips connect with yours again. “haah,” he sighs, kissing your lips like it’s his saving grace, his sweats hang low on his hips as he presses himself against you. “remember that video?” he husks, “the one with ya’ spreading your legs out for the camera—“
you gently press a hand to his chest again, cheeks flushed, but stomach churning uncomfortably. “ryo—“
“wanna see this pussy,” he doesn’t even hesitate, he drops his head to your neck, kissing the exposed skin before dropping to a knee, hands on your hips. “wanna smell how good she is—“
“ryo,” you press a hand to his forehead, face aflame, as you push him back. your heart hammers as he frowns up at you, jaw tight and hands tightening around your waist. “I got my period yesterday.”
….
a silent beat passes.
then.
FUCK!
sukuna is horrible at controlling his face.
you immediately notice his dilated pupils dissipate, and the excitement die behind his eyes. your lips purse, making a my bad king type of face. but sukuna looks absolutely destroyed, his head drops forward, desperately trying to control his eye roll, but you catch it , along with the way he presses his face into your stomach, and groans. loud. uncontrolled.
“sorry…I forgot to text you, and you came all the way here,” you pat his shoulder apologetically, though you’re not super sympathetic since it’s not your fault.
“ya’ have cramps or some shit?” he grumbles against your sleep shirt.
“had crazy cramps this morning, but just like…not in the mood right now,” you cringe while saying it, but sukuna just sighs.
you bite your cheek as you watch him sit back on his heels. his black sweats straining against his thighs, his bulge shameless as it presses up against the material. your eyes flick over him again, wetting your lip as you reach for his hair. hesitant. but eventually…your manicured nails run through the slightly damp, salmon colored hair. you watch in silent awe as his lashes weigh down, and his jaw tightens like he’s holding himself back. your nails scratch his scalp, lightly, but enough to elect a raw groan from the back of his throat.
you bite your lip, eyeing the dark flush crawling up his neck, and dusting his cheeks a light pink. his large palm rests on your outer thigh and the other flexing as it grips his erection. how far will he—
“not cumming in my fucking sweats,” he suddenly barks, getting to his feet. your hand drops as he walks towards the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head, he kicks the door shut behind him.
your lips purse again, biting your cheek as you hear the shower turn on. men.
that was how sukuna dealt with his fuck buddy being on her period. somehow always finding out last minute that you’re bleeding, and in no mood for action — except for those very rare occasions, well he can’t divulge too much now since you never want him to mention it again — and he’s forced to take care of his problem in your shower. his rough calloused palm — a contrast from your soft smaller ones — jerks his painfully hard throbbing cock to the images of you floating in his mind until he’s finally shooting his thick white load all over your shower wall. haze clearing up as he watches the cum slide down. and then he’ll step out of the bathroom, usually wearing a pair of sweats he’d forgotten here, along with a plain black tee, and crash on the couch as you do your homework. he’ll eye you a bit, but eventually shift his attention to the tv and knockout.
it would be difficult for those five to seven days, especially when you would be slightly more clipped with him, or just plain bitchy and short tempered (like him). but it’d get him all hot and bothered, especially since he can’t act on it.
that was sukuna’s perception of a woman’s cycle. before he never cared, now he cares just a little more because he can’t have sex with you when you’re on your period.
but as smart as sukuna is, it takes a little more brain power for him to realize what this is.
this being, how he’s wound up because he’s trying to get through this studying for an upcoming exam. he’s far from prepared for and the best way for him to study is to be around someone who takes it seriously— you. and yet…
you won’t stop moving!
at first you were sitting across from him in the library. then you shift to the seat at corner of the table, and then you move to sit directly beside him.
“you need help?” he suddenly cuts. you’re shifting beside him stops, brows pulled in confusion.
“was just uncomfortable, am i disturbing you?”
his brow twitches, but you were completely innocent. your brow pulled up, like he’s the crazy one, and not you, who’s moved around like ten times in the last hour!!
“just a little,” he mutters, putting his headphones back on and turning back to his work. luckily, you seem to have settled down, attention back on your own studies. engrossed in your review sheets and notes, as sukuna reviews for his own exam.
however, what the fratboy did notice was even when shoko stopped bye to chat, and utahime came to whisper some gossip to you between her class, you didn’t move once. his brow quirked briefly when utahime chatted across the table, and instead of getting up and going to the hallway to talk freely, you remain seated, right beside him, and right against him.
what’s going on?
“I swear I told the girl I didn’t even know who she was talking about it—but she didn’t even care. girl! I wasn’t talking to your ex,” utahime rambles in hushed whispers, similar to the whispered conversations at other tables.
your brows furrow in shock, “what the hell?? why the heck is she even confronting you in the middle of class though? that’s so weird.”
“that’s what I’m sayinggg!!!”
sukuna has every reason to snap at you both right now. to tell you two to shut the fuck up or go outside. seriously, it was distracting as fuck. but his mind was short circuiting and stumbling around all because of how fucking close you are to him.
his arms are leaning over the table, biceps bulging from his tshirt, scribbling practice equations and notes. and you’re leaning over in an identical position, but your side is fully pressed against his arm. your zip up hoodie resting around your hips after you’d shrugged it off, and your usual cold skin was searing hot against his. skin to skin. and it’s been like that for the past twenty minutes.
usually when your friends stop by to ramble, you have the courtesy to step away so he can study. but not this time— well you did a similar thing a month ago too. sticking to him like glue. brushing your fingers over the veins of his forearm—
“okay, I’ll update you later, but thanks for letting me borrow your airpods!” utahime concludes her rant with finally returning your airpods and running off to her next class. sukuna lets out an air of relief, relaxing beside you.
finally, some peace and quiet in the library.
…shift…
well, it could only last so long.
his brows furrow as he glances over at you, your cheek is now resting on his arm, mindlessly reading your notes like this is normal. is it because he’s finally anxious about an exam after so long, that he’s noticing how touchy you’re being? or maybe you’re not in the mood to do your work and in the mood for something else—
tch, he doesn’t have time to find some room to fuck you in though. it’s the middle of the day and the library is packed. the last thing you’d want is for someone to see you both. however, he can’t even tell if you want any action right now. it just looks like you’re tired…and clingy…?
sukuna exhales, thumb pressing against his jaw in thought, while you shift again, oblivious to his internal turmoil, cheek smushed against his arm…
“you hungry?” he interrupts, desperate for his mind to quiet down.
“not really,” you mutter, focused on your homework.
his lips downturn, pen tapping the desk, “I’m gonna grab another celsius.” he suddenly stands, startling you for a moment, noticing the way your pretty lashes blink in surprise. you’re definitely just focused on school…but last month you were acting the same-ish…if he’s right, then when he comes back…you’ll…
he places a celsius in front of you, eyes flicking over you as he sips his drink. you hum in distracted appreciation, like you can’t even see him sliding back into his seat, legs spread, and arms coming up back to the table to grab his pen. but like glue, you’re sliding yourself right beside him, pressing your cheek to his shoulder, and taking a subtle inhale.
what the hell?!? it’s like he can predict you’re every move now?!
it doesn’t stop there. the puzzle pieces are starting to come together slowly. especially when you subtly kept a grip on his arm muttering how he can finish studying at your place, without the distraction of the frat—which you rarely pressure him to do a night before an exam. except instead of going straight to the bathroom to shower, you followed him to your couch and sat beside him.
“do you mind if I turn on the tv?” you ask with such an unnerving amount of gentleness, glancing at him with your full undivided attention.
his brow quirks, why’re you looking at him like that? “it’s your place, woman.”
you hum, relaxing back, albeit pressed to his side and your knees tucked up, as he leans over on the coffee table (aka your only desk in your small ass apartment) reviewing more work. but just moments later he’s sliding to the floor for more comfortability—
“why’d you move?” your voice cuts through the quiet apartment.
“huh?”
sukuna glances back, brow quirked with confusion at the frown you’re wearing. “leaning over is fucking with my back,” he tsks, earning him an uncharacteristically quick attitude switch from you — your eyes roll, your entire body slumps further back on the couch that you’re basically laying across it, and your cute bottom lip juts out in an irritated, subtle pout. seriously? sukuna scoffs internally. you’re acting like such a brat??? for real this time.
your cheeks press against the cushion. your hypnotizing eyes flick between his, then eventually settle on his lips. they’re slightly chapped, pink…pretty…kissable…
“ya need something?” he snaps without any bite. you’re zoning out again. your eyes drift off, and your lips part lost in thought. “zoning out—“ are the words you hear before you feel an aggressive (light in his mind) flick to your forehead. “again!”
“ow!” you groan loud, face quickly turning and pressing into the cushion in annoyance. “what the hell!” your muffled yell barely comes out.
“what the hell me?” he tsks, rough hand landing on your head, and turning your face back for air. “I was talking and you did that shit again—“
“what thing?!” you scoff, brows pinched in anger as you stare into his eyes….his deep…dark…lidded…crimson eyes…..haah—
“that,” he exhales, hand softening on your temple, and irritation slipping away with your usual antics. “how do you even zone out that fast?”
your glossy lips part, manicured nail brushing your bottom lip, heat pooling between your legs, and eyes half lidded… “was thinking about your eyes.”
the softness of your tone was more shocking than the actual words that came out of your mouth. or it’s the combination of both. or the bluntness of your gentle honey sweet voice that took sukuna by surprise…
but he blinked.
“first it was your lips,” you whisper with a breathless sigh. your finger carefully reaching out and touching his lips. you mimic the way he parts his lips with your own. his thick brows creating a shadow over his lidded eyes. “then your eyes.” you explain with such clarity, it had sukuna short circuiting as he tries to rationalize why you’re acting this way—
“that’s why i zoned out,” you conclude, shifting closer to the edge of the couch, closer to him. your eyes dot up at him, brushing his bottom lip, pulling it down with a thumb. “you distract me sometimes.” you’re tired…it was a long day of classes and it was the middle of the week. that has to be the reason, sukuna thinks.
by now, he knows that look.
you wanna fuck.
“Mmm,” you whine the moment he presses his lips to yours. your tongue immediately finding his as your nails course through his hair. tugging. “make me cum, ryo.”
he snorts in your mouth, rough hand pushing your shirt up, thumbing your bra before hooking his thumb under and lifting up. “should’ve just told me ya want your pussy wet—“
“it’s already wet,” you cut, “been wet all day.”
shiit, he groans into your lips, pushing his hand down, past your waistband. “fucking slut.” a breathy gasp slips out as he cups your wet sticky pussy. “fucking drenched, dirty brat.” his teeth sink into your bottom lip as you whine louder, unaware how sukuna’s neck is unbelievably red. why do you taste sweeter?
“Mmm lift your hips up,” he husks. you don’t get the chance to react when he’s suddenly yanking your pants and drenched panties off. “spread ‘em.”
your tongue pokes your bottom lip, opening your legs for your fuck buddy. his huge palms press against your thighs, grabbing fistfuls and licking his bottom lip as your sticky pussy comes into view. his pupils dilate as he watches your hole twitch. and your scent immediately hits his nose. “you’re gonna taste so good today.” he mutters to himself, but your brow lifts.
“what’s different about today?”
he leans forward, eyes flicking up as he exhales. is he drunk? his eyes roll back, cock throbbing in his pants and he inhales again—fuuck, you smell so much sweeter, “nothin.” his tongue shuts you right up as he licks a long wet lewd strip up your folds. your back immediately arches off the couch, nails digging into his scalp as his beefy arms lock around your thighs, moaning. your sweet honey floods his taste buds…this pussy has always hypnotized him, aroma consuming him and taste intoxicating him…but now that he thinks about…this small little difference in taste and scent, a bit sweeter, happened last month—
“ryo—haah ah mmh ya like my pussy?” your eyes flutter as you keep them on sukuna’s flushed face.
his eyes roll back, completely falling apart between your thighs as he groans a deep husky, “fuck yeah.”
your stomach burns hot at his voice, and voice pitching higher as his tongue delves inside your hole. “haaaah—your mouth is so good, baby—ngh been wet all day,” you confess in your pleasure. “was staring at your hands all day, ryo—they’re so big…l-like your di—ahh—“ fuck you’re talking a lot, sukuna groans, annoyed how worked up your voice is getting him.
his tongue laps and sucks, his salvia creating an even bigger mess. he pulls away, cheeks dusted a deep red as he spits directly onto your puffy clit, pupils dilating as he spreads the mess all over your swollen clit. “these hands,” he runs his calloused palm over your lower stomach. your pupils grow black with lust. pupils blown as you stare at the way his hand encompasses the entire surface. his crimson irises dilate once he sees the lust all over your face. “want them inside ya?”
you nod, immediately.
he doesn’t wait.
two long, thick fingers push past the initial tightness, feeling the gummy walls of your pussy hug his digits with delight. your jaw falls slack, drool slipping as he leans down to plant wet kisses along your lower stomach, forearms and biceps flexing as he pistons his fingers in n out. the squelching fills his ears as you moan above him.
“ngh! fuh ryo, feels good, kiss—kiss me down there—“ you push his head down until his lips connect with your clit again, sucking. rough. mean. teeth sinking just hard enough to make your eyes water and a choked cry slip your lips. “ryo,” you mewl with such lewd sweetness that this huge 6’5 hunk is practically moaning in response. “ry—my pussy—ahh gun —mmm c-close—gun cum—“
but sukuna has already lost all sanity with how good your slick tastes. his eyes roll back pushing you over the edge. “mmm fuck!” you cry, lashes wet as they flutter from the pleasure coursing out of you. his throat bops swallowing and lapping your sweet slick like it’s a drug — which it might as well be with the way his cock is throbbing in his boxers just from eating his fuck buddy’s sweet pussy. “taste like fucking honey,” he groans, cleaning you up like a dog. he pants, catching his breath as he climbs up to your lips like a starved animal. he smashes his lips against you, kissing your spit slicked lips with a loud groan. how do your lips taste sweet too?
“gonna be a good brat and let me fuck this tight pussy?” He grunts, unbuckling his belt and pushing his jeans down along with his boxers, freeing his painfully erect cock.
your tongues collide, dumb whine coming from the back of your throat, and hands running up and locking around his neck. “f’course.”
fucking you rough and fast on the couch as you babbled like a dumb slut, drunk on his cock, had him seeing stars. he was desperately trying to figure out how you're handling him with how uncharacteristically rough he’s being, but you haven’t told him to stop.
"ry—aa-haah!"
shit. he'd flipped you onto your stomach, grabbing your hips , ass in the air as he slams his thick throbbing cock in from behind. his rough palm is pressed into your lower back keeping you in that deep arch he loves, and hand cracking the nth spank to your sore ass. "feel good?"
"so good ryo—wanna cum again -cum-ngh haah please please-"
unbelievable.
and it’s not until he’s panting on the couch, your limp body resting across it, completely and utterly spent, does he realize just how rough he was being. his jaw tenses, as the fog clears up.
“hey…” his voice treads lightly, cautious as he turns on the couch, glancing at your resting form. your shirt covers your breasts after he finally came and let you lay back on the couch. but his spend leaks out of your abused hole, and your ass is still burning from his mean spanks. “hey…” he leans over you, hand brushing your waist. grounding. “you okay?”
he watches carefully as you turn on your side, eyes heavy as you blink up at him. “yeah…you okay?”
“you okay with how we fucked?”
you don’t blink, “yeah.”
yeah, somethings up. he was rough, even he knows that much. and you took it well. more than well, you were begging for me.
all of those should’ve been signs. the closeness, the slight sweetness spike in your slick and saliva. how unbelievably heavenly you smell, all the time. how you didn’t mind how rough he was. but the cherry on top was the party friday.
the frat is lit up like a damn fever dream. neon strips line the railings, glow paint smeared across walls and skin, bass from the dj bleeding through the floors as the pool outside shimmers under colored lights. it’s packed, but not suffocating. invite-only for once. people actually have room to breathe, but it was mainly because they didn’t want any complaints so early in the semester.
sukuna is sat back on the patio couch, shirtless, skin still damp from the heat, a thin sheen of sweat catching the lights every time he moves, tattoos flexing over his well defined muscles. gojo was loud beside him, geto half-listening while scrolling on his phone, a couple other guys scattered around with some girls mingling between them. but sukuna isn’t paying attention to any of it.
he has a drink in his hand, untouched. his eyes keep drifting. back to you. somewhere near the edge of the pool, laughing at something utahime is saying, glowing under the neon lights. your bikini hugged your tits so well he’d pop a boner if he stares too hard. the droplets run down your soft skin, as he sees you fix your necklace as you say something to your friend.
he clicks his tongue, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “you ever notice they act different sometimes?” he mutters, low enough that it doesn’t carry past the music.
nanami, sitting beside him in swim shorts, thick legs spread open for all to eye and an open button up putting his defined abs on full display, along with the sneaky patch of blonde hair peaking out of his waistband, doesn’t even look up from his phone. “that’s a very broad statement.”
sukuna exhales through his nose. “nah, like—” he pauses, frowning slightly, like he’s trying to piece a puzzle together. “it’s not random.”
nanami studies him for a second, then follows his line of sight, and finds you immediately. is he starting to realize his feelings for you?— “not random how?”
sukuna tilts his head, “just… different. clingier. or—” he gestures vaguely with his drink. “more into it.”
nanami raises a brow. “into what.”
sukuna gives him a look like don’t be fucking stupid.
nanami hums, finally catching on, taking a slow sip. “you’re asking if there’s a pattern to women’s behavior.”
“i’m saying there is one,” sukuna mutters aggressively. “i just don’t know what the hell it is.”
“you know,” nanami says calmly, “they have cycles.”
there’s a beat. then sukuna leans back, jaw ticking slightly, still watching you. “yeah I fucking know that,” he mutters. “It’s annoying.”
nanami glances at him again, lost. “what is.”
sukuna doesn’t answer right away. just takes another sip, eyes narrowing faintly. “the way it’s not consistent.”
nanami huffs quietly, amused now . “if you’re starting to notice now then it is consistent.”
sukuna side-eyes him. nanami is no better than gojo or geto, he’s just more subtle about his innuendos. “I’m not noticing shit—“
nanami shrugs, setting his glass down. unaware that gojo and geto have agreed on teams.
“okay! water volleyball!” gojo’s voice cuts clean through the bass, already halfway to the pool as he grins like he’s been waiting for this all night. a cheer ripples through the patio. of course it does. a house full of athletes, half-naked, girls in bikinis, a competition handed to them on a silver platter? yeah, they’re moving before the rules are even explained.
geto stretches his arms above his head as he stands, “hey,” he shouts loud enough for the frat president t to hear him, “try not to break anyone’s teeth this time!”
gojo laughs, already hopping to his side of the pool because obviously he’s one of the captains. “no promises.”
sukuna’s already up, taking the second captain title and just like that — whatever train of thought he was stuck on snaps clean in half. gone. replaced with something sharper, more familiar. his shoulders roll once, loose, eyes narrowing as he sizes up the space, the people already splitting into sides. his team or gojo’s team. they’re always on opposite teams. it makes it more fun.
“don’t get in my way,” he tosses to gojo as he steps around to his end of the pool, his hand brushing his stomach as he cracks his neck.
“you wish,” gojo shoots back.
people start gathering, some hanging back to watch, others eager, slipping into the water, calling out sides, laughing as they pick teams. a younger pledge scrambles to the middle, already trying to take control after geto shoves him in, to the play referee, whistle in hand like this is some official match.
and of course, even as chaos takes over the yard. your eyes find him. instinctive, something in you locks in and refuses to look anywhere else.
sukuna stands at the edge, skin still glistening under the neon, muscles flexing lazily as he stretches his arm over his head. his back, his shoulders, the deep v- line that has your eyes following down to the tuft of light hair peaking out waistband. the same one you always find yourself caressing during foreplay— it’s too much. it’s always too much, but tonight it sits heavier in your chest, lower in your stomach, something warm and insistent that doesn’t let up between your legs.
your clit throbs.
“wait—” utahime grabs your wrist, staring at you like you’ve lost your mind. “you hate this stuff.”
you don’t even look at her. “it’ll be fun,” you murmur, already pulling away. and then you’re moving. slipping from your seat on the edge of the pool and jumping in.
the water hits cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat that’s been building under it. you swim to sukuna’s side, breath catching slightly as you orient yourself to the chaos around you, because normally, usually, a crowded sweaty pool was something you’d avoid, but—he’s already looking at you. your thighs press together.
his eyes are not casual, not passing, he’s looking. his gaze drops first. slow and deliberate, catching the faint mark on your neck, the one he left last night, barely visible under the colored lights. his jaw ticks. then lower, just for a second, the way your body shifts in the water, the ripple of movement as you steady yourself, the rise and fall of your breasts threatening to spill out. the water calmly rocks underneath them. then his gaze shifts back to your face, and you’re still staring at him. you’re not even trying to hide it.
something about that makes his brow twitch.
because you’re not looking away. not when he meets your eyes. not when the noise around you spikes, not when someone splashes too close. your focus stays locked on him—heavy, almost… expectant.
it lingers a second too long. then—
“teams set!” the pledge yells, blowing the whistle way too aggressively. “first to ten wins— oh and no cheap shots—“ he glances around before catching geto lounged on the other side of the pool, some girl already pressed against his arm. “OH! no punches or choking too!”
“shut up and start it,” gojo calls from the other side, already grinning, bouncing lightly in the water.
sukuna doesn’t take his eyes off you for another beat. then he exhales through his nose, turning slightly, shoulders squaring as the ball is tossed into play and he’s in the pool.
the game starts rough. the second the ball is tossed, two guys are already lunging for it. water splashing high, bodies colliding mid-air before someone spikes it hard across the pool. girls move out of the way, squealing as huge men fight. a chorus of shouts erupts from the sidelines, music still blasting behind it, neon lights flickers over wet skin and moving bodies.
gojo, the ever responsible fraternity president, grins like a man possessed on the other side. sukuna, the very responsible vice president, is barking like a mad man.
and of course, the competitive idiots fall into rhythm with each other. fast, aggressive, locked in, and every hit gets harder, a slightly more violent. every return is sharper and people start gathering closer to the edge, phones out, recording, yelling their names like it’s a real match instead of a stupid drunk frat game.
“c’mon, kuna!” someone shouts.
“gojo! spike that shit!”
water slaps against the tile as everything moves fast. bodies move out of the way so they’re not hit by the aggressive spikes from the frat hosts, but they still refuse to leave the pool because it’s fun.
and then the ball comes your way. your eyes widen, barely able to think, so you just react. your hands come up, fingers pushing against it just right, and somehow, you’re sending it up in a clean arc, right to him.
sukuna moves instantly….he jumps, sculpted body cutting through the air, arm pulling back before he slams the ball down with violent force, sending it crashing into gojo’s side of the pool.
a winning point. a cheer explodes. sukuna lands, water dripping down his shoulders, then he glances at you. his canines are on display, as his deep voice cuts through the chaos to say, “good girl.” it’s low, automatic, and it slips out without thought, just like how he’d praise you when you’re alone, and his voice is raspy as he whispers it in your ear, cock usually deep in your guts as he gives you another mean thrust that you take with pride, pussy clamping when he bottoms.
something fast, hot, and dizzying rushes through you. your chest tightens, skin buzzing as your breath stutters for a second. your thighs press together instinctively under the water, pulse kicking up in a way that feels almost overwhelming. and from that moment on, you stick to him. you try to chase the ball for him, pushing it back into his reach every chance you get, doing your best to avoid the large men playing the game. but your focus narrows, locked in on your hot fuck buddy like nothing else exists. every movement feels sharper, more urgent, your body reacting before your brain can catch up.
on the sidelines, people notice. how can they not? most of the girls “playing” cling to the perimeter. and then there’s you, being an idiot, but a very hot one, throwing yourself in the middle. your bikini clings tight from the water, fabric hugging every curve, shifting every time you jump or twist. a few guys on the edge of the pool don’t even bother pretending they’re watching the game anymore. their eyes track you instead, murmurs passing between them. someone whistles when you jump to set the ball, breasts bouncing freely in the flimsy bikini top, your nipples hard underneath as water cascades like some playboy ad.
but sukuna, is too locked in the game to notice.
the first round ends with his team winning, and the second starts almost immediately, louder than before. people are picking sides now, chanting, recording, some still dancing on the grass behind them, focused on the dj, drinks sloshing as the party refuses to slow down around the chaos of the pool’s game.
you’re still right there again when it starts. you doubt you’re even playing anymore, but you want to see him, watch him jump high and spike the ball. watch the ink on his back ripple with his muscles. the same defined lines that you caress at night, and hug—
your attention is so narrowed, that you don’t even notice the guy at first. bodies are moving, all a blur that you don’t focus on another body moving behind you. until it’s too near, too familiar for someone you don’t know. then, a hand brushes your bare side under the water, lingering just a second too long making your blood run cold.
your eyes snap wide. “what the fuck!” you twist instantly, shoving him off hard, water splashing between you as your stomach turns. only a few people notice, the rest too consumed by the game until you’re moving straight towards a certain captain.
“THAT’S A FUCKING FOUL GOJO—what the—“
your arms wrap around him from behind without hesitation, pressing into him, chest flush against his back as you cling to one familiar form. tight, and instinctive.
it catches him off guard, just for a second. his body tenses slightly under your grip. his muscular arms lift, head turning halfway to see, “who the fuck—“ grabbed him in the middle of game! but then he sees you. and his eyes glance down at your familiar hands holding his chest. your name slips out of his lips, confused what you’re doing, but then the ball’s already back in play. and somehow he keeps going.
even with you wrapped around him, weight clinging to his back, he still moves, still blocks, still lands a hit that sends the ball flying back over the net. it’s messy now, uneven, but he’s too competitive to stop, jaw tight, focus split but still sharp. water splashes everywhere. people are yelling. gojo laughs from the other side. “what the hell is that— you got a handicap now?”
sukuna clicks his tongue, annoyed, shifting slightly to keep his balance with you still latched onto him. you don’t let go. not once. “you drunk?” he tries to talk to you mid-game.
“yeah,” you mutter over the music. but as more people fill the pool, and the third round feels much more chaotic, sukuna begins to notice. your grip tightens every time someone gets too close, every time someone accidentally touches you, every time your head spins just a little from the alcohol and the heat and everything. your cheek presses against his back, breath uneven, body still buzzing in a way you don’t fully understand, other than the fact that you can feel how hot it is between your legs. he smells so good…
the game drags on— until finally— gojo’s team takes the last point. a loud cheer erupts from his side, people splashing into the pool, celebrating, phones still up capturing everything.“told you,” gojo grins, pushing his wet snowy hair back, muscles flexing for the cameras as he sticks his tongue out.
sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, annoyed, shoulders tense— he doesn’t shake you off. but unfortunately, he doesn’t get the chance.
you’re suddenly ripped away.
“wha—! what the fuck!” you yelp as a pair of hands grab you from underneath, a drunk junior dunking under the water before popping up with you lifted high onto his shoulders. just for the crowd to erupt.
“OH SHIT— chicken fight!”
“LET’S GO!”
“get her, get her!” other guys in the pool dunk under and lift a few laughing girls up. but you’re not one of them. your thighs clamp instinctively around the stranger’s head just to keep from slipping, heart racing, balance completely shot as water drips down your legs and chest. your hands fly to his hair, trying to steady yourself, panic flashing across your face. you didn’t agree to this. your eyes lock with sukuna immediately. wide. confused. he’s not your boyfriend— but he’s still…
something in him snaps. he straightens, fast. too fast. the playful edge from seconds ago gone completely, replaced with something sharp and violent, jaw tightening as his eyes drag over the way the guy’s hands are gripping your thighs— and the whistles from the crowd don’t help, especially when your hand reaches to adjust the way your bikini top had shifted.
“damn!”
sukuna’s fist curls. “get your fucking hands off her,” he bites out, already moving forward through the water, splashing hard as he closes the distance.
the guy just laughs, drunk, clueless and not listening. “relax, man, it’s just a chicken fight. ever heard of those?”
he doesn’t get to finish. sukuna’s already pulling his arm back, when you squeak.
“wait—!” you gasp, trying to shift your weight, panic spiking as the situation spirals way too fast—but before anything can land another pair of bodies crash into you. a second drunk chicken fight slams into your side, bodies colliding, completely losing balance. and then everything goes under. water rushes over your head in a blur of limbs and noise, the guy beneath you losing his footing as you both go down. you barely have time to register it before a hand grabs you. hard.
sukuna’s arm wraps tight around your waist, yanking you up and out of the water in one sharp motion. you cough, sputtering slightly, fingers clutching onto him as he steadies you against his side. he doesn’t even look at you at first. he’s glaring past you.
“what the fuck is wrong with you?!” he snaps, voice low and dangerous, water dripping from his hair as he stares down the guy who just broke the surface, coughing. “you fucking grab girls without permission and I’m fucking snapping your arm in half!”
the junior lifts his hands, half-laughing, half-defensive. “yo, chill— it’s just a game—”
“i said don’t touch her,” sukuna cuts in, sharper this time, stepping forward like he’s ready to swing anyway.
the energy shifts instantly. people nearby start stepping in, hands coming up.
“aye, chill, chill—” one tries to come between them. sukuna doesn’t even notice that you’d managed to slip from his grip, still coughing as you swim to the steps of the pool, heart pounding as utahime, having seen the entire interaction helps you out.
“you okay?” she sits in front of you on the edge handing you water.
you nod, chugging half the bottle, before breathing again, “swallowed like…” you gag, “a disgusting amount of that pool water.” utahime cringes as she glances at the pool. the interaction growing even more heated, as a crowd watches sukuna curse out the junior.
“anyone else fucking grab a girl without her permission is getting fucking banned from this frat permanently!” sukuna shouts. murmurs break out across the crowd, a few glance towards you, as utahime notices, but you’re too busy washing your mouth out to care.
gojo’s aloof attitude steps in after coming back with a sweet juice in hand. “okay, okay, we’re clear on consent aren’t we guys?”
people hum, cheering for the games to continue. but then…
“didn’t know she was your girlfriend.”
it lands this time, cutting through the noise and sticking just long enough for a few whistles and low laughs to ripple through the crowd. the kind of comment meant to poke, to stir, to see what the hot headed vp will do with it. but what’s worse is that a majority of the crowd has no clue what your relationship is with sukuna. aside from the frat members.
sukuna doesn’t even look at him, and he doesn’t correct it. it’s not because he wants to claim you. not because it’s true. but because it’s annoying—because explaining it, denying it, entertaining it at all feels like more effort than it’s worth. he’s your fuck buddy, he knows that, you know that, and thats all. his jaw tightens once, eyes already elsewhere, done with the conversation before it can grow legs because then he’ll really break his fucking arm.
the party moves on like it always does. music swells back up, as gojo and geto thank the heavens that sukuna was in a good mood before the argument that he wasn’t tempered to continue the fight. luckily the drinks are raised again. gojo’s already laughing, pulling attention away, and just like that the moment dissolves into noise.
sukuna’s focus shifts and lands on you.
you’re still on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the water, skin slick and glowing under the neon lights. your bikini clings tighter now, nipples pebbled under your soaked top, every curve on display, highlighted by the shadows of the lights above. it makes it impossible not to look. droplets trail down your thighs, catching the light as you tilt your head back slightly, still rinsing your mouth out, brows furrowed in clear disgust.
utahime sits in front of you, just as eye-catching to the hungry men around, her own bikini hugging her frame, water beading along her collarbones as she watches you with a mix of concern and amusement.
and people are staring. not subtle glances—staring like you’re something to watch. something to linger on. like the game earlier just shifted into something else entirely and now you’re part of it without agreeing. no wonder you hate these parties.
it irritates him, fast.
sukuna clicks his tongue under his breath and pushes forward through the water, tall enough that even standing in the pool, he closes the height between you easily. the neon catches on his skin too. his broad shoulders still damp, muscles flexing as he moves, water sliding down his torso in slow lines. he’s not unaware of the way people look at him either—girls nearby pausing mid-conversation, eyes dragging over him openly—but he doesn’t care. not right now. not when he reaches you.
his hand comes up without hesitation, settling on your exposed thigh where it hangs over the edge of the pool. his palm is warm even against your wet skin, fingers spreading slightly, firm enough to ground, possessive. the contact is immediate. deliberate.
the shift is noticeable. a couple of those lingering stares drop off instantly. only then does he look at you. his gaze flicks over your face, still a little flushed, still catching your breath, before settling. his gaze is steady, assessing the way your glossy lips part with an exhale after chugging an entire bottle of watet.
“you good?” he asks, voice lower now, rougher around the edges from the leftover tension. his thumb moves slightly against your skin without thinking, a small, absent motion that doesn’t match the sharpness in his expression.
utahime has to hold back an eye roll, especially when his gaze flicks over your face, then your lips. unbelievable. what’s with him? what’s stopping him from asking you out if he gets so hot headed and possessive—ughhh…utahime holds back her anger, because she was pissed when someone suddenly grabbed you and then had you dunked in the water. why does sukuna have to be so fucking weird though?! she internally curses out sukuan for being the person that always protects her best friend, but acts like a complete jerk another second.
“how much sweat did you drink?” sukuna asks, tone laced with amusement .
your eyes snap, face grimacing, “shut the fuck—up,” you gag again, hand coming up to your mouth just for utahime to snort and sukuna to bark with laughter.
“did i tell ya why we had to drain the pool last year—“ sukuna starts, utahime’s eyes widen.
“oh my god I remember!”
your face pales, nails digging into sukuna’s shoulder while the other still covers your mouth. “don’t you dare tell me.”
sukuna grimaces with an amused expression remembering what happened at last years pool party. but distracting you has somehow managed to isolate everything else around him and have his sole focus on the way you wipe your mouth with a napkin utahime — and now nanami and geto at her side — comes back with, and the way your fingers shift from his shoulder to his forearm resting across your damp lap. and the conversation flows afterwards.
gojo was still on the dance floor, completely in his own world, some girl is pressed to his side as neon lights strobe over him laughing, loud, untouchable in the way he always is. meanwhile, the edge of the pool has settled into something more intimate and funny. the conversations around overlap as you all joke loudly and throwing around slight bickering, cooling off from the chaos, but still very much alive.
and with all that, you hadn’t left. even after everything, you’re still sitting where you are, leg still dipped in the water, skin dewy under the lights, bikini keeping your pretty tits in view for a certain salmon haired man. your hair is slightly damp, pushed back from your face, exposing the curve of your neck—the faint mark sukuna left the night before still visible if someone looks close enough. and you smell heavenly. fuck if you’re alone, he’d bury his nose closer to your breasts to smell the sweat clinging.
but people are looking. they always are now.
they just don’t linger as long anymore. not with him there. sukuna leans into the edge of the pool, upper body braced beside you, his arm draped behind your back like it naturally falls there. his other hand rests lazily against your thigh, fingers tapping absently against your skin as he takes a sip from his beer. his shoulders are broad, still slick with water, veins visible along his arms as they flex with every small movement.
he looks just as much of a problem as ever. and the attention doesn’t stop, girls nearby still steal glances, whispers, watching the way he’s positioned so close to you, the way his hand hasn’t moved from your leg once. but what’s more interesting, is that you don’t move either.
you don’t push him off, don’t shift away. if anything, you lean just slightly into his space, your fingers absentmindedly tracing along his forearm where it rests across your lap, like it’s second nature. you like it there.
and sukuna notices. of course he does, with how touchy and clingy you’ve been these past few days. yes, he’s shocked you haven’t left, or haven’t asked him to go upstairs with you. instead you’re being so uncharacteristically attached.
his gaze flicks down for a second, watching the way your fingers move against his skin, something unreadable passing through his expression before he looks away again, taking another sip like it didn’t just register. his stomach churns when you lean forward slapping nanami’s stretched out hand after he said something funny.
“why the fuck are you guys sitting here?” gojo’s voice cuts in suddenly, dripping with disbelief as he approaches, hair damp, grin lazy. he looks down at your little group, then at the pool like it personally offended him. “this is embarrassing.”
utahime snorts. “she almost drowned, idiot.”
“she’s alive,” gojo shrugs immediately, already grabbing a drink from someone nearby. “get in the hot tub. it’s waaaay better!”
a couple girls attached to him nod eagerly, already following his lead as he starts heading that way without waiting for an answer. utahime glances at you. “you wanna stay out or…?”
you don’t even hesitate as you hum, soft. “yeah, why not.”
sukuna catches it.
the group starts moving, the energy shifting with them as they make their way toward the hot tub. somewhere along the path, nanami and utahime get pulled into another conversation, stopping off to the side, leaving you and sukuna to keep going without them. your skin burns as sukuna keeps a subtle hand in your lower back, biting his lip when you reach the hot tub and you step in front of him. his gaze drops to the movement of your ass, your bikini was so skimpy it’s definitely clinging on to your pussy lips too. fuck,
by the time you step into the hot tub, the heat hits instantly. you sigh without meaning to, tension melting from your shoulders as the warmth wraps around you, soaking into your skin. your body relaxes almost immediately, the contrast from the cooler pool making everything feel heavier, slower.
sukuna steps in right after you. and immediately shoves two guys aside with a sharp nudge of his shoulder. “move.”
they do quickly without argument, clearly frat members. he settles in beside you, close again, like earlier, like he didn’t just create that space for you.
gojo drops in for half a second, splashing water everywhere before grimacing. “it’s too hot,” he complains, already climbing back out. “i need another drink.”
and just like that, he’s gone again. leaving you, sukuna, and the rest of the group laughing, talking. the conversation easy as the night keeps rolling around you. especially when geto comes back with some girls and red solo cups for beer pong.
“don’t spill any in the hot tub!” sukuna barks as the girls organize the cups in place on the edge. geto slides into the pool with the ping pong balls.
“shh shh i know,” he zips his friend up as he takes aim. and as the party is brought back to the hot tub, you’re all swept up again. and your eyes are following every movement of your friend beside you. the way he’s shouting and laughing with his frat brothers, the conversations turning to fog when sukuna flexes his large bicep, the ink that wraps around it highlights how big they are. you can’t even recall the context of this sudden flex off, but you’re not complaining.
you watch his throat bop as he throws back another cup of beer, standing beside geto. your eyes trail over his sculpted chest. you suck in your bottom lip as sukuna falls back beside you. his arm draped behind you along the edge of the hot tub, barking another laugh at some crap geto is spewing, completely distracted.
“I swear TO GOD, you told me to go for that dive!” geto throws his hands up, flabbergasted.
“nah nah nah—“ sukuna shouts over, shaking his head with an amused expression, “I told you—“
“nah—satoru!!” geto looks over his shoulder, waving down the president. “SATORU!”
gojo’s head whips around. however, the debate is the furthest thing from your mind, honestly you can’t even understand what these idiots are talking about. but— there’s one idiot that smells heavenly.
sukuna distracted, doesn’t notice how much closer you’re pressed to him, how your lashes flutter at the mix of cologne and chlorine flooding your nose, and dizzying your mind. he’s so—uh..when men— your brain is short circuiting. literally. mind so consumed by how big and strong this man beside is, that all you can think about is how he protected you. he pulled you out of the water. snapped at that guy…for you.
you’re not normally this moved. but it was the series of events that unfolded, all in the last few hours, that has you doing what you do next.
“please! you know i did not agree to that!” geto tsks, pointing his finger at gojo who’s laughing, sitting at the edge of the hot tub, legs in. and the two — along with the rest of the group involved in the debate — are distracted, and unaware of the fact that the pretty girl that sukuna almost started a fight over, is slipping her pretty hand inside his swim shorts.
sukuna tenses. breath hitching.
his eyes snap to you, stomach clenching. “what’re you—“ he chokes when you squeeze his thick base without warning. your cheek casually presses against his shoulder, wetting your bottom lip. your leg is tucked against his side, as the other swings over his knee, pretty tits squished against his arm. your wrist rolls, stroking his flaccid cock alive.
“ryo…” you speak low enough so that only sukuna can hear. “was jus’ thinking about you.” his jaw tenses, hand clenching at the edge of the tub, leaning his head down.
“you’re the one that doesn’t like this shit,” he husks, throat bopping as you bat your lashes up at him, bitting your lip as you give his cock another squeeze, pushing your wet tits against his arm. “there’s people—“
“then be normal, ryo,” you say, all while nuzzling him like a clingy g— “just wanted to feel how big you are.”
his heads tips back, what’re you even saying?
you keep your cheek pressed against his shoulder, lip tucked between your teeth as you stroke the vp’s fat throbbing cock in the middle of a party and in a hot tub full of his close frat friends.
it wasn’t difficult for his dick to fully harden within seconds of your hand making contact. you let out a soft exhale, pressing your practically naked body against him like you could get any closer than you already are. but to make matters worse, he was so unbelievably turned on that you were touching him in public! fuuck, his stomach flexes, biting back a groan when your thumb swipes his bulbous tip, the water made it difficult for you to keep a fast pace stroke, but his skin was still prickling with heat.
“ryo, is this okay?” you softly pant in his ear, a hum like moan escapes your lips just by the way he exhales through his nose, turning his head to you, aroma engulfing you.
to anyone else it just looked like you were having a private conversation with each other. the hot tub and pool, a few feet away, booming with chaos, no one was paying attention to you guys. but even with all that information, sukuna — who spreads his legs further apart in the water, biting his lip when you kiss his neck now, sucking a light bruise on his flushed skin — knows that you’d never do this. you get touchy when you’re drunk, whispering dirty shit in his ear. but you’ve only had a couple drinks to make you tipsy enough to enjoy the party and remember, not black out drunk to jerk him off in public.
“yeah—it’s okay,” his head drops forward, hot red flush crawling up his neck and stinging his cheeks as he nudges your head with his.
“yeah?” you repeat with a coo.
he bites back a pathetic groan, arm sliding to your waist under the water, gripping your flesh like his life depends on it. you’re intoxicating.
“yeah baby.”
a flush of heat runs between your legs at his deep bedroom voice. sukuna is so hot, he’s so hot, so pretty, so sexy! you squeal internally, leaning closer to press your lips against his sharp jaw, whining just low enough for him to hear. your wrist twists down his cock. you hadn’t even full realized that you’d taken him out of his swim trucks, to possessed to care as his fingers dig into your waist, while the other balls into a fist against the tub’s edge.
“are you close, ryo? is your big cock gonna cum?”
unbelievable.
sukuna’s jaw tenses, abs tightening just by your voice. you’ve been hanging up on how big he is. how big his hands are. how big his dick is — scratch that, you’re using the word cock now. yeah he’s gonna fuckin’ cum soon if you keep talkin’ like that.
“there’s so many people around ry,” you shy quietly, “you don’t think they know I’m playing with you?” your slightly tipsy eyes bat up at him, pupils completely dilated. his eyes briefly sweep around him, the alarms flashing in his mind don’t seem to phase him as he drops his lips down to brush yours.
“what if they are aware?” he husks, lidded eyes boring into yours. “does that make y’r pussy wet?” he wets his lip, thighs flexing when you give his cock a squeeze as he speaks. “ya like knowing that there’s eyes everywhere…watching your slutty self jerk me off.”
your brain short circuits. face burning hot.
“I’m not a slut,” you whisper, just as you’re practically straddling his thigh now, with the way you’re inching closer to him every second. his hand slides from your waist to your ass, gripping the flesh as he pulls it apart letting you feel the warm tub water touch your heated pussy.
“you’re gettin on top of me—“
“to protect your dignity,” you attempt a frown, but your eyes keep flicking to his lips, brushing your lips against them again, just for him to pull back, again.
“didn’t take you as someone so generous,” he quips, hips angling up, subtly telling you to keep stroking him, even if it’s starting to feel like edging. “but,” he bites back another groan, “but to me, ya just look like another slut that wants to get her little pussy stuffed.”
you blink.
sukuna can see the lust burst behind your eyes. your thighs clamp around his beefy thigh, your hand squeezing his tip, and your lips parting. “is that so bad?”
ah fuck.
“you can’t say those words to a man,” sukuna’s rasps.
you pout, pressing your wet breasts against his chest, trapping his cock between your bodies. your hot breath fans against his face, scent invading his mind, and your lips brush against his, this time licking his bottom lip. once. twice. your tongue strokes his bottom lip, waiting for him to invite you in, whining a little louder when he refuses. “ryo.”
his large palms grip your ass. your flimsy bikini could easily be pulled to the side, exposing you just like him. your cheeks flush, arching even more, your arms are tossed around his broad shoulder, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape, desperate. needy. “I’ve been holding myself back ryo,” you quietly speak, unaware how much like déjà vu this feels. memories of last month flashing in his mind about those exact words coming from your lips as you climbed into his lap in the middle of a party. “you have to take care of it.”
“i have too?” he quips with a sharp edge in his tone.
your flush with embarrassment, lips parting as your lashes flutter shut, “please…please can you take care of it.”
unbelievable.
his cock twitches violently against your stomach. his muscular thigh flexes under your pussy making your lips part.
as you and sukuna speak in hushed whispers. a good group of people have take notice of the awkward shifting in the hot tub and the unrecognizable look on sukuna’s face. but specifically the girl that the sukuna let attach herself to him during a violently competitive water volleyball match and almost pick a fight with. he’s smirking as she whispers in his ear, her lips even pressing his lobe, making the intimidating vice president blush?!
“her tits are all over him,” one whispers, taking a sip as they watch from a distance, both sitting at the pools edge watching the events unfold a few feet’s away in the hot tub. it’s not obvious unless you’re staring as hard as these guys, or if you’re a certain man laughing as you stand up at the edge of the tub, face dropping for a millisecond when you catch your vice president getting off by a hot girl.
fucking animals, geto shakes his head, eyes flicking to gojo, easily communicating with him about you know.
gojo’s brows pinch glancing over from his seat at the edge of the tub, to— “oh shit!”
geto elbows him. “idiot!”
gojo’s hands fly to his mouth, laughing hysterically as he stares at the way his short tempered friend is blushing like crazy, and making it obvious to anyone that he’s getting his dick touched right now. “do they know what they’re doing?” gojo speaks in hushed whispers.
“obviously,” geto sits beside gojo, the tub water doesn’t seem to be appealing anymore. and yet there’s still a few people on the sides laughing, too drunk to notice.
“fucking pervs,” gojo snickers.
a beat passes.
then gojo turns, eyes wide when he sees geto staring blankly at him. “what?”
“you’re worse!” geto slaps him upside the head. gojo gasps in shock. “I can’t even remember how many times you fucked someone in here and in the pool—“
“hey,” gojo frowns, cheeks flushed from the alcohol. “that was…b-because they were hot.”
geto scoffs, “you weren’t even subtle about them, everybody knew you were fucking them. YOU’RE the biggest perv.”
gojo nods, “yeah…”
your whine flows directly into sukuna’s ear, lips coming back to his. “why won’t you kiss me?” you quietly demand.
his dimples press into his cheeks as he bites back a smirk. “we’re jus’ talking,” he says your name, but in that deep way he does when he’s stuffing you with his cock…which he’s not.
you sit up closer, sliding higher up his thigh, knee rubbing harshly against his cock — “ah!” you squeal suddenly straddling his lap instead of his thigh. his red irises sink into yours, watching the way your glossy lips part glancing at the surface of the hot tub trying to make out how close his cock is to where you need him. “you’re hard ryo.”
“and?”
your eyes flick up to him, pretty brows pressing together, “and we’re not jus’ talking—“
“y’know—“ he suddenly chokes.
you’ve moved your bikini to the side, and pushed his cock down, fully sitting on his cock and sliding across it, hips shaking, stimulating your needy clit.
your name cuts through the air, his grip moves to grab your hips, trying to keep you still, but his body betrays him as he bucks against you. “fuck, woman.”
your lips press against sukuna, whining like a desperate slut when he finally kisses you back. and this was why he didn’t want to entertain you this quickly. the sweet taste of your lips immediately sends a rush of heat down to his cock, his arm wraps around your back, holding the back of your head as the other grips your ass, groaning as your lips smack in wet hungry kisses. your tongues collide, spit collecting in your mouth as he groans in response.
sukuna has to be responsible. he has too. but you’re such a fucking slut— touching his cock, stroking him in public, rubbing your body (his biggest weakness) against him like you’re alone together. and now you’re humping his cock like you can feel something with the water’s friction.
all of it was a factor, and for some unexplainable reason, all the dots seemed to have connected at this exact moment—like a huge light bulb going off in his head.
“shit.”
you hum at the way his deep voice sends a warm heat blooming in your stomach. “are you turned on, ryo?” your lips purse, kissing his, unaware of the sudden realization he’s come too. “keep kissing me.”
your fingers thread through his short locks, gripping him as you keep his lips moving yours.
but sukuna’s palm splays across your spine, groaning at the way you don’t stop to catch your breath. then his grip tightens. his mouth drags slower this time, more deliberate. he’s testing something, and the way you react—how quick you melt back into him, how your nails press into his shoulders like you’re holding on and the pitched whine that leaves your lips when he tries to pull away.
“how bad d’you need me?” he murmurs, voice low, rough, right against your pretty lips.
you don’t hesitate. “so bad,” you breathe, almost frustrated, because it’s obvious.
his eyes flick over your face, searching, calculating—then narrowing slightly. “yeah?” he hums, thumb pressing into your waist, grounding you as you shift again, his cock snug between your folds. “why,” he asks, tone not soft or gentle, but testing.
you shake your head slightly, breath catching, fingers tightening on him. “because— i just—” you exhale sharply, frustrated, needy, “i just want you to touch me.”
that’s all he needs. a quiet, almost amused exhale leaves him, something darker settling behind his eyes now. nanami’s little comment about “noticing now” makes his stomach churn uncomfortably. it doesn’t mean anything that you’ve had this friend with benefits deal long enough for him to start noticing a pattern every month. especially when this part of the cycle comes around and you’re practically begging him to just touch you. he highly doubts that you even notice it.
“been like this all night,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, but his grip doesn’t loosen. if anything, it gets firmer. “can’t keep your hands off me, huh?”
you don’t even deny it. you just pull him back in. and this time he lets you. let’s you kiss him like it’s your last time, let’s you tug his hair like he belongs to you. let’s you pull away… you’re panting at him through glossy, lidded eyes.
and then sukuna notices.
the shift.
your breathing breaks. shallow and uneven. you can’t quite catch it as your lips part, soft, glossy, letting out these higher, breathier sounds that you’re not even trying to hold back anymore. it’s quieter than the music, but he hears it. feels it.
his grip tightens instinctively.
your hips are moving without any rhythm now. they’re slow, needy, desperate. your body chasing something it can’t reach fast enough. your fingers press into his lower stomach, clutching there like you need something solid to hold onto, your head tipping forward, lashes fluttering like a fucking angel. and your mouth falls open. a soft, pitched sound slips out of you—one you don’t even seem aware of—and it’s enough to make something dark flicker across his expression.
“…fuck,” he mutters under his breath, eyes locked on your face now, watching every little change. his cock twitching uncontrollably.
your brows pinch, as you completely fall apart, cumming right then and there. your grip on him tightens, thighs pressing in, grounding yourself on his cock without even thinking about it.
and he doesn’t move. doesn’t interrupt it. he just watches. and all he can think is how unbelievably hot you look in his eyes. women that are ovulating mean they’re more likely to get pregnant. fuck. why is his brain latching onto that part? you’re his fuck buddy. this is simple. it is simple. it’s perfectly reasonable—completely normal, even—for him to get turned on thinking about how much you cling to him, how much you crave him, how much you need him, how your body reacts to him like this. that doesn’t mean he wants to get you—
absolutely the fuck not.
but still…fucking women. you’re insane. his brain is short circuiting while you’re coming undone on his lap, in a hot tub, in the middle of a packed party.
and the way you’re panting, your breasts pushed together as you keep a hand on his lower abs, pussy spasming as your orgasm rocks through you, has something low and satisfying settling in your fuck buddy’s chest. his hand slides up your back again, slower this time, more deliberate.
“yeah…” he murmurs, almost to himself, thumb pressing lightly into your side as your breathing tries to steady. “that’s what i thought.”
his lips ghost over you.
then he feels it…the eyes.
his dark gaze flicks up. meeting the dilated blue and black ones, along with the others in the crowd. they all saw, didn’t they? witnessed something that had his jaw tightening and his pupils returning to their size.
“fuck me,” you pant quietly, arms lazily coming back to his shoulders coming down from your climax. you kiss him deeply, unaware of the mess you’re causing inside his brain. “I’ve heard people say hot tub’s make you orgasm better,” you lick his tongue, “because of the hot water.”
his grip tightens around you, eyes open and staring past you at the people eyeing the arch in your back as you make out with him like you didn’t just hump yourself to an orgasm in public.
“do you wanna cum too ryo?” your mischievous smile would’ve made any man buckle, but sukuna wasn’t any man. and he sure as shit isn’t a fucking cuck.
“no.”
his sudden tone shift had you pulling back, wet hand touching his damp cheek. sukuna’s thick brows were pulled tightly, clearly angry, at what? you’re not sure. but you’re too lax to think much of it as you squish his cheeks between your fingers. his tatted arm possessively hugged you, eyes briefly leaving the not so subtle audience behind you, to meet your glass eyes.
“you mad I came before you?” you tease, head tilting in mockery. cute. “it’s okay, I’ll make ya cum,” you whisper, smile gracing those sinful lips of yours. “I’ll let you choose too…”
fuck, you’re insane.
“…my hands…my lips….or..” you smile. “my tight, pretty pussy….”
you shrug biting your lip, batting your pretty lashes at him. “you always call it that. I’m just using your vocabulary, mister suh…ku…nuh.”
that was his final straw, because in a blink of an eye, sukuna’s tucking himself and pushing off the tub’s seat, standing up. water cascades down the sharp planes of his abs, his swim trunks clinging low on his hips—leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. and people notice, of course they do.
your jaw drops for half a second, eyes going wide before heat floods your face so fast it burns. you shoot up right after him, fist clenching at your side, brows pinching tight. “what’re you doing?”
“we’re going upstairs,” he says simply, like there aren’t a million eyes on him, more specifically on his thick bulge. girls are openly staring now, not even trying to hide it as their gazes drag over him, over the obvious outline pressing against his trunks.
your stomach twists. uncomfortable. ugly. you don’t name it. you won’t name it because it’s stupid. you have no right to feel any type of way about who looks at him or how they look at it. but still, your jaw tightens because the way they’re staring is making your blood boil and they’re looking at something that has nothing to do with them and everything to do with you. just you.
your eyes flick back to him, to the way the water trails down his body, down the dark wet hairs of his happy trail. the way he stands there like he doesn’t give a single fuck about the attention. and it only makes it worse. he looks like he’s been carved out of stone. something untouchable. and everyone’s fucking touching him with their eyes.
your lips press into a thin line, pulse uneven, heat sitting low in your stomach now for an entirely different reason as you step closer to him without even realizing it, hand settling on his stomach blocking the view from the onlookers. your fingers twitch. and you hate…hate how much it bothers you.
“you’re hard,” you huff, pushing him to step out of the tub, heart beating uncontrollably.
sukuna snorts, leaning down, “yeah no shit.”
“people are staring,” you grit.
your pulse stops. the air shifting around you, then you feel it. sukuna’s eyes bore into you, as his palm cups the side of your neck. your lips part in confusion when his gruff voice cuts.
“they’ve been staring.” the muscles on his jaw flex, pupils moving over your face as his gaze drops to your body. “they all…” his words trail off. he can’t say it…he can’t tell you they all fucking saw you cum, or the way your entire form looked like something straight out of every guys wet fantasy. all because of that unspoken tug that twists in his chest as you look up at him.
his head tips back in defeat.
unaware of the turmoil, you continue pushing him back, glancing briefly over your shoulder to see a few eyes not on the party but staring at sukuna.
“can you walk faster,” you mutter.
sukuna suddenly grabs your wrist after another push backwards, almost making him trip. his grip is firm and fast, yanking you back toward him before you can take another step, your body colliding lightly into his chest. water still drips from both of you, heat clashing with the cool night air as he steadies himself, jaw tightening for a second.
“watch it,” he mutters, low, though there’s no real bite to it. if anything, there’s something else there. his hand doesn’t leave your wrist. instead, it slides up, fingers curling tighter as he pulls you closer until there’s barely any space left between you. you barely get a word out before he leans down and kisses you hard. it’s sudden and messy, all teeth and heat, like he’s cutting off whatever rush of thoughts were building in your head. your hands come up instinctively, gripping into his shoulders as he angles you just right, one hand now firm at your waist to keep you there. your lips part, immediately tasting his skilled tongue.
and around you, the party doesn’t stop. it never does when it’s grown this chaotic. but there are small pockets, where people notice. gojo, still leaning back against the hot tub’s edge, lets out a low laugh. “zero awareness,” he mutters, clearly entertained. geto just shakes his head, amused, watching the scene unfold like it’s expected. neither of them have the energy tonight to call their friend out, but they’ll be sure to give him shit tomorrow.
but off to the side, a couple girls lean into each other, whispering behind their solo cups, eyes flicking between sukuna and the very obvious situation he’s not bothering to hide. further back, a few of the same guys from earlier in the pool linger, their stares a little too heavy, a little too interested, but sukuna doesn’t register it.
he’s too focused on you. too focused on the way you kiss him back just as hard. how you’re still letting out those fucking whines and moans into his hot mouth. too focused on how quickly you fold into him like he’s the oxygen keeping you alive. to him, this urgency and impatience, just reads as one thing. you want him so bad.
he pulls back just enough to breathe, lips still brushing yours, his gaze dropping to your face, slightly dazed, flushed, and lips parted from the kiss.
“…yeah,” he exhales, almost amused, thumb pressing into your waist. “you taste so good.”
your fingers tighten around his bicep, the other around his shoulder, breath uneven as you blink up at him, still catching up.
“can we—” you swallow, then try again, quieter but more urgent, “can we go upstairs now?”
there’s a beat. then his hand slides down to yours again, grip tightening as he turns, already moving toward the house without another word—pulling you with him. he pushes straight through the noise that follows inside, the lights, the bodies still dancing in the kitchen like nothing. all the way up to his room, and immediately kicking the door shut.
and within a blink of an eye, your tongue is lolling out as sukuna sits behind you, fingers digging into your ass and face buried from behind.
“fuh—fuck yeah,” you drawl, lips wet at the feel of sukuna’s tongue dragging inside your pussy, lapping up and toying with your rim before going back to suck your slick juices. “c’mon ry, haah…” you’re pushing his head back, so you can sit up. you move to tug his wet trunks off, crawling onto his lap once he discards them. unbothered by the tick in his jaw at your stubbornness, because in seconds, your head is tossed back, and your back is arching as you sink down on the nine thick fat inches. “a….ah—“
your lashes flutter, eyes rolling back at the unbelievable stretch. your pussy swallowing every inch like the slut he loves.
“there ya go,” he praises, fingers digging into your ass as you stare at his lips. his sharp teeth sink into his bottom lip as your slick lubricates his cock. your pussy a generous fountain as you roll your hips, letting his cock stuff deep inside you. “take this fuckin’ cock like a good bitch.”
“ry…haah…” you’re moaning in choked gasps, drool peaking at the corner of your lips as you finally sit back on his thighs.
the man’s pupils dilate as you stroke your lower stomach, feeling the bulge as you bat your lashes up at him. “you’re inside me now, ryo.”
fuck you. seriously.
his brain short circuits in seconds. and now all he sees is you.
his body reacts like a dog with his master. obeying your needs like he’s wired to do that. and he’s not complaining. his hand falls on your ass, beefy thighs spreading, as he meets your bounces with rough snaps of his hips. your ass claps against his thighs with each bounce, gasps piercing the air as he fucks up into you with full force. and you let him.
“look like a fuckin’ porn star on top of me,” he grunts, swallowing a moan when you clamp around him, finger tugging on the knot around your neck letting your bikini finally fall off, freeing your gorgeous tits. “fucking brat—“
his tongue falls out, licking your tit that bounces in his face, lips wrapping around your nipple and sucking desperately. and he’s not nice about it. because now he knows. he knows you’ll let him. knows when you’re ovulating you’ll let him be a little harder, meaner, because it feels good. it feels good to feel his teeth bite down on your nipple possessively. it feels good when he spanks your ass for the nth time until your eyes are rimmed red and flooding with tears.
it feels good to have him obsessed with you, because all you’re begging for is…
“cu—uh—cum.”
an electric current runs down his spine, jaw clenching and head tipping back, flooding your tight pussy with his thick load.
“shit—nghhh fuuuck—fuck baby,” he’s gripping your hips as you press against his stomach, rocking on his cock. he doesn’t fully realize his back is laying against the bed. not when you’re milking his cock like he’s some fucking cow…and yet… “shit keep goin, baby—yeah ya want m-Mmm shit.”
“feel so good ryo.” you shake your ass, feeling his cock twitch inside you when his arm wraps around you, tugging you down to his chest.
“you can keep going?”
you smile, hand touching his cheek, as your tongue strokes his bottom lip. “yeah.” you sigh, whining so softly he would’ve missed it. and you continue like that, kissing him over and over, sighing and calling his name as he pulls out, his fingers push inside your pussy from behind.
“y’r killing me with this tight pretty pussy,” he coos, sending a wave of heat through your veins.
you mewl against his lips, earning a mean spank to your ass, just for his middle and ring finger to slip back inside you. and he does that for god knows how long, until you finally spasm around his digits. he’s then flipping you over, easily getting on top.
“keep em open cmon.” his low voice has your pussy pulsing, pushing his previous load out right in front of his eyes. he must know his voice’s affects on you.
you hold your legs open, bottom lip between your teeth as you watch sukuna stroke his member over you. the room smells of chlorine, you, and him. “theere we go,” he groans, palm pressing against your knee as he kneels closer to your open legs, dilated pupils staring at the mess between your legs as he slaps his hard cock on your puffy pussy. “what a dirty fuckin’ girl,” he drags his cock between your slippery folds, exhaling through his nose when his engorged tip catches your sore clit.
“ryoomen,” you call softly, like you haven’t been all over him these last two days.
he snorts, “what happened to mister sukuna? don’t tell me you’ forgot how you humped yourself to an orgasm in the pool—“
“hot tub.”
“my bad,” he remarks sarcastically, tip pushing inside then pulling out again, teasing. “still rubbed this pussy raw, look,” he slaps his cock again, thumb rubbing your little bundle of nerves making you let go of your legs— “ah—keep em open.” he spanks the inside of your thigh. “dirty girls need to be taught a lesson.”
“please,” you scoff, sitting up on your elbows, “you were literally slapping everyone around with your hard dick.”
sukuna barks out a laugh. “my dick’s that big?”
you glance down at him, then back up. “I wasn’t being dirty. you were dirty too.”
“me?” he’s baffled, you’ve been throwing yourself at him all night!
you raise a brow at him, relaxing back on the pillows pressed against the headboard, eyeing him. “you never took your hands off me.”
sukuna scoffs, “as if, you latched onto me on the pool.”
“then i went to hime to wash my mouth out, and you—“ you point at him with emphasis, “came swimming to me, touching me, stroking my thigh, my back.” your brow quirks again, and sukuna goes mute. his jaw ticks, glancing over your face as your calf subtly hooks over his thigh, stroking up as your hands lay on your stomach, waiting.
“you…” he licks the back of his teeth, sharp eyes threatening, but… “so what if I had my hands on you?” oh, he admits it. your cheeks sting, wetting your lip as you shrug.
“well,” you tilt your head again, slightly embarrassed now, glancing down at his inked chest. “like…you can’t blame me for getting turned on then.”
“because I’m touching you?”
you nod.
“like this,” his palm trails from your knee, slowly up your thigh. the warmth of his skin feels burns a trail up your body.
you nod.
his hand reaches your waist, eyes boring into yours. his cock throbbing at this point, he can feel the slick of your arousal costing his cock as it rests against your pussy.
turning to some light foreplay after just fucking you was messing with his head…because….it feels so good.
“what about when I’m touching your waist,” his thumb strokes the soft skin. “it’s not your ass.”
your breath is uneven. your heart beats against your rib cage. “still,” you exhale.
“still turns you on?” he clarifies, catching the way your lips part, breathless just by the way he’s flirting with you. his cock twitches…you’re gorgeous.
you nod.
his free hand caresses your hips, moving it up your body in feather-like-caresses. his other arm is pressed beside you, keeping himself up as he watches your arms lay bent on the bed. his hand lightly brushes the side of your breast before trailing over your collarbone. “still?”
you nod, wetting your bottom lip, blown pupils maintaining eye contact.
his thumb caresses your collarbone, eyes flicking between your eyes and the way your chest is rising and falling in uneven breaths. “how about now?” his palm glides over your bicep, then down your arm, before threading his fingers with yours.
you squeeze his hand, eyes unable to tear away from his, cheeks hot. his face inches closer to yours, exhaling against your lips. “I think you’ve jus’ proved how horny you’ve been these past few days.”
your breath stutters, angling your chin up, “obviously,” you mutter against his lips. “I’m pretty sure I’m ovulating.”
something dark and electric flashes through his eyes. a low exhale leaves him, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just heat, thick and immediate. his grip on your hand tightens to the point it almost borders on rough.
“yeah?” he murmurs, voice dropping, rougher now, like it’s scraping out of his throat. his forehead nudges against yours for a second, grounding himself, but it doesn’t work. if anything, it makes it worse. “tell me you want me to stuff you then.”
“I want you to stuff me, ryo,” you repeat, breathless as his jaw slacks finally rocking his hips into yours, slick cock massaging your folds. “with your cock…your cum….”
“keep going,” he husks.
your free hand trails up his bicep, the other still holding his hand like an anchor. “I want you to fuck me. hard. use me. cum in me.”
“ah fuck—“ he slips his hand between your bodies, pushing his cock down and snapping his hips into yours, sheathing his entire length inside. your jaw drops, broken cry slipping out. “y’ really know how to make a man fucking hard.”
your lips are glossed with spit as he presses his lips against yours. he swallows your moans, snapping his hips with a mean hard thrust, picking up a brutal pace without warning.
and you love it.
the base downstairs shakes the bedroom walls, the laughing and chatter outside is nothing compared to the way you’re panting and crying in his ear. the lights flickering from the pools strobe lights, only serve to illuminate your flushed face as you cum.
“fuck, you still want more,” he’s already kissing you again, and again. spit mixing together against your tongues as he pulls away. he pants over your face, his cheeks flushed pink and his cock rubbed raw. “fuck gunna cum…ngh yeah fuck fuck—“ he pistons his cock inside your poor cunt, dilated pupils zeroing on the mess that’s gushing from you. his chuckle is broken with his groan as he fucks you through it all. “keep squirting baby, it won’t make me stop.”
and he doesn’t. his thrusts are rough. engorged tip bruising your cervix with every snap of his sharp fit hips. he’s harder than usual, and even as you’re gasping, back of your hand raised to your mouth, pussy spasming as sukuna slams his body weight into each thrust — you don’t push him away.
“gunna cum…shiit, shit it’s coming—“ his voice breaks, and it feels like a damn crashing. his cock pulses inside you, squirting buckets inside your poor cunt. “haah fuh—“ his abs flex, body weight dropping on top of you, hugging you tight as he rocks his hips into lazy harsh humps, burying himself deep inside you, you’re sliding against the mattress. the rasp in his throat has you holding onto him tight, unbothered by how unbelievably heavy he is on top of your smaller body.
and sukuna stays like that. face buried in your neck, arms clutching onto you, and brain fried.
“you also smell sweeter,” he mutters. “when you’re ovulating.”
“I don’t. you’re just a freak.”
he buries his nose deeper in your neck, inhaling sharply. “haah fuck, nah you definitely smell good.”
your brain short circuits, cheeks flooding hot as you wiggle underneath him. “you can’t—“
“you humped me in the hot tub.”
your brows scrunch together. “so?”
he licks your neck, “then you can’t blame me for still being turned on by you.” he licks a strip up to your ear, a tingle runs down to your pussy, squeezing around him.
he smirks.
of course he does. and why wouldn’t he? you’re already nudging him to your lips, kissing him again, like you aren’t stuffed with loads of his cum.
“you’re cute,” he mutters between kisses, and even if that makes your stomach flip, your face burn, and your heart skip a beat…you don’t comment on it. you don’t address it. and you sure as shit don’t think about it.
and the simple answer is, he’s kissing you right now and that’s all you want to think about it.
more frat!kuna here
a/n: I’m blaming the grammar errors on you guys for the rush (I also hate proof reading). but I hope u guys enjoyed it. believe me when I say, I was not expecting it to be that freaking long, I just really wanted to write sukuna and reader kinda skinny dipping, without losing their dynamic or doing something super uncharacteristic, so I dragged out the plot. but still I hope u guys liked it!
and thank you for the wait. I really put most of my free time into this so I can’t tell u when I’ll finish the next chapter of the series, so bare with me for another possible week of agony :’(
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot was a creature of habit. Structure and routine were infused within the very makings of him, written in bloodwork and DNA if anyone looked close enough. But that was before he met you and Phoebe. Before he fell hopelessly and irrevocably in love with the chaotic girls in apartment seventeen.
WARNINGS: lots to get through; mentions of Tom x Kirsty and abusive and narcissistic tendencies, Phoebe feeling confused and lost in her head and heart, Jack being promoted to Uncle Jack, heavy discussion of readers late fiance and Jack's late wife, talks about parent abandonment, disgusting fluff, minor child injury, inaccurate medical terminology (lol), the pitt teasing Jack, swearing, flirting, kissing, mentions of smut, this is truly quite angsty so may I recommend having some tissues for the final part, just in case.
A/N: I would just like to take a moment to thank every single one of my lovely readers for giving this story a chance and sticking with it to the very end. I am so incredibly sad that this series is now complete and I cannot thank you all enough for the love and support you've given me and this story!! There is a lot to unpack in this final chapter, a very big deep conversation that may make you feel some type of way so just be prepared! I also highly recommend listening to Wait by M83 on repeat when you get to the balcony scene!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 13.4k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
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Maybe Jack is a little out of his element, but he tries not to let it show.
Tries to ignore the blatant ogling of moms on the playground and the whispered names of yours and his that pass through gossiping lips.
Jack reminds himself that this was his idea, that you didn’t exactly force school pick up upon him. Still, this feels entirely more daunting than a shift at PTMC, which he really needs to be getting ready for soon.
It isn’t the first time he’s offered to pick Pheebs up from her school, but it is the first time he’s done it alone.
Over the past two months, his presence at the school doors has become much more consistent. In the mornings—if he hasn’t just got back from a night shift—Jack will join you for drop-off before taking you out for breakfast and coffee. And in the afternoons, no matter if Jack has work in a few hours or not, he’s made a habit of joining you on pick-up, too.
The addition of his presence in both the playground and Phoebe’s life has been profoundly noticed by everyone. So much so, that his name has been added to Pheebs’ authorized pick-up list and he’s been invited to speak with her class about what it’s like to be a doctor next Tuesday.
The doors to Phoebe’s class open before Jack can be subjected to any unwarranted approaches, and it barely takes a moment for him to spot Pheebs in the line of kids. It takes her even less time to spot him, to tug on Ms. Melia’s hand and point to where he stands.
He offers a small wave and Ms. Melia doesn’t wait to send Pheebs off to him.
She races over faster than he’s ever seen her move, riddled with unkept excitement and rambling at the speed of light about her day. She mentions about twelve times that she’s sad Florence was sick and couldn't come in before he even gets her to the car.
It’s only when Pheebs is strapped into her seat and Jack’s phone is connecting to the CarPlay that she seems to realize that she’s missing a parent, and her recap of the day's events comes to a halt.
“Where’s Mommy?” Jack’s gaze meets hers through the rearview mirror.
It was entirely unexpected when Kirsty had arrived at your apartment just an hour before Pheebs was due to be picked up from school. You and Jack were in the middle of some very exciting bedroom activities when the persistent ringing of your doorbell cut through the moment, and you found Kirsty sobbing at your front door.
How she found your address, neither of you are quite sure. But you ushered her inside with a steaming mug of tea and listened when she sobbed and poured her heart out about Tom and the irrevocable damage he’s done to her mental and emotional health.
Ten minutes before pick-up time, she was still crying on the couch and Jack did not have the heart to interrupt her. He also did not have the stomach to sit and listen to all the cruel things Tom has said and done to the young woman. It hit too close to home, made him wonder if they’re the same things he said and did to you.
So Jack had kissed your temple and told you he’d pick Pheebs up when you went into the kitchen to refill her tea. You didn’t argue with the offer. Just kissed him fiercely and promised to pick up where you left off when he’s back from work in the morning.
He turns in his seat to get a look at her in the back. Hair a mess, cheeks flushed and ominous stains on the front of her shirt that you always somehow manage to get out.
“Mommy was needed for something super important, so I thought I’d pick you up. That okay?”
She nods with a grin. “Can we get ice cream?”
Jack’s smile mirrors hers, something cheeky and mischievous. “Can we get ice cream? We can get burgers and then bring ice cream home for Mom after.”
Her excited squeal is music to his ears when he turns forward in his seat and brings up your contact in his text messages.
Jack: Acquired the goods, taking her for early dinner. How’s Kirsty?
You: not good, tom tends to have that affect on women… she said he up and left last week for dubai after promising he would take her with him. shock.
You: i’ll call you when she's gone
Jack: Don’t rush, I can always take Diva back to mine to grab Sally and we’ll bring you back ice cream and burgers
You: you’re getting the sloppiest head tomorrow morning
Jack: Yeah? I’m holding you to that
You: ;)
Jack: ❤️ u gorgeous girl
You: ❤️ u baby
Jack locks his phone with a grin and stuffs it into the cup holder, pulling out of the parking lot and following the route from his mind to the best burger joint in the city.
He sings along with Phoebe to whatever songs she allows him to listen to. Keeps his mouth shut when she screams Hey Siri, skip! to the CarPlay when she gets sick of something that comes on.
He does well at keeping his focus on the road and not the final texts you shared. The only time that sentiment has been communicated between the two of you, but it’s still become almost an every day occurrence as of recently.
Much like Jack’s presence at your apartment. It’s rare he’s ever at his own place for more than two nights in a row. And somewhere four weeks ago, Sally had made the move, too. A shared sort of custody, if it can be considered as that.
She’s at your apartment more than she’s at Jack’s. Taken it upon herself to snuggle at the foot of Phoebe’s bed every night. It’s a fight Jack’s glad he gave up on, when you were persistent about having the cat so she wasn’t alone when he worked.
The reasoning of Sally pissing everywhere was weak, and still something you like to rub in his face, seeing as she’s only piddled twice in the last four weeks.
She’s also become your writing companion, often purring away beside your laptop when Jack’s sleeping and Pheebs is at school while you wrap up the final installment of your trilogy. Something that Jack is incredibly proud of you for.
Your literal blood, sweat and tears have gone into this final book. Sleepless nights and mental breakdowns where you’ve reconsidered every choice you’ve ever made for your career. It doesn’t help that you’ve been so on edge since Tom walked out at Phoebe’s field day, like you’re just waiting for him to try and pop back into Diva’s life.
Jack hasn’t exactly been much better.
He’s tried his hardest to support you in the ways that he can. Staying consistent with the both of you, taking Pheebs out to the park or for food, helping her rearrange her bedroom just so you have some peace to write when inspiration does strike.
He’s cooked and cleaned, taken Phoebe to bed almost every night for the past six weeks. He’s practically moved into your apartment without fully taking that step. Half of his clothes have made their way into your empty drawers and a spare key to your place has wound its way around his keychain.
And over the past month, his usual strict routine has been completely thrown out the window. Night shifts have remained the same, but Jack now only goes to the gym whenever he can squeeze an hour in. His shifts with SWAT have slowly been dwindling, but it’s not something he’s mad about.
For almost three months now, Jack’s been purposely picking up less shifts with the team. Partly because his time has been better placed with you and Pheebs, but mostly because he no longer feels like there’s a void that needs to be filled with adrenaline and near-misses.
Neither of you have really sat back and considered how and when these changes started to occur. How that key ended up on Jack’s chain, why it feels so natural to eat every meal as a family, how dates are no longer squeezed into your schedules but slot seamlessly into everyday life.
How you can sleep just fine when Jack’s working a night shift, but can’t sleep at all if he’s staying at his own apartment. How even Phoebe can tell the difference between it, too.
Jack’s grown used to spending his night shift sharing texts and random ninety second FaceTime calls with you. He’ll tell you the craziest patient of the night and you’ll share a snippet of a scene you’ve written (which is usually smut and him promising to try it out with you in the morning).
Everything between you has intensified and blossomed into the most domestic, honest and real thing he’s ever experienced. Nothing feels rushed or forced, nothing feels out of place or uneasy. And it’s the first time in Jack’s life that he hasn’t felt like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.
The only non-issue that has been on his mind is Tom.
Though, he is something that David has been very vocal about on the odd occasion he and Jack have seen one another one-on-one, and it’s been reassuring to see just how frustrated it makes your father. It hasn’t been nice to see the stress it’s caused you, though.
Neither of you realized how much things needed to change. From removing Tom from Pheebs’ pick up list to removing him as her emergency contact (where Jack offered to be put as the replacement because “baby, if they see a doctor on there, she’ll take priority of anything ever happens,”), and all the paperwork in between, it’s been a lot.
“Jack, I need to pee.” Phoebe’s strained voice from the backseat brings him back to the present and Jack casts a glance at her through the rearview mirror.
“We’re almost there, slugger. Can you hold it for five minutes?”
She’s shaking her head quickly, face pink and lips curled in, knees bouncing in her child seat as she stuffs her hands between her legs. “I really gotta go!”
Jack feels the internal panic begin to sneak up on him. He’s dealt with tearful falls and tumbles, scraped knees and an almost broken leg when it’s been just the two of them. But Phoebe potentially peeing her pants is not something he’s prepared for.
He has no spare clothes for her, she’s too big for a potty to be kept in the back of the car…it only really leaves one other option as he pulls up a dirt trail, out of the way of the road.
Jack turns to her, keeps the engine on and finds himself mirroring her expression.
“Honey, if you can’t hold it…you’re gonna have to pee in a bush.”
Her eyes widen, lips part. The shaking of her head becomes quicker. “I’m not peeing in a bush, there’s spiders in there!”
Jack blinks at Phoebe, rolling his lips between his teeth as he sighs. “I promise the spiders won’t go anywhere near you.”
She shakes her head again, lifting her chin. “I can hold it, I’ll hold it.”
“Are you sure?”
Her head continues to bob. “Come on!”
He doesn’t argue at her desperate shout of a plea. And he just hopes she doesn’t tell you that he sped a little too fast to get her to the burger joint before she saturated the carseat.
Phoebe has unbuckled herself before Jack even kills the engine, and the moment he rounds the car and opens her door, she’s jumping out of the vehicle and running with quick, desperate steps to the diner’s entrance.
Jack barely manages to lock the car and catch up with her in time, holding open the women’s restroom and sighing in relief when he finds it empty. Phoebe shoves him against the basin as she rushes into a cubicle—kicking the door closed, but not locking it—and a dramatic sigh of relief sounds from her when she finally relieves herself.
Jack struggles to hide his amusement, takes a moment to check his phone for any more texts from you. There are none, but he still admires the lockscreen photo of the three of you at your parents barbeque last weekend.
The door to the restroom swings open, soft footsteps halting as Jack looks up from his screen to come face-to-face with a cautious woman and child. His fingers immediately point to the stool that Phoebe’s occupying.
“My daughter…I didn’t wanna take her into the mens.”
My daughter? Jack’s heart lurches when he catches what he’s said, when he realizes that Phoebe is only six feet away with half a door separating them.
“Okay, I’m done, Dad!” She calls out as Jack pockets his phone and swallows down his heart.
The woman watches with a gentle smile, one much more relaxed as she ushers her own child into a stool and Jack has to take a moment to try and regulate his breathing.
Phoebe just fucking called him Dad.
“Good job, kid. Do you need help with your pants?” His voice is more wrecked than he anticipated when he lowly calls back to her, when he blinks back tears that brim in his eyes and struggles to breathe through the tightening of his throat.
“I’m four, not stupid!” Oh, right. Of course. Because she didn’t get the hump three days ago when she couldn't button up her jeans and Jack had to spend fifteen minutes showing her again how to do the zipper and button.
Her snarky remark gets a huff of laughter from the cubicle beside Phoebe’s but Jack can’t seem to reign himself in. His head is spiralling in worry for how you’ll react when he tells you what’s happened, his heart is bursting at the fact that Pheebs has likely only said that because he called her his daughter first.
“Watch that attitude of yours, young lady.” His tone holds no authority or threat. The words come out too breathlessly, like he’s struggling to fill his lungs deep enough.
But he’s the picture of composure when Phoebe flushes the toilet and swings open the door to reach for the sink. It’s second nature for Jack to lift her beneath her armpits so she can reach; lathering her hands and fingers in soap and muttering a song under her breath.
He lets Phoebe take the lead and guide him out of the restroom and toward a table by the front of the diner. Allows her to be the one to order for them both when the waitress comes over, only chiming in to add another burger onto the order that he can bring home for you.
Phoebe watches Jack through it all, notices how he begins to grow quiet and puts his attention into the cartoon sheet they’re coloring together. It makes her tummy tilt, makes worry begin to bubble in a feeling that usually causes her to seek him and you out for comfort.
“Jack?” Her voice is small, much smaller than he’s ever heard and his head snaps up to look at her. She chews on her inner cheek, head tilted as she averts her gaze to the pink crayon she holds. “Are you upset at me?”
Jack’s brows pinch together tightly, his chest aching as it tightens. “No, Diva. Why would I be upset with you?” His tone is gentle, soft. But his heart is cracking that she could ever think he’d ever feel anything but happiness and exhaustion when he’s with her.
“Because I called you Dad,” she whispers, still not daring to look at him.
Jack’s movements still, gently dropping the crayon and reaching out to poke at her hand to grab her attention. He swallows down the lump in his throat, silently scolds himself for getting too caught in his head over it that he’s caused this timid, quiet version of Phoebe to arise.
“Kid, you could never upset me. Especially not by calling me that. It just…suprised me.”
She frowns. “You called me your daughter first.”
Jack swallows. Is that what this is? Has she just been waiting to feel like it’s okay to call him Dad? Like she’s been holding out for some form of permission? How long has this new title been brewing? How long has she been stopping it from slipping?
Jack feels like he might pass out.
“I—yeah, I guess—I guess I did.”
A silence sits between them. Not awkward, but…heavy. They’re both aware of the weight of it, of the titles they’ve called one another. Uncharted territory for both parties, neither knowing what’s quite acceptable without you being present.
He can tell she wants to say more but he doesn’t push. If there’s one thing about parenting that Jack has learnt from you, it’s to create a safe space where Diva feels comfortable enough to come to you when she’s ready.
She doesn't say anything else while waiting for the burgers, doesn’t say anything when she begins to eat. It’s only after Jack asks her to say cheese at the camera so he can send a photo of her to you, and when she steals the phone to take a photo of him, that she finally finds her voice on the topic again.
“Would I be…allowed…to call you that, sometimes?”
Her voice is so quiet and meek, Jack almost has to ask her to repeat it. It takes a few moments for the request to fully register, to understand if he’s heard her correctly.
Because Phoebe is an incredibly intelligent kid. She’s far too aware of her surroundings and people’s intentions. It’s not been lost on you and Jack how in the past two months, she’s only asked about Tom twice. Both times were if she would be seeing him again.
You didn’t lie to Phoebe, you never do. You told her simply that no, she wouldn’t be seeing him again. Pheebs never asked for an explanation so you never gave one. She took the answer and left it at that, like the child was content with that being all.
But Jack knows that Phoebe knows the significance of calling someone Dad. To begin with, she no longer wanted to refer to Tom as that. And now, she’s asking for permission to give Jack that label instead, trying to soften the blow by proposing it to be just occasionally.
“Pheebs,” he calls her name softly. “I am honored that you want to call me that. You can call me whatever you want to call me…but I think it’s something you should talk to Mommy about first.”
“Yeah, okay.” She sighs, stuffing a mouthful of fries into her mouth and chomping down like having to speak to you about it is an inconvenience to her.
At least she still has an appetite, Jack’s completely lost his. He can feel his mind spiralling into every direction, trying to figure out where he’s overstepped recently for her to want to call him Dad, but he falls short.
Because it’s all been so natural and felt so right. You’ve had no issue with Jack taking Pheebs to bed almost every night at her request. You’ve had no problem with holding hands or cuddling each other in her presence. You’ve included him in every family event like it’s a given that he should be there.
That he is a part of you and Pheebs.
Jack’s phone vibrates from beside him on the table, the scream lighting up with smiling faces and your contact with a text preview.
You: god i love those beautiful faces!!
You: kirsty has left so hurry up and come home, someone else has come to see us
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
During the short drive home, Jack and Phoebe played a guessing game of who might be waiting at the apartment for them. Of course, not the best idea to play with a four-year-old. She’s somehow convinced herself that both Harry Styles and Peter Parker are waiting for her in her bedroom.
But when they do manage to make it inside the apartment, Phoebe tripping over her feet to get to her room and Jack struggling to hold all the leftover boxes and Phoebe’s bookbag, they stop short with wide eyes.
Karis sits on the couch beside Ricky, glowing and grinning and looking absolutely exhausted. But Jack cannot take his eyes away from you.
Slightly bent over with your hands tucking beneath small arms, cooing with watering eyes as you lift their little baby boy out of the carseat and into your arms. The newborn scrunch and the sight of you holding a baby short-circuits Jack’s brain and he thinks he’s having the most overwhelming day of his life.
“Baby Jude!” Phoebe gushes in excitement, slowly easing closer like he’s a frightened little mouse.
Karis scoops her up and peppers kisses across her cheeks and head as Jack gently closes the door behind him and places the styrofoam boxes on the coffee table when he inches closer.
It takes effort to drag his gaze off you and meet the eyes of your friends. He leans down to offer a warm hug to Karis, a kiss to her cheek and a shake of Ricky’s hand as he congratulates them.
You and Jack have FaceTimed them at least once a week for the past two months since Jude was born, when complications had arisen and they were stuck in the hospital for six weeks after his birth. But now they’re here, in your apartment and you’re snuggling that baby like you don’t plan on giving him back.
Jack’s heart fucking aches.
“He still has that newborn baby smell.” You whisper tearfully, inhaling the smell that reminds you of when Diva was just a little bubba and didn’t answer back to everything you said.
She beams up at you, shoulders raised and hands clasped together by her mouth. She looks like an excited old granny and you can’t deny giving her cuddles with her baby cousin. Karis settles Pheebs on the couch between her and Ricky, watches as you coo at Jude before leaning down to gently place him in her lap.
Jack’s by your side when you pull away to stand straight, and your vision is immediately distorted. Phoebe is so gentle with him, eyes wide and sparkling at the little life in her hands as she strokes the slope of his nose.
It’s a heartbreaking glimpse of what she could be like with her own sibling, with yours and Jack’s baby. A sobering thought that you catch yourself on, but you don’t for a single second tell yourself it’s wrong to imagine.
“She’s so gentle with him.” His low voice is comforting in your ear, a hand on your lower back and a kiss to your temple as a late greeting.
You hum, sink slightly into his side as you both watch her giggle when Jude begins to stretch and fuss. It’s ridiculous to feel so emotional over something as little as her holding a baby. But you find yourself sniffling and blinking back tears, anyway.
Jack’s just better at hiding it when he feels his eyes begin to sting. Not just at the sight of Pheebs, but at the memory of you holding Jude that’s now ingrained to the very wrinkles of his brain. Is that what you looked like when Phoebe was a baby? Only more fresh-eyed and inexperienced?
He’s not sure what it is other than something primal and overwhelming, has him conjuring up what you’d look like with a swollen belly again.
“Mommy, I need to pee.” Phoebe whispers, cautious not to wake the sleeping baby in her lap.
Ricky gently takes him from her and she waits until her lap is clear and Jude is secure in his father’s hold until she hops down from the couch and makes her way to the bathroom.
“You gonna have a hold, Uncle Jack?”
He blinks at Karis’ words, a little stunned at the honorable title he’s unsure he’s worthy of. But he nods, untangles his arm from around you and Ricky stands to reach across the distance and hands his baby boy over.
Jack has held many babies throughout his profession, but none have ever felt quite so meaningful as this. Uncle Jack. His nephew squirms slightly in his hold, eyes still shut and lips puckering, a tiny tongue peeking out before his mouth stretches into a yawn.
You watch the way Jack’s eyes sparkle down at Jude, the natural way he coddles him to his chest. Your ovaries are exploding at the sight, your heart aching profusely at the ridiculous play-pretend notion that this is your child, Jack’s child.
“He has so much hair,” Jack breathes a chuckle, risking a featherlight hand over the baby’s head to smooth the thick hair down. He dares a glance up at Karis and Ricky for barely a second before he’s captivated by Jude again. “He’s beautiful.”
Karis beams, in both pride and happiness for you and Phoebe.
“Thank you, for answering all my stupid questions when it came to his health. And for the gift baskets.”
Jack waves a hand to dismiss the gratitude that is not needed. He knew how anxious she had been while in the hospital and when she got home. While you only FaceTimed once or twice a week, Karis and Ricky would text Jack at least once a day, just needing reassurance that Jude was still recovering well from his surgery, checking what was normal and what wasn’t.
“Nothing is stupid when it comes to your child’s health.”
He spends a few more moments with Jude in his arms before finally relenting and handing him back over to his parents at the same time that Phoebe waddles back into the living room, a wicca basket in hand that Sally lounges in.
“She’s getting too fat!”
Jack cocks a brow, both arms bending to rest his hands on his hips. “That’s ‘cause you carry her everywhere.”
Phoebe pokes her tongue out at him as she passes, her excitement for Jude worn off as she opens Sally’s toy box instead. Your gaze meets Jack, something crossing his eyes as watches Pheebs get settled on the rug.
When he finally averts his gaze to meet yours, you cock your head slightly toward the kitchen in silent invitation, muttering out to Karis and Ricky that you’ll make some tea as Jack grabs the takeout boxes and follows you.
The moment the kettle flicks on and Ricky turns on the sports channel, you turn to Jack and wrap your arms around his waist. “Was Diva okay when she came out of school?”
He hums, leans down to steal a kiss. “Yeah, how was Kirsty?”
You sigh, leaning forward to crash your head against his chest. Your heart still feels heavy for the girl, the conversation having brought up all the trauma Tom had also put you through. You pull away to look at him and Jack only now sees how much it has drained you.
“She’ll be okay.”
He watches you in the same way you’re watching him; with slightly furrowed brows and concern prickling at your eyes.
“Jack, are you sure you’re okay?”
All he can do is make a humming sound, something that is not entirely convincing but you won’t push him. Not here, not now.
“I’ve gotta get ready for work soon. Debrief tomorrow night?”
Your frown grows deeper. “Tomorrow night? You got somewhere to be in the morning?”
A grin curls on his mouth at your playfully teasing tone and he leans down to press a ghost of a kiss to your pouting lips. “I gotta meet up with my SWAT guys.”
You kiss him again, just a gentle movement of lips. “You finally picking up a shift? Been a while since I’ve seen you in uniform.”
“No,” he whispers raspily against your mouth. “I’m leaving.”
He feels your body still before you pull away and he doesn’t have time to stop himself from smoothing out the elevens between your brows with the pad of his thumb. “Stop frowning.”
“Why are you leaving?”
Jack pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, considers the weight of the reason behind his decision to be a bit too much to divulge when you’ve got company. But he doesn’t want to leave you entirely in the dark. He knows your mind, your soul—knows you’ll worry yourself sick with overthinking the worst possible scenarios.
His hands leave your waist to cup your jaw, to force your gaze to not just look into his eyes but deeper. “I don’t need it anymore. Coming home safe to you and Pheebs is more important to me.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
By the time Karis and Ricky left with Jude, Jack was having to leave for work. With a smattering of kisses to Phoebe’s cheeks and your lips, he sauntered out the door just before six, always wanting to start a bit earlier to get a feel for what the night would look like.
You got Pheebs into the bath the moment he left, let her splash around the tub and draw with water crayons on the porcelain. Surprisingly, she let you wash her hair tonight without putting up much of a fuss, and didn't argue when you told her it was time to get out.
She dressed herself with minimal help, letting you brush the knots from her hair with lips pressed into a firm line. You’re not stupid when it comes to your daughter. You know there’s something on her mind, whether it be a concern or a request.
She’s always far too compliant when she’s thinking.
Usually, you don’t push. You allow her to come to you when she’s filtered through a muddy mind and knows what she wants to say. But it’s harder to do that tonight when it’s clear there’s something on Jack’s mind, too.
“Alright,” you sigh as she settles into her stool at the kitchen island. You lean on your forearms, head dipping slightly between your shoulders to meet her gaze. “What’s going on in that crazy little head of yours, hm?”
Phoebe shrugs. “Nothing.”
You roll your lips between your teeth. “Did something happen today? At school? With…with Jack?”
She shakes her head, still not wanting to meet your line of sight. It's a struggle not to ask for more, but you don’t want to push her away. You have to remind yourself that you trust Jack. That if something had happened, if Pheebs had told him something concerning, he’d have told you.
“Alright, well let's have dessert and finish our movie before bed then, sound good?”
She hums, half committed. “I’ll get Sally a treat.”
You turn to the fridge when the words tumble out of her, followed by a screech and an awkward sounding thud. You whirl around at the sound of Phoebe’s sob, round the island to find her laying on the ground and clutching her foot.
“Hey, shh, it’s okay. Where did you hurt, your foot?”
You’re kneeling down to her, trying desperately to keep your cool and not let her shrill cries pierce through your heart. Phoebe doesn’t let you get too close; face bright red and cheeks soaked with tears, pulling away every time you try to reach for her foot.
“Baby, you need to let me have a look.”
She pulls away again when you inch closer, her knuckles white around her lower calf, eyes squeezed shut.
“I can’t, Mama, it hurts!” She hiccups through the cries, catching Sally’s attention who curls into her side in a form of comfort.
You feel sick, heart in your throat as you desperately try to calm her down without touching her. You’ve never heard Phoebe cry so loudly, and you’re unsure if it’s the shock of the fall or if she’s really hurt herself. She doesn’t let you take a look, doesn’t let you put ice on it or keep it elevated above a pillow.
“I want Jack.” She speaks on a shaky inhale of breath, her pyjama shirt soaked from tears. Her desperate request makes your fingertips ache.
“Alright, okay. I’ll take you to Jack. Come on, up you get.”
It’s only then that Phoebe allows you to touch her. Not her leg or her ankle, but she lets you hold her arm to help her stand. The moment she tries to put pressure on her right leg, her knee gives way and she bursts into another fit of tearful whimpers.
Worry and panic begins to course through you, thoughts that she’s broken her fucking ankle being the only thing you can really think about. It’s enough to have you gently hoisting her into your arms as gently as possible and grabbing your keys off the hook on your way out of the apartment.
You can only really offer gentle coos of reassurance to her as your flip flops snap against your feet with every step. You didn’t even think to grab your phone or purse, just Pheebs and the keys as you get her down to the car and buckle her in.
She cries the entire ten minute drive to PTMC, declining any music or chit-chat to try and keep her mind off things. Her sobs have calmed to whimpers by the time you somehow manage to find a parking space at the ED, feet bare from not allowing you to put shoes on her, so you carry her from the car to the main entrance.
The last time you were here was at 3 a.m., over nine months ago. It was much quieter then. Tonight, the waiting room is packed with no spaces to sit and a long line at the check-in desk. Phoebe wraps her arms tighter around your neck as you hold her to your front, and get to the back of the line.
You rock her gently, swaying slightly from side to side as you take in the amount of people waiting to be seen. She hides into the crook of your neck, the noise and bright lights and people squished in too-close proximity a bit too much for her to handle.
The sight of the chaos makes your skin crawl. You’ve always been acutely aware of the tension and pressure of Jack’s job, but seeing the waiting room—or Chairs, as he calls it—so packed and desperate, it makes you want to dote on him for the rest of your life and never let him lift a finger at home.
The line crawls forward at a snail's pace, many people kicking up a fuss when it’s their turn to check in, complaining about wait times or demanding that their issue is more important than the rest. By the time you get to the check-in counter, your neck is soaked from Phoebe’s snot and tears.
“What’s your name and problem, hon?” It’s the same face and voice that greets you as the last time you were in here for your little pelvic issue.
You smile tightly at Lupe, shifting your hold on Diva to shuffle her to your other hip. She grips you tighter, like she’s worried you’re about to put her down.
“Phoebe Y/L/N. I’m her mother. She fell off the island stool and landed on her ankle, she can’t put any pressure on it, won’t let me look—I don’t know if it’s just a sprain or maybe a fracture.”
She hums at your words, typing at her computer and sliding a form through the gap at the bottom of the clear screen. Lupe catches Phoebe’s eye as she shifts in your hold, a sympathetic pout forming on the older woman's mouth.
“Take a seat, hon. Someone will be with you shortly.”
You don’t mention that there are no seats left to take, it’s not her problem. So you thank her with a smile, take the paperwork and carry Pheebs through the throes of people. You mentally prepare yourself for such a long night, to put those pilates classes you’ve been taking to good use with there being no seats available.
But within three and a half minutes of standing against the wall and gently rocking Diva from side to side, there are fast footsteps approaching until Jack is standing before you with wide eyes assessing the back of Phoebe’s body.
“Is she okay? What happened?”
Jack feels sick to his stomach with worry at the sight of her clinging to you. He didn’t even read over her notes or ask Lupe what happened when he was paged about your arrival. Seeing her now, he wishes he had some notion of an idea to be at least a little more prepared.
He’s never seen Pheebs so tearful and whiney. Not when she has her usual tumbles and not when she awakes crying for you both in the middle of the night after a nightmare.
The moment she hears his voice, she’s uncurling herself from around you to leap into Jack’s arms. He catches her with ease, lets her wrap herself around him and cries softly into his neck. You appreciate the reprieve and shake your arms out at your sides.
“She fell off the stool, landed on her ankle. Says she can’t walk on it—what…how did you know we were here?”
Jack rubs a comforting hand up and down the expanse of Phoebe’s back, craning his neck the best he can to try and get a look at her bare feet that dangle from his waist. He sighs when he turns back to you, reaching a hand around your waist to press his lips to your forehead.
“I’m on her emergency contact list, remember? Lupe paged me the moment you checked her in.”
You barely have any time to process the fact before Jack is guiding you through the doors of triage with a hand on the small of your back and an arm carrying Phoebe against his chest. You follow him through to a small cornered off section, just a few down from where you were, where Jack tenderly lays Pheebs on the bed.
You take the place at her side, let her reach for you and grip your hand as Jack slips his fingers into a pair of blue gloves. He sits on the small swivel stool, walks his feet across the ground to drag himself closer to the edge of the bed.
“Dr. Abbot, would you like me to take this one?”
Your head turns at the sound of a soft voice, a petite nurse standing at the curtain with fresh gloves already slipped onto her fingers. He whirls to look at her, like he’s catching himself on a line he’s crossing.
Because as an attending, he has no reason at all to be treating a sprained ankle in triage. He should be on the main floor, tending to whatever chaos gets sent to him or comes barreling through the ambulance bay.
So, he nods, moving away on the small stool to make room for the nurse to take his place instead.
“Alright, Diva. You gonna let Nurse Dean take a look?”
She shakes her head, pleasing eyes glued on Jack as she scoops her legs into her arms with her knees pinned to her chest. Nurse Dean looks at Jack with pursed lips and soft eyes, a silent way of saying she understands and won’t push.
He smiles apologetically, resuming his previous position when Dean slips back through the curtain to tend to patience that will let her care for them. Despite the guilt, you can’t help but huff out an air of laughter over Phoebe’s stubborn preferences.
If it’s not Jack, she isn’t interested.
Phoebe doesn’t argue with the gentle tone of Jack's voice when he coaxes her to show him her foot. She offers her ankle to him willingly with one hand still squeezing your fingers. Her tears have dried, her face now blotchy from the hyperventilating.
You watch Jack closely, the concentrated set in his brow, the firm line of his lips when he examines Phoebe’s ankle with more tender care than you think he gives his other patients. It’s also not lost on you that any nurse or triage doctor could be doing this instead of him. That he could have encouraged Pheebs to have Nurse Dean take a look.
“You said she couldn’t walk?” He asks, lips barely moving and the words almost strung together when he very carefully twists and moves her ankle.
You hum, sitting on the side of the bed next to Pheebs, one arm around her shoulders as she curls into your side. You press a kiss to the top of her head, your anxiety significantly easing now you’re with Jack and she’s under his care.
If you’re being completely, selfishly honest, you’re more than pleased that Jack’s taken it upon himself. Not that the rest of the doctors here aren’t competent, but getting to watch Jack in his element and feel so listened to and genuinely cared for…yeah, he’s definitely your preference.
“Yeah, she couldn’t put pressure on it after it happened. Wouldn’t let me look or put it on ice…she just kept crying that she wanted you.”
He pats her calf with a grin, snapping off the gloves and tugging the leg of her pyjamas pants back down. There’s a swell of pure pride and relief in his chest when he realizes there’s nothing seriously wrong and that all she wanted for comfort was him.
“The good news is it’s not broken. The bad news is that you’re gonna have to rest it and I’m going to have to prescribe you one rub of chocolate ice cream.”
Phoebe sniffles, and it’s not the reaction that Jack was hoping for.
“So, I don’t need a new leg like you?” Her voice is meek, unsure, and slightly disappointed.
It causes a frown to pull between your brows, between Jack’s. You dare a glance over at him but your attention is stolen by two figures standing by the open curtain, instead. It’s the slurping through a straw that then catches Jack’s attention and his head whirls to the two culprits.
John Shen stands with his lips wrapped around a plastic Dunkin straw, Ellis Parker stood close beside him with arms crossed over her chest. Shen’s brows are raised teasingly, Parker’s eyes gleaming in taunting mischief.
“Well, who is this Diva?” Dr. Parker croons playfully as she steps into the partition, eyes flickering between the three of you as Dr. Shen follows close behind him.
“I hurt my ankle,” Phoebe sighs.
Jack heaves in a heavy breath, catching your eye from across the bed as his two coworkers approach the foot of it.
“Baby, this is John Shen and Ellis Parker, guys this is—”
“Oh, we know who you are.” Parker grins something a bit too feline for Jack’s liking and you can’t help but laugh.
“I knew who you guys were the moment I saw the Dunkin cup.” Shen nods in what appears to be approval at your words, but as quickly as they give you their attention, it’s quickly given to Pheebs instead.
She’s always been a social butterfly, so it’s not much of a surprise when she begins to introduce herself to them—beaming at the attention and prospect of two new friends. A laugh bubbles out of you when Parker hands her one of the ER stuffies; a little brown bear that’s likely from the dollar store.
Your gaze flits to Jack to gauge his reaction and he tilts his head slightly to the curtain, a silent invitation to step away and talk. You step out silently with Jack and he pulls part of the curtain across to shield you both from prying ears.
“You okay?” His quiet voice asks into the small space between you and it feels like you can finally take a breath.
“Yeah,” you sigh, “I’m sorry. She couldn’t walk on it, it must've just been a bit of shock…she just wanted you.”
Jack shakes his head. “No, don’t apologize. You did the right thing to bring her in, even if just to be safe.”
You hum, leaning against a pillar. “You know, you could’ve insisted that Nurse Dean took a look at her.”
He frowns at that, almost like he’s insulted. “No chance. I asked you to put me down as an emergency contact for a reason. Do you know how worried I was when Lupe paged me that you brought her in? You two could’ve been waiting out in Chairs for hours.”
You know he’s right. That despite Pheebs being young, her problem doesn’t exactly warrant her to be seen over the more critical and emergent cases. But Jack’s shoulders are still tense, and you’re unsure if it’s due to whatever's been bothering him or the fact that he’s coming down from his worry.
You regard him for a few moments, waiting to see if he’ll snap himself out of it. But his eyes slowly dart around triage instead of looking at you. You’ve got a sneaky suspicion that this behavior of his has nothing to do with the chaos of work.
“Jack, did something happen today?” Your question is quiet, voice careful.
It’s enough to have him finally looking at you again, and you can see the war in his eyes as he fights if it’s something he really wants to bring up right here and right now.
His lips are moving before he can think better of it. “She called me Dad.”
You blink, unsure if you’ve heard him correctly. Your neck cranes slightly closer to him, head tilting like you might pick up another whisper of what he’s just said. Your chest suddenly feels very tight.
“What?” You breathe.
He starts to ramble, hands moving animatedly as he explains, “I called her my daughter first. There was this restroom incident, with this—this mom and daughter and it just came out of me, and Pheebs—she—”
“She called you Dad?” Your voice is quiet, cracking slightly as you cut him off.
His shoulders drop, eyes a quiet kind of frantic as they flick between yours, searching for any hint of anger or upset. He finds none. Only a glassy look that passes your iris’ like you're overwhelmed and struggling to process what this means.
“Yeah,” Jack whispers. “Are you…are you okay with that?”
A disbelieving sound escapes you on a breath. “Are you okay with that?”
His head nods in a very small movement, tongue darting out to tug his bottom lip between his teeth. This is not the conversation he wants to be having at the start of his shift in the middle of triage, where his coworkers and subordinates are passing by with curious glances.
Still, he doesn't leave you in the dark.
“Yeah, I am. But I—I told Diva it’s something she should talk to you about first.”
You feel like you could cry and throw up. Anxiety bubbles beneath your skin, unease and concern when you consider what Phoebe’s little mind must look like right now. The mess of her father walking out, the confusion of having Jack so close and her assuming he’s now to be the figure she’s missing.
It’s too much to sit and unpack on the spot. Jack’s made it so clear to you how deeply he cares for Phoebe, that even if things don’t work between the two of you, he’d still fight to be in her life in whatever capacity you’d allow.
But to hear him admit that he referred to Pheebs as his daughter—despite the rushed reasoning he gave—and for her to call him Dad in return…you can feel yourself spiraling down that rabbit hole again. The one that Tom weaved and spun where you’re forced to put your walls up and shut down.
Because if Tom can leave, what’s stopping Jack from one day doing the same?
It’s ridiculous, you know it is. Because the difference between Tom and Jack is that Jack loves Phoebe. He holds her best interest at heart at all times, considers her in every decision he makes and has never once let her down.
It is something you need to speak with Phoebe about first. Something you’re not prepared to brazenly sign off on. You’re not ready for her to call him that.
You swallow as you look at Jack, the patience and understanding in his eyes despite you not saying a word. From the peripheral of your vision, a tall figure approaches; walks past you both before slowly backing up with arms crossing over a broad chest.
You peek a glance when Jack sighs, scratching at his jaw.
“Honey, this is Robby. Robby, this is—”
“The woman that Jack does not stop talking about,” Robby interrupts him, untangling his arms to clasp your hand in a friendly shake. His skin is softer than Jack’s, less firm and calloused.
A laugh slips from your lips when he releases your hand. “It’s nice to meet you and put a face to the name.”
Robby grins, eyes shining as he looks between you and Jack in something you can only describe to be pure happiness for his friend. “I’d say the same but I feel like I’ve known you for years at this point.”
Your laughter grows at the playful tease to Jack, who is too busy staring holes into Robby’s face. It feels like you’ve got a slight whiplash, your mind and emotions all over the place while trying to hold a polite conversation.
“You brought Phoebe in?” Robby asks, voice low as if he likes to keep his conversations private and away from prying ears.
Something you appreciate, if you’re honest.
“Yeah, Jack checked her over. Sprained ankle.” Robby hums at your explanation, arms still across his chest as he cranes his neck to peer past the curtain. “Mind if I say hello?”
“Go for it.”
He offers a warm smile before dipping behind the curtain, the soft rumble of his voice heard through the fabric as he introduces himself to Phoebe. You turn to Jack with a small smirk, still very much overwhelmed but amused enough to break through it for at least a few moments.
“So you talk about me at work, huh?”
“Shut it.” Jack’s eyes roll fondly as he reaches out for your hip in a playful pinch.
But it doesn’t matter how hard you try to push the new information to the back of your head, to wait until later—because you just can’t.
You reach for him, fingers toying with the hem of his scrubs at the same time as him reaching a hand up to brush strands of hair from your face. He can sense the shift in your mood, the concern you’re trying to bury.
“Hey, I know you’re okay with her calling you that, but I—”
“No, it’s okay,” Jack interrupts with a coo and a shake of his head. “I understand. It’s a huge thing, and she’s probably confused now that Tom’s not around.”
Your grip on his scrubs tightens, a deep furrow forming between your brows and Jack hates the look of guilt and unease that’s plastered all over your face.
“I just—I don’t want anything like that rushed, or expected of her.”
“Baby, you do not need to explain. I told you before that I’m happy to be in her life in whatever capacity you’re comfortable with.”
He hates this, hates every fucking moment of you doubting him, of you worrying about Phoebe. It’s all warranted, of course it is. Phoebe’s biological father walks out on her, and then she calls her mom’s boyfriend Dad only two months later.
When Jack looks at it that way, it breaks his heart a little. He’s left wondering if his presence recently has been more confusing than helpful to the kid. He doesn’t bother to remind you that nothing is ever expected from Phoebe, that Jack will take whatever the both of you are kind enough to offer.
Because he knows you know that. That he would never expect or force anything.
You nod with a shaky breath, loosening your hold on his now slightly creased scrubs and doing your best to smooth them out with your fingers. An act that’s futile but still appreciated by Jack nonetheless.
“We can talk about this properly tomorrow, yeah?”
Another nod follows from you as Jack leans down to press his lips to the crown of your head. With a palm on the small of your back, he guides you back behind the curtain to Phoebe, and it’s only then that you realize how full the little partition has grown.
Diva remains lounging on the bed, ankle wrapped in a bandage with squiggles of different colored ink decorating it, as if it’s broken. Shen sits on the swivel chair at her side, talking in a ridiculously high-pitched voice as he pretends the dollar store teddy is drinking his precious coffee. Parker and Robby stand off to the side listening intently to Phoebe’s dramatic recollection of her fall.
And Mateo grins at the scene before him.
Wait.
“Mateo?” He turns at the sound of his name falling from your lips breathlessly, the easy grin dropping into something sober and slightly grave.
Jack does not like the shift in the air, the way you whispered his name like a lost lover, how Diaz now looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost. And then he’s whispering your name back like it’s a sacred prayer, inching closer to get a better look at you.
“What—what are you doing here?”
You want to ask him the same thing, but his scrubs and ID badge say enough. He’s a fucking nurse. The last time you’d seen him was almost ten years ago, when he was as babyfaced as you and unsure what the world had in store for him.
You blink, pointing at Diva. “Pheebs—I, I’m her mom.”
His eyes widen further, doe-like and familiar in the way he was when you were both kids. God, he looks so much like his brother now that he’s older. A stubble and long hair, tan skin and welcoming features. The more you look at him, the more you feel your heart twisting in your chest.
His gaze flicks behind you as he repeats your own words, landing on Jack who is doing nothing to hide his frown and distaste for the exchange.
There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach when he watches Mateo look at you again, something like longing and heartache in his eyes. Jack can’t handle the idea of Diaz being an ex of yours. Just when he thought this day couldn’t make his head spin anymore.
“Wait, you’re the pelvic chick?”
You frown at the odd nickname, and it takes a moment or two for your drowning mind to catch up with what he’s called you and why you’re being referred to as it. You whirl around to Jack with raised brows.
“I’ve got a nickname around here?”
His hand squeezes your hip reassuringly. “You can thank Dr McKay for that one.”
A flurry of snickers and giggles slip from Shen and Parker, a smirk curling at the corners of Robby’s mouth, too. Jack thinks he’s absolutely had enough of today. If he wasn’t overwhelmed enough already, he’s now drowning in unwarranted jealousy and budding a blooming distaste toward Mateo.
“Alright,” Jack calls, clapping his hands. “Don’t you all have patients to see? I think Phoebe would like to go home to bed now.”
“I’m happy to stay!” She pipes up.
Jack points a stern but playful finger in her direction. “It is way past your bedtime, kid. And you are a beautiful distraction to my doctors. Mom’s gonna take you home now.”
Phoebe pouts animatedly about it but knows better than to argue. She instead says goodbye to her three newfound friends and takes a sheet of stickers from Mateo’s hands when he goes to leave.
He does stop short just in front of you when he reaches the curtain. “I can’t believe you’re a mom now. She’s a cool kid. And you look great.”
You smile tearfully, a watery chuckle slipping past your mouth as your head tilts. “Yeah, you too.”
Mateo chews on the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never reached out after—”
“Don’t,” you interrupt with a shake of your head. “I didn’t reach out either. It’s not on you. Your parents were just—”
“Yeah, I know.” The sadness in his voice hurts more than you’d like to admit. After nine years, you thought you’d moved on from what happened. But seeing Mateo now, after all this time…you can’t help but wonder if it’s breaking him as much as it is you.
“We uh, we should grab a coffee sometime.”
The frown of your mouth curls up into a trembling smile and you can feel your eyes stinging with salty tears. “Yeah,” your voice cracks when you speak. “I’d really like that, Teo.”
Jack watches the interaction with a tightness in his throat and chest. Barely registers what Phoebe is saying to him as she plasters stickers all over his scrubs and arms. He can’t tear his eyes away from you, can’t stop his mind from starting the cycle of self-sabotage.
Despite it all, despite the concern and worry and doubt and insecurity, when you approach with tearful eyes and pursed lips, he still reaches out to comfort you.
“Look, Mommy! I can move it again.” Phoebe calls to you despite there being barely any distance, lifts her leg to move her ankle in the air.
You plaster on your most encouraging smile, toying with the keys in your hands. Jack notices the nervous fiddling, the anxiety that’s sitting heavy on your shoulders and the way you’re starting to drown in your own head.
He brushes Phoebe’s hair from her face and keeps his tone soft and quiet. “You can go home with Mommy now, and I’ll see you after school tomorrow, okay?”
“M’kay.” You watch as Phoebe nods, when she dips her chin in silent request of a kiss that Jack happily pressed to her head.
He helps her stand on the bed where she then opens her arms wide to be carried by you. Bare feet and one bandanged ankle swing by your thighs when you hold her and return to Jack with tired eyes.
Despite the foreign feelings brewing in the pit of Jack’s stomach, he still moves closer to press his mouth against yours, to squeeze your waist and kiss you one more time.
“Text me when you get home.”
You agree to the request with a hum, when a Nurse Dean pops her head into the curtain and offers to escort you out. Jack follows you out of the partition and the moment you begin to walk away, Phoebe waves at him as she looks over your shoulder.
“Love ya, Jack!”
He beams at the way she shouts across the space, like she’s desperate for her message to reach his ears.
“Love ya, Diva!” He calls back just as you both reach the door. When you cast one last glance back at him, Jack offers a dip of his chin and a wink, basking in the way that his stomach leaps when you grin back at him until you’re both out of sight.
He feels Robby’s presence shift behind him, a looming frame filled with questions and silent observations. He watches with Jack as you disappear back into Chairs to go home.
“You told her yet?” Robby asks, the words drifting from his mouth and into Jack’s ear.
His gaze is still focussed on the door. “Told her what?”
“That you’re in love with her.”
Robby’s observation echoes in Jack’s mind. Worms its way into every memory and thought he cherishes of you, of Phoebe. There’s no longer that all-consuming sensation of guilt when he thinks about it now, there hasn’t been for a little while.
At first, it was something Jack didn’t want to acknowledge. Wasn't ready to acknowledge. But somewhere along the past nine months, he’s stopped holding onto his need and love for structure and routine. He’s found himself basking in the chaos of love, the spontaneity and freedom of it if you look in the right places.
He’s found his home to be nothing but a shell of one. A blank canvas that was posed as a fresh start six years ago. One that he never broke in with memories and laughter, where he never scuffed up the floors or chipped the paint off the walls.
Somewhere along the past nine months, the weight of his wife no longer haunts him like a bad dream. She rests in his heart, deep and protected in her place of permanent residence. But the space she occupies no longer spans across the entirety of him.
She’s made room for you, for Phoebe. Allowed her space to be taken by a love that breathes, not one that haunts. It happened slowly, organically. Like this is the way it was always supposed to be.
Jack swallows around the realization.
“No, not yet.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You barely slept all night.
Whether it was tossing and turning because of the events of yesterday, or Phoebe waking you up every hour because she swears her foot is about to fall out, you barely got any sleep.
FaceTiming Jack at three in the morning instead when Pheebs sobbed because she was adamant she needed to go back to see him at the hospital. Sitting on her bedroom floor and reading stories until she fell asleep, only to wake up again forty-five minutes later.
The pair of you were like zombies when you left for the school run this morning. Hair not up to its usual standards and outfits more than a little skewiff. By the time you got back to the apartment, you were swooped up into Zoom meetings with your editors and publishers, the deadline pushing closer for the final installment.
Jack didn’t get back until noon, after finishing his shift and meeting with his SWAT buddies to let them know he was officially stepping away. The two of you have been like passing ships all day. When he got home, you were leaving to do a grocery run. When you got back, he was fast asleep. When Jack woke up, you were already picking Phoebe up from school.
It wasn't until you returned home that he finally scooped you into his arms and peppered your face with kisses. Phoebe’s laughter at the attack had echoed through the apartment and bounced off the walls when Jack lunged for her and blew an onslaught of raspberries onto her stomach.
The three of you cooked dinner together, ate and spoke about your days. Phoebe did most of the talking, like usual. And Jack cleaned the kitchen when you bathed her an hour later. You don’t get a chance to speak throughout it, attention occupied by Diva until she’s requesting that Jack puts her to bed with a very specific rendition of Paranoid by Black Sabbath as her lullaby.
She does let you squeeze her in your arms, pepper kisses to the top of her head as you bid her a goodnight. But as quickly as she crashes into your arms, she’s wiggling out of them in search of her new bedtime companion, Sally.
“Alright, slugger. Let’s get you to bed.” Jack calls out to her, pressing a kiss to your cheek before following Phoebe on his crutches.
The heaviness in your chest hasn’t disappeared. It’s eased just enough to feel like you can breathe this evening, but even Jack’s presence alone isn’t enough to completely keep it at bay. You’re overly aware that you both need to have a big conversation about yesterday and you’re not quite prepared for it.
Feeling hot beneath your skin at the thought, you grab two glasses and a bottle of wine from the fridge that you carry in two hands out to the balcony. The evening air is crisper than it was through the day, a slight breeze that does little to cool your skin but enough to help the rise and fall of your chest.
The sun is starting to set, long summer nights falling behind you as the sky is painted in something beautifully golden. Hints of pinks and oranges peek beneath the clouds, a promise of sunshine for the morning and a sleep full of sweet dreams.
You fill both the glasses halfway as you sit on the rattan couch, a crocheted blanket draping across your lap as you take a sip. Only a moment for you to try and gain your bearings, to sort through the whirlwind that has been the last two days.
You’ve drained half your glass of wine by the time Jack finds you, an easy but tired grin stretching on the corners of his mouth when he pops his head out into the balcony. His brows raise playfully when he clocks the almost empty glass in your hand and the freshly poured one on the small table.
He doesn’t say anything as he joins you, a little too caught up in his head. The last time he drank out on the balcony with you was when it all started. The night of Diva’s birthday party. The night he first kissed you and felt his soul slowly beginning to tangle with yours.
“She settled okay?” He hums as he comes closer, resting the crutches against the wall and sitting beside you with a tired sigh.
“Out like a light.” Jack pinches the blanket, drapes some of it across his thighs. He reaches for his wine but doesn’t drink it. Holds it in his lap while his other arm lifts to rest against the back of the seat; fingers gently tracing the skin of your shoulder.
He feels the heaviness, too. The plethora of topics that need to be addressed, discussed. It’s because of that, that he finally takes a long gulp of his wine before turning to admire you.
“So…Kirsty, huh?”
A non-committal hum escapes you, eyes far off in the distance but when Jack follows your line of sight, he sees your gaze is settled on his balcony across the way.
“She okay?”
A loaded question, really. One that takes you a moment to consider and answer. “No, he’s really done a number on her.”
Jack swallows, doesn’t like the hollowness of your voice. Like your reminiscing on your own experience with Tom. He squeezes your shoulder.
“What happened?” He only heard snippets when Kirsty had shown up unannounced. Jack was a little preoccupied with hiding a raging boner, getting dressed and reattaching his prosthetic. By the time he did join you both in the kitchen, he put himself to good use by making tea.
He didn’t want to make Kirsty uncomfortable.
Jack feels you shrug beneath his palm. “His usual shit.”
It’s not something you want to get into. Not yesterday in a quick explanation, and not now when you have the time. Mostly because it’s not your story to share, but also because it’s the same things that Tom put you through. The lies, the abuse, the manipulation.
You got out of the woods. You escaped the claws he had in your mind and you’re free now. Happy. Your mind is no longer held in a prison. It’s watered and cherished, cared for and set free to bloom.
“He’s really gone, though,” you find yourself clarifying anyway. “She said he’s been given a house and position at some finance company in Dubai. Living his dream.”
Jack scoffs, wine sloshing in the glass on his lap from the movement of his body. “Yeah, well…he made his bed, now he can lie in it.”
That heavy silence settles over you both again as you gaze out across the sunset. It’s lowering more with every passing minute, darkness slowly creeping over the tops of the sky. You don’t want to spend the evening tiptoeing around things that need to be discussed. Jack’s got four nights off now and you’re not willing to start them off with anything unsaid.
“So, we’ve debriefed about Kirsty. Next up…you’re leaving SWAT?”
Jack heaves a heavy sigh and rolls his head in a lull of a nod. “Met them this morning after my shift. Told ‘em it’s not for me anymore.”
You frown at him, his gaze locked on the stem of the wine glass pinched between his fingers.
“Why? I thought you enjoyed it?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“What changed?”
He turns to you then, eyes slightly glassy and lips scrunched slightly to the side. It’s an expression you’ve learnt that usually means he’s trying to suppress his emotions, or at least keep the full extent of them off his face.
“I didn’t have anyone waiting for me at home when I joined SWAT. We both know what it’s like to lose a partner. I’m not prepared to put you through that again, to put Pheebs through that.”
His gentle explanation—like it’s the most simplest decision in the world—almost crushes your chest. Your lungs seize at the consideration, at the pure reverence in his tone. You don’t mean to, but your fingers instinctively move to your chest, to reach for the chain you haven’t worn for months and months now.
The one that sits in a box in your nightstand. Like Jack’s sits in a box in his.
The fact that you and Phoebe continue to make such a profound effect on him, the way that he so loudly respects and considers you both…how he so happily changes his lifestyle to fit healthily around you both…
“Jack, that’s a big decision to make.”
“No, it’s not.” It’s not an argument, he counters you like it’s a fact. Unbothered and undeterred in his decision. “Besides, Robby’s been trying to get me to quit that shit for years.”
An unintentional laugh barks through you at that, the thought of his dear friend chiding him for such a reckless hobby—which, if you’re honest, you’d have to agree with. Despite how sexy the uniform is…how much fun you’ve had with it in the past.
You haven’t been able to stop thinking about Robby since you met him last night. Kind eyes, teasing lilt to his deep voice. Secure, competent. Attractive, if you’re allowed to think as much.
“Robby’s single, right?”
Jack’s brows raise comically high at the sudden question. He’s a bit ashamed to admit the wall of jealousy and discontent that slams into him, the way his shoulders stiffen. You’re young, you’re beautiful, you’ve written threesome stories with that very vivid imagination of yours…Jack can’t help but silently begin to panic that you’re about to ask for Robby to be a third.
“Why?” He asks carefully, voice tight and deep.
You shrug, take a long sip of your wine. “He’s responsible, older…I think he and Bella would look pretty good together.”
Jack blinks at you for a moment, lungs seizing as he finally releases an exasperated exhale. Relief slams into him like a freight train and he’s met with the embarrassing realization that he desperately needs to get his emotions in check.
First he’s ready to blow a gasket over your far too friendly interactions with Mateo, and now he’s here fretting over the possibility of you wanting Robby?
Jesus fucking Christ, Jack. Get a grip!
“You wanna set up Robby and Bella?” He busies his hands with topping up both of your glasses as he asks the question, his newfound and deeprooted insecurity needing a bit of reassurance. “Do you forget how mentally unstable Robby is?”
You frown. “I thought you said he was better after his sabbatical?"
“Well, yeah, but he’s not magically cured, baby.”
You take the wine from him with a hum, peering up at him over the rim of the glass when you take a sip. That heaviness between you both has slowly started to ease into something more comfortable, more familiar. And the glint in your eye promises Jack is about to have his ass handed to him.
“Your team is nice. They seem to know a lot about me.”
“Yeah. You seem to know a lot about Mateo.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jack! What the fuck is wrong with you!?
His eyes widen at his own retort, shoulders stiffen at the sight of your entire body freezing for a split second. Panic surges through him, and Jack feels sick to his fucking stomach for saying something so stupid in such an accusing tone.
Dread curdles in the pit of his stomach when your lashes flutter droopily, when you lean over to place your drink back on the table. When you turn back to him, Jack gets the sense that he has royally fucked up.
“I was engaged to Mateo’s brother.”
The admittance slips past your lips in a quiet confession, one that’s laced with dormant pain and an ache that time will never quite heal completely. Jack blinks at you, heart in his throat and he’s never fucking hated himself as much as he does in this moment.
“My mom used to call us the three musketeers. Anywhere we went, Mateo always tagged along with us. The night that Sammy… the night of the accident, I had taken Teo to the theatre, some new Avengers movie that had come out…”
“Baby, you don’t have to do this,” Jack’s voice is wrecked when he reaches for your hand. You grip his fingers, knuckles turning white but you ignore him and continue anyway.
“Sammy was supposed to meet us there—” Your voice breaks as tears begin to slip past your eyes. Years since it happened and whenever you think about it, it feels like it was only yesterday.
It’s killing Jack to listen, to watch. To see the pain in your eyes and the hurt in your voice. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. He should never have fed into those stupid thoughts, should have never said anything about it.
“We called him, Teo was telling him to hurry up, that he’d be so mad if he missed a single second of the movie. Sammy was speeding…we—fuck, we heard the car ram into a pole—”
Jack catches you before you can collapse into him. Coddles you straight into his chest as he wraps himself around you in the only way he can think to protect you right now. Your body shakes as sobs tear through you, tears soaking into his shirt while his own slip past bloodshot eyes.
He holds you like that until the cries soften to sniffles. Until you’re able to pull away and keep yourself up right. But the pain is still there, still so fresh and prominent in the very centre of your chest.
“His parents blamed me. Said I got him killed. I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral, wasn’t allowed to see Mateo anymore. I never got to say goodbye.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Baby, I shouldn’t have assumed, I shouldn’t have said—”
“No,” you cut him off with a sniffle. “No, it’s okay. I get it. And you deserve to know about him—about Sammy.”
He just wants to hold you close again, to tuck you under his skin to shield you away from everything horrible in this world. Jack reaches for you, a tender hand caressing your jaw as his thumb smoothes away the remnants of silver tears.
He dips his head to meet your gaze. “If he could see you now. See the brilliant woman you’ve become, the incredible mother that you are…”
“You always say this,” you interrupt through a sniffled laugh.
“Because it’s true. My mom walked out on me when I was a kid, left my dad to raise me alone. You are everything to Phoebe that I wish my mother had been to me. And Sammy…he would be so proud of you, if he could see you now.”
You stare at him through bleary vision, unable to steady the ache in your sternum at the mention of Jack’s mother. The only time he’s ever mentioned her. You find yourself nuzzling into his palm, seeking out his comfort and offering yours in return.
“Mary would be proud of you, too.”
Jack blinks, eyes reddening as his lips roll into a thin line. It’s not heavy with guilt like before. Not haunted by pain, but like he’s accepting the fact as a truth.
“Yeah, she would.” He sniffles.
There’s a moment of pure clarity that seems to wash over Jack, like the final weight of something unspoken has been shifted off his shoulders. He can’t seem to take his eyes off yours, can’t help but be whisked away by your soul.
He has never found someone so beautiful before. Every part of you, every imperfection that makes you you. It feels like his heart has burst open in his chest, given way to a field of fresh grass and blooming tulips as this thing begins to glow from the inside out.
He can't hold it in anymore.
“I need to tell you something.” Jack whispers.
“When I lost my wife, when there was nothing else we could do and she passed…I never thought I would find happiness again, never find love. But you—you and Phoebe…you’ve changed me. I’m not the same man I was when we first met. You’ve reminded me of what it feels like to live, to love. And I know that neither of us expected this, that Phoebe calling me Dad is never something we anticipated but…”
“But what?” You’re breathless, bottom lip trembling and fresh silver lines your eyes again. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, can feel that familiar tingle in your fingertips as your gaze desperately searches his.
“Nothing could ever change the way I feel about you, the way I feel about Diva. And I know—I know—I’m not her dad, but she’s become my daughter.”
“Jack…” Your voice is unsteady and you can’t catch your breath.
He rests his forehead against yours, both hands cupping your face now and wiping the tears as quickly as they fall. You’re not given a moment to comprehend his words, to filter through them. The tip of his nose traces the slope of yours when he speaks again.
“I am so, irrevocably in love with you—it’s not even…it’s not funny—why are you laughing?”
But Jack’s laughing, too. Watery and broken as your hands come up to wrap around his wrists, as you blubber and press your tear-soaked lips to his.
Months of uncertainty and pain and guilt and anguish have led up to this. Trials and tribulations, hurdles and heartache. All of it has led to this right now. To Jack’s heart calling out to yours.
“Because I'm happy! Because I'm in love with you, too.”
“Yeah?” His voice cracks, chasing your mouth to kiss you again when another bubble of laughter tumbles from the back of your throat.
While you’re both caught up in one another, in the happiness and love and devotion that’s finally flourishing so freely on the balcony of apartment seventeen, further into the home is where Phoebe sneaks awake.
Her feet are kicked up behind her, belly to the ground with pieces of paper with practiced letters and colored pens scattered around her. In one hand is a black sharpie, the other her bright pink diamonte purse.
And just beside her sits Jack’s SWAT card that she pinched from his wallet five days ago. For the last few nights, she’s been practicing in sneaky sessions, feigning sleep until either of you leave the room so she can continue her mission at hand.
Days of messy handwriting, backward lettering and something just not looking quite right. But tonight is the night. No more trials, no more fresh sheets of paper.
She grins at Sally, who pads over on tubby paws and nuzzles into the crook of Diva’s neck, the whiskers tickling her skin and she struggles to keep her giggles at bay.
And it’s like the furry friend understands the significance of this moment. Because when Phoebe looks down at her work on the wallet, Sally does, too.
PROPERTY OF DIVA PHOEBE Y/L/N ABBOT
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You have officially reached the very end of Apartment Seventeen. I am feeling a lot of emotions right now tbh, this story is one of my favourite things I've ever written and I am truly so incredibly sad to see it end. I cannot thank you all enough for the overwhelming amount of love and feedback and support you guys have shown me and this series, it truly means so so much!!
I do have plans to check in on them again in the future, along with a potential big bonus chapter later down the line, too. But in the mean time, I am excited to start some new projects and I hope you'll stick around to see them too!!
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
cw: vampirehunter!sukuna x vampire!reader, dubcon, enemies to...enemies with benefits (??), blood obviously (blood drinking, bleeding, blood as lube), violence/fighting/gore/graphic descriptions of injuries, sadism/masochism, forced starvation, captivity, bondage (usage of muzzles/chains), knifeplay, wounding/cutting, degradation, feet stuff (reader humps his foot), humiliation, mild voyeurism
wc: 12k
a/n: this was so long i decided to just split it into parts :3 also i imagine sukuna to look like this in this fic
songs i listened to while writing this part
snarler - craig wedren, anna waronker
teeth - lady gaga
your addiction - night club
the wretched (remix) - nine inch nails
The first ever encounter with each other — that fight was brutal, messy.
Sloppy.
It was nearly midnight, in a long abandoned warehouse district at the outskirts of the city that Sukuna had tracked you into. Once bustling with activity, now a ghost town of rusting metal and crumbling brick.
The warehouse buildings have collapsed partially, some with entire walls missing, leaving jagged edges and exposed beams of twisted metal. Old rotten crates and broken machinery litter the ground, shards of shattered glass glinting in the faint, cold pools of light — flickering streetlights and and the occasional neon sign of an abandoned convenience store.
The place feels like a fun house in a fair, long warped shadows stretching over the debris.
And under the rain that falls in thick sheets, pouring relentlessly and drowning out the sound, you and Sukuna fight like wild animals.
None of the precision, the careful strategy or finesse one would perhaps expect from the final heirs of two ancient bloodlines—one born to hunt, the other born to feed.
Supposedly this feud started as far back as the Heian Era, possibly even longer. But none of that matters right now.
Right now you are just two inexperienced predators trying to kill each other.
You underestimated him—just another silly human, you thought. Hiding behind metal weapons, barking empty threats.
But you're the vampire. He’s the human - he should be prey.
And yet, Ryomen Sukuna is anything but.
Even in his own inexperience he’s a natural at what he’s supposed to be, making up for the lack of night vision with other senses that have been trained to compensate instead, keen enough that they could rival a vampire’s. He doesn’t need to see too well when he can rely on his hearing, on his quick reflexes, even his nose.
The rain proves to be a disadvantage as well, making the ground too slippery for you to effectively bolt at high speeds.
And soon the ground is splattered red, slick not just with rain.
Your fight was so primal, almost delirious in its intensity, that no words were even shared — just snarling and screaming and grunting and the thrashing of bodies and squelching of torn flesh.
Finally the deciding moment has come, where Sukuna pins you to the ground, thinking he has you. Broken glass cuts into your back, embedding itself into the skin, through the gaps of your already shredded top.
You’re no stranger to pain, though it does enrage you all the more.
So you fight dirty, spitting and digging your clawed nails across his face, that visceral yet satisfying feeling when you feel the nails, still filthy with the blood of your last kill, piercing into the soft, delicate flesh of his right eye.
The feeling could only be described as…gelatinous.
Sukuna’s agonized roar is instant, the pain blinding and white-hot. Blood runs down his face, and the smell of it that’s been teasing you all night, invites you to finally bare your fangs, ready to go for the killing bite.
But even with his right eye useless, Sukuna refuses to let go of his weapon, and when he catches the glint of your teeth, without thinking his blade is shoved into your mouth, pushing down on the hilt to plunge it upwards.
At the same time you reflexively bite down with all the strength left in your jaw — only to feel the sickening crack of bone breaking against steel.
It feels like you’ve bitten into broken glass.
With a strangled cry you shove him off, stumbling to your feet immediately as he gets to his knees, blood still gushing from his ruined eye, grabbing his weapon.
Your tongue flicks over the jagged remnants of your fang, that empty space where the tooth used to be, the iron of your own cold blood coating your mouth.
You limp back into the shadows as he staggers to his feet.
It’s only later when you’re sitting at the bar of a high-end nightclub, still absentmindedly running your tongue over the now healed stump of your left canine, you process that fight.
Born to an old, dwindling vampire bloodline, you were raised in secrecy, always moving place to place to avoid hunters. The traditional legends of aristocratic vampires always made you scoff — you and your family who had lived like ghosts, hiding in abandoned buildings, remote villages, or underground.
Despite it you were taught pride in your lineage — reminded that vampires are superior to humans, that they should never beg, never bow.
If a vampire “asks” something of a human, it’s not really a question.
Perhaps this was the reason you’d grown to have a taste for the luxuries of the modern age, hanging around neon lights and penthouses, carrying yourself with quiet arrogance. Though it’s an confidence born from survival, not entitlement.
You must believe you’re above humans, for your survival.
You’d heard of Sukuna before, known for years that he was supposedly your enemy by blood alone, but you hadn’t really given much more thought to it, especially not after your parents were murdered.
You were raised that in a world that wanted you dead, sentimentality was not an option — not even to mourn losses.
You were taught only to keep moving forward.
So that’s what you did when you found them with stakes driven through their hearts, limbs already turning to ash. Perhaps their deaths didn’t shatter you because they never let you believe they’d always be there in the first place.
Their battles didn’t particularly concern you, and you had better things to do than go on some drawn out hunt for revenge, and to avenge your family.
Well, that was before.
Because after that encounter, you decided nothing else mattered except Ryomen Sukuna.
A few months later, you feel more confident this time around that you’ll be able to kill him. And you don’t know for sure, but you have a strong feeling that he’s been tracking you as you roam city to city.
Sukuna’s learned a few things about you — that you enjoy cities, particularly those with good nightlife. Clearly a preference since your kind won’t necessarily burn in the sun, or anything as dramatic as the human stories always make it out to be.
Rather you all tend to be allergic to sunlight, some more than others. Your photosensitivity is noticeable, but not the worst — nothing more than some itchy hives and sneezing. Sometimes you get watery eyes and a runny nose too. It really just passes off as a normal pollen allergy.
On the other hand, you’ve picked up a few things about Sukuna as well — most notably so far that there are two things that matter to him above all: his ego and pride.
You suppose that conspicuous injury you gifted him might almost be as humiliating as your own chipped fang.
Almost.
Nothing can compare to the offense of breaking a vampire’s fangs. You’ve grown a habit of hiding them now even when around others like you, just so they won’t notice it.
And eye isn’t quite enough payment for that, you think.
So you arrange a trap, meticulously leaving a deliberate trail of blood and bodies to mark your presence, obvious enough for him to follow but still vague to the point that’ll keep him guessing. The trail leads to somewhere that’s sort of unusual for you — the countryside, far from the city, to a large sprawling mansion.
It’s a bit rundown, sort of the middle of nowhere, and likely abandoned some years ago.
Perfect.
You don’t have to wait long, only till the second night when he arrives.
The second round begins rather…slow.
Sukuna enters the mansion and though nothing has shifted out of place, he can feel it — your presence, permeating the atmosphere. You stand on the upper floor that overlooks the main entrance, watching him from the shadows.
It’s dark, even the moon is just a sliver of a crescent in the night sky, hardly enough to offer him any light.
You can see perfectly fine, though.
Sukuna can sense your gaze on him from somewhere in the pools of darkness, but he doesn’t react, preferring to let you guess whether he knows you’re here or not.
And you pick up what he’s trying but frankly you just can’t help yourself.
“Looking for someone?”
He doesn’t turn but you can see him smile in the dark, showing off those perfect set of teeth.
Annoying.
“Are you hiding from someone?”
You scoff.
Hiding. He’s trying to agitate you on purpose.
And it won’t work.
“Maybe I just like to play with my food.”
He hums. And then—
So quickly that you barely have time to dodge, something slices through the air.
The silver bullet buries into the drywall right where your head was a second ago.
Sukuna just laughs. “Oops. I guess I like to…play with my food, too.”
You’re honestly impressed by how good his aim is, even with his right eye socket scarred over.
But you’d never admit that, so you just chuckle lightly. “Well if you want me, you’re gonna have to work for it.”
And so it begins.
He hunts you through every hallway, every corridor, every shadow-drenched corner of the mansion. You circle one another—silent, stalking, both knowing one wrong step could mean the end.
You try to bait out another shot. A few, even.
Nothing.
Either he’s toying with you, or he’s saving them. Maybe both.
Frustrating.
And when long enough passes with no sound of his revolver, desperation creeps in.
So you take the risk. A deep inhale and a sharp turn—stepping fully into view, right across the hall from him.
Silence.
His hand rests on the trigger, steady, but he doesn’t pull it. Doesn’t even flinch.
You grit your teeth, muscles tensed, wondering if you can close the distance before he fires when suddenly, he smirks.
And lowers the fucking gun before rolling his eye.
The gall of this man.
“That’s the best you’ve got? Trying to jump scare me?”
You stare at him venomously, and though he can’t see it too well in the dark he can feel your disdain practically radiating from you.
“I could kill you right now before you could even do anything. But that feels kinda cheap, doesn’t it?”
“You’re welcome to try,” he says amicably. Then his eye glints, widening with a sudden thought, and he grins like he’s just remembered something delightful. “Oh- wait! I've got something to show you, almost forgot…”
He pulls out the silver chain tucked into his shirt, and at the end of it, something catches your eye.
White, and pointed…
Your fang.
You look up at him, momentarily speechless as his grin widens and he holds your tooth between his fingers like it’s some trinket. “Took it as a little souvenir to, you know…remember you.”
Needless to say, you are fucking livid.
“You disgusting bastard,” you hiss, synapses firing as rage floods them.
And just like that you’re across the hall in half a second, lunging towards him in your blind fury.
“You PIECE OF SHIT, I’LL RIP YOUR OTHER EYE OUT AND FUCKING EAT IT—”
You’re fast, and you’re strong. And Sukuna knows how to use this against you.
Instead of meeting you head on he pivots just in time, grabbing your wrist so that your own momentum sends you crashing into the dusty wooden floor. You’re back on your feet instantly, but then a flash of silver, and hot, searing pain in your side.
It spreads across your skin, numbing and tingling, and you start to feel sick.
Because of course a silver blade wasn’t enough, the bastard had to lace the tip with wolfsbane.
It’s not deep enough to kill, but definitely enough to slow you.
You snarl, still trying to throw him off, but Sukuna once again twists your momentum, forcing you into a corner.
This is bad. Now there’s nowhere to dodge, nowhere to effectively use your speed.
You lunge again, aiming for his throat this time, but either he’s faster than you expected, or the poison’s slowed you down.
There’s a crack and powerful kick sweeps your legs right out from under you, and just like that you’re on your back, his weight pinning you down, one hand wrapped around your throat.
Sukuna’s eye is burning with excitement, as he looks down at you triumphantly, panting slightly.
“That was fun. Wanna go again, or are you gonna pout now?”
You try to break free, but his other hand comes up — only now you realize it’s gloved. You don’t have time to think before he presses it to your jaw, holding you in place, and the pain flares from his touch.
Silver-lined gloves.
You hiss, though the poison is taking its toll on your body and your cold skin is now clammy, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.
He laughs, leaning down slightly at your lips curled back in ferocity, eyes slitted as you try to jerk your face away from him in vain. His grip only tightens making your flesh burn, a pathetic cry clawing out of your throat.
“Careful, sweetheart.” The bare hand comes up to your lips as he holds your face in place, thumb brushing over it to pull your top lip back, inspecting your broken canine with interest. “You keep baring those pretty little fangs at me, and I might just have to take the other for my collection.”
You tremble with rage only contained in your flesh because of this incapacitating toxin invading your body. If not for that wolfbane—
“I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking murder you and you know what? I won’t even eat you, I’ll just leave your body to fucking rot in the dirt—” you sneer your promise, fingers twitching at your sides.
He looks down at you condescendingly, like you’re a petulant child throwing a tantrum that only entertains him. “That’s the look. Keep that anger — it looks real good on you.”
That’s the last thing you hear before another sting to your side of a syringe plunging into your skin, before you pass out.
When you come to a few hours later, cold, shivering, and throwing up — he’s nowhere to be seen.
The game stretches on over the next two years— you, with your chipped fang and him, with the scarred-over hollow where his right eye used to be.
Despite the damage, neither of you falters. If anything, the wounds only sharpen your instincts. Refine your roles.
The hunt evolves—more complex, more elusive… more intimate.
Along the way, more of your kind fall to him and Sukuna earns a name. Whispers trail in his wake, rumours thick and grotesque of one of the most brutal vampire hunters of the century.
A man who doesn’t just kill—but lingers.
Draws it out, torments.
Vampires captured and kept alive, tortured until boredom finally drives him to end it.
Every one one of them have been found with their left fangs broken off and missing.
And your resentment festers.
How ironic—his reputation, his rise, all built on traits borrowed from the very monsters he claims to despise.
Cunning. Patience. Sadism. A thirst for blood too, just not human blood. That, perhaps, is the only line he hasn't yet crossed.
You? You’re no innocent - far from it. But at least you never pretend to be anything other than what you are.
Your trail is just as red, just as damning.
But your victims? Almost always men.
From nameless beggars to powerful CEOs that send media and authorities into a frenzy—
Their throats, torn open, their arteries drained.
And always—always—their right eyes, gouged out.
The floor is cold against your cheek—slick with dirt and blood. You're sprawled out, face-down, cheek mashed to the concrete beneath the unyielding press of his boot. Your wrists burn where the silver chain bites into them, pinned behind your back.
You should’ve known better - you did know better.
After years of sensing him at the edges of your life—always watching, always circling, he vanished.
No signs, no whispers, nothing.
The absence felt like a blade hollowing you out from within.
You told yourself someone else must’ve gotten to him. But of course, that wouldn’t do.
He was yours, yours to chase, yours to kill.
So you hunted him down this time, tracking him like prey.
This one’s on you.
You should have been suspicious when you found him waiting in a warehouse that looked eerily similar to the first one you ever fought in.
Except this one is brighter.
Bright fluorescent lights hum overhead, too white and clinical.
Even with your eyes shut, the glare bleeds through your lids, stabbing at your pupils.
Every nerve in your body is lit up with pain, every inch of you aches and throbs.
“I’m starting to think you like being under me. Is that it?”
His taunting voice comes from somewhere above you.
“Just fucking kill me already, will you?” you grumble, words muffled against the ground.
“Hmm… I don’t know.”
The pressure of his boot lifts from your skull—only to be replaced by his knee, driven mercilessly into the small of your back.
You're pinned, caged.
“I kinda like seeing you like this,” he murmurs, voice dipping with lazy amusement. “Helpless. Right where I want you. So many things I could do with you…”
You can’t see him, but the smugness in his tone tells you everything. That fucking smirk is absolutely there.
Your laugh comes sharp and bitter. “God, you’re disgusting.”
“Oh, I must be,” he replies easily, “if even a bloodsucker’s saying it.”
You just scoff.
He leans in close, voice dropping to something low and velvety. “Can’t wait to spend some quality time with you…”
And then something hard cracks into your temple, with a sickening crunch followed by a split second of agony, before your vision tilts again and once more everything goes black.
You figure it’s been a few days at least, by the time you wake up. No human would survive the type of brain damage he no doubt inflicted on you when he literally split your skull open.
But you’re not a human, you’re a vampire — albeit something like that is still a serious enough injury that instead of seconds or minutes, it takes days for your body to repair the delicate tissues of your brain.
You’re still a bit dizzy and disoriented as you blink, clearing the fog from your mind while assessing your environment.
It’s a cellar or basement of some sort. A dim bulb flickers at the other end, on the verge of giving out.
The second thing you notice is something on your face — tight leather straps digging into your skin, a cage or barrier of some kind bound over your mouth.
The bastard fucking muzzled you.
Immediately you scream his name in rage — or at least you try to, though the metal cage distorts your sounds and all you produce is, “Hh-kuh-na!”
You try to move but your arms are still bound tightly behind you, aching from the position they’ve been kept in for so long, The cuffs are not silver, you note.
But the shackle around your ankle? That one is — and you quickly learn that when you try to unfold your legs, the metal digging into your skin and burning.
Soon enough you hear a door open and the sound of heavy footsteps.
“Finally awake? Thought I hit you too hard for a second.”
Your snarl of his name is once again muffled, but the scathing hatred in your eyes speaks volumes.
Sukuna steps in, closing the door behind him before crouching down with his hands on his knees, to be at your face level.
“Hmm, what was that?” he coos. “Try again. Really put your heart into it.”
You’re already feeling on edge, restless and tired at the same time, but then you smell it—
The sharp metallic scent of blood.
Just a little, but enough for your eyes to dilate and your body to scream at you, reminding you that you’re hungry.
Three days of intense healing, and no blood.
But you force yourself to sit still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you struggle.
“When I get out here….” Your voice is hoarse, but venomous all the same. “I will kill you.”
“Hah,” he snorts. “Bold statement for someone who can’t even stand up.”
He crouches fully now, getting dangerously close. You jerk back instinctively but the sharp bite of the silver shackle digging into your ankle makes you grit your teeth in pain, reminding you why that’s a mistake.
Sukuna watches, single eye gleaming before he leans in further, fingers grazing along the leather strap securing the muscle.
“You look adorable like this.” He pauses, grinning when your eyes narrow further, smoldering with anger. “Almost tame.”
You catch another whiff of it — warm, rich, fresh — and your tongue coats itself in saliva. But you dig your nails into your palms, taking a breath, forcing yourself to stay grounded and shoot him a smirk, speaking slow and sharp.
“Take off this muzzle and you’ll see just how tame I am.”
He just chuckles and with that slight movement you catch the scent of his blood again.
Torture.
You can’t help your eyes from darting around, trying to see where the source is coming from. Sukuna catches your gaze drifting downwards, toward the wrist covered by his sleeve.
“Oh? You’re already looking? Thought you’d last a bit longer.”
And just to rub it in your fucking face he rolls his sleeve up, dangling his cut wrist right in front of your muzzled mouth. The blood drips slowly, deliberately trickling down.
Instinctively your head snaps up, fangs baring as you once again try in a futile effort the lunge forward, and rewarded with the same burning in your skin.
“Fuck. You.”
He leans in, voice dropping to a murmur as you intently track the blood droplets sliding down his skin. “You sure you don’t want any? You look a bit…hungry.”
Your lips widen into a cold sneer behind the metal cage. “I’d rather die of hunger than drink a drop of your filthy, vile blood.”
He stares at you for a moment, before calmly sighing and standing up to leave again. “Better get comfortable, then. This might take a while.”
And once again you’re left in the dark, with nothing but hunger gnawing at your insides.
The cruel irony of it all is that yes, you’d much rather die of hunger— but you can’t.
Instead you’ll starve, slowly desiccating till you’re barely conscious, but alive all the same. Forever in a perpetual state of never ending hunger.
There will be no death to release you.
Over the course of the next four days you feel yourself withering — hunger chewing and growling from within you, so cold that it feels like even your bones are chilly.
And tired. So, so tired.
You hear his footsteps from time to time outside the door, vaguely wondering if he’ll open the door. He never does.
By the time he comes back, your limbs are leaden, mind hazy. The hunger is no longer an ache, as it is a roaring void, tearing at you from inside.
You barely flinch when the door creaks open again, head lifting slightly towards the sound, though your body makes no effort to move.
“Still alive? Tough little thing, aren’t you?”
As if you could die even if you wanted to.
You don’t offer any response, not even able to muster enough energy to glare at him. He steps closer, slowly, like he’s approaching a carcass.
“Not much fight left in you now, huh?”
He crouches again, watching you with interest. You’re alive, but barely.
And finally you move — just a small twitch of your fingers, and a sharp inhale like you want to say something, but don’t have the energy to get the words out.
Sukuna doesn’t let up. “Go on. Curse me. Say you’ll kill me again. Give me something.”
Nothing. Even in your weakened state, you have enough pride to not give him that.
If a reaction is what he wants, it’s what he won’t get.
He clicks his tongue in annoyance before tilting his head. “No? Then how about I give you something instead?”
There’s a soft ripping noise, like a band-aid being torn off, when the scent hits you.
Blood.
Your body shudders involuntarily, once again you’re digging your nails into your palms until they’re sure to leave crescent-shaped indents.
And of course, he notices immediately, face lighting up with amusement. “…Oh?”
He holds his wrist up to you again like an offering.
“C’mon. You don’t need to act tough anymore — I know you’re starving.”
Your jaw clenches as you follow the slow trickle of blood, wishing desperately you had it in you to tear your eyes away from the sight. But you follow its unhurried path, entranced, mouth dry.
“Just a sip. All you have to do is say the word.” Sukuna’s voice is low, mocking, trying to worm its way into your skull.
Your breathing quickens. Would one sip really be that bad?…
“I’ll even take the muzzle off.”
That makes you move.
Your eyes flicker to his, sharpening with a spark of resistance despite everything. The spark only lights up further when you see how smug he looks.
“…Go fuck yourself.”
His grin widens, teeth flashing.
“There she is.”
And then, he fucking sits fully, leisurely stretching his legs like this is some pleasant, casual conversation. Like it’s a picnic date at the park or something.
Like he isn’t slowly destroying you from the inside out.
“You should be grateful, you know, that I’m even trying here.” Then he snickers meanly. “A lot of owners don’t bother to go to such lengths for their pets.”
If there was any blood left in your hollow veins, it would be sizzling right now.
You want to lunge at him, tear his throat out, watching him choke on his own blood before bleeding out in the most pathetic manner.
But you barely have the strength to lift your head.
Still, you strain out the words, barely a whisper.
“Don’t want your…filth…on my tongue.”
You feel it for a second, genuine anger sparking in him, before it quickly passes through and he stands up again.
“Fine. Be a stubborn bitch — we’ll see how long you last.”
He turns and walks away, casually calling out over his shoulder right before he shuts the door. “See you in another few days. If you’re still awake, that is.”
The door closes, darkness once again swallowing you whole.
It’s been nearly a full week now, when he comes back one more time.
You deteriorated even more within the span of those few days — body weak and brittle, like a dried leaf waiting to be stepped on. You think you’ve started to go mad because you swear you can smell blood, even when there’s nothing, no one else, in that cold, empty cellar.
Your pride has been warring with need for too long, and one side is losing, slowly but surely.
When the door opens again, you’re too far gone to react even the slightest. Not even a single twitch of your fingers.
Sukuna gives you a mocking sigh. “Damn. You’re really letting yourself go.”
He crouches down in front of you again, slowly, like you might to some injured animal bleeding out in the forest. “What happened to all that fire? All that lovely talk about killing me?”
You want to lift your head, shoot him a glare, spit some nasty words, but your body won’t obey.
The hunger is too much now, inside your bones where your marrow should be, clawing at the caving in walls of the hollow cavity that is supposed to be your stomach.
Sukuna watches closely for any sign of resistance, but there is none.
And then he speaks softly, like he’s indulging a kid. “How about I make this a bit easier for you, hm?”
There’s a cruel amusement under the gentle facade of his voice, lingering underneath like poison.
You barely register the movement — the soft tug of leather straps, and the metal cage loosening, falling away.
Your lips automatically part, but no sound comes out. There’s nothing left for you to say.
Then a quick flash of metal, and the scent invades your nostrils.
Hot, flowing, rich.
Sukuna holds his wrist out, the fresh cut welling with blood in slow, thick, droplets. The most alluring shade of red against his tan skin.
A violent shiver skitters down your spine, and you can feel your fangs involuntarily slipping out.
“Poor thing. You’re barely holding yourself together.” His voice drips in faux sympathy, as he watches you twitch.
His other hand moves, swiping into the cut before he swiftly lifts it to your face, pressing bloodied fingers to your lips and smearing it red.
Everything stops.
One drop, one single drop, makes its way through, onto your parched tongue, and its like fire in your veins.
Your body comes alive that moment, every nerve, every deadened muscle, every ounce of hunger roars awake, all at once, dilating your pupils till your eyes are just black voids.
Another shuddering breath, a twitching in your muscles.
“That’s it,” he whispers, watching, entirely too pleased at your reaction as his wrist hovers, just barely out of reach from your mouth.
Your body moves on it own, pure instinct, and no thought as you lunge forward with a low snarl, right fang sinking in, the broken one following soon enough as you close your mouth, latching on completely to his wrist.
And you drink.
Greedily, messily, obscenely sucking and slurping like a wild animal. The taste of his blood is intoxicating, flooding and reviving your starving flesh, pulling you out of that hollow abyss.
You hate yourself for it, but you can’t stop.
Sukuna watches, letting you feed, with a slow smirk.
“There we go. See? That wasn’t so hard.”
You want to rip yourself away, but his blood is too much, too necessary, too good.
No, not good.
You’ve drank hundreds of men’s blood before, but nothing compares to his.
What an evil, cruel twist of fate that his blood is divine — salty, sharp, with a savory mouthwatering fullness, and the slightest hint of sweetness to compliment it all.
Its like ambrosia.
Your grip tightens, as you practically moan in ecstasy, fangs sinking deeper into his warm flesh — you need more, you need—
Suddenly, he yanks his arm back.
You choke, barely stifling a whimper that almost slips out as the warmth is ripped away. Sukuna looks down at his wrist, amiably inspecting the puncture wounds, before glancing back at you.
Your lips are stained crimson, breathing ragged, eyes still looking at him with that almost desperate need.
And he laughs, victoriously. “That’s my girl.”
The taste him still lingers on your tastebuds, in the air — it’s not nearly enough to quell your appetite.
“Just a little more. Isn’t this what you wanted?” you try to convince him, attempting to hide the need in your voice.
You may be missing a fang but there’s still enough venom in one of your fangs to have at least somewhat of an effect — though you suppose that if he willingly let you drink, he must’ve already taken an antivenom.
Still, you try your luck.
He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “You should have more shame, being so greedy. You’re lucky I even gave you this much.”
Sukuna stands to his full height again.
Panic rushes through you.
“Fuck, please Sukuna? I’ll give you whatever you want—”
He scoffs coldly. “And what could you possibly have to give me?”
You stare with wide eyes, unable to think of an answer immediately, and soon he’s leaving again, the sticky blood drying on your face.
The door slams closed.
This time, the hunger doesn’t dull away, neither does it weaken you. In fact you think it only grows stronger as the hours pass, keeping you awake and restless and craving.
For hours you sit in that dank cellar, your mind replaying the taste of his blood in your mouth until it becomes all you can think about, a tunnel vision of the only way out.
Giving you that taste was his mistake because now there’s a newfound strength forged from the motivation of sinking your teeth into him again.
Draining him for all he’s worth.
You tug against the metal keeping you captive — the cuffs around your wrists, the silver shackle around your ankle.
But you’ve got blood in you now, and that’s enough. Enough for you to heal.
With the phantom taste of him lingering in your mouth you finally push yourself — there’s sickening cracks of your joints dislocating, but even the blazing pain isn’t enough to deter you. It’s nothing compared to the satisfaction of your limp hands pulling out of the cuffs, one step closer to getting what’s yours.
Now, the hard part.
You squeeze your eyes shut, taking another deep breath as you position yourself. The silver cuff is still blistering hot against your skin, but you don’t hesitate.
Not now, not when you can practically taste him sweet and raw in your throat.
You twist. Hard.
The first crack isn’t enough — you grit your teeth, let out a strangled cry that echoes in the cellar, and then do it again.
The world goes white for a second, as you gasp, vision blurring from the sheer, excruciating pain — and still, you don’t stop.
Because now you’re not some starving creature crawling in the dark.
You’re a predator, one that he gave just enough of his blood to remember what that feels like.
Pop. The joint gives way.
You scream through gritted teeth, bile burning up the back of your throat, but you don’t stop. You slam your foot against the ground again, and again, twisting until the bones slide just enough — just enough for the slick burn of metal to scrape over torn skin.
And then you’re free.
You collapse against the floor, gasping, sweat-soaked and trembling, your limbs mangled but already knitting together, muscle by muscle, tendon by tendon, driven by that stolen taste of him inside you.
You stagger to your feet, every movement agonizing, shaky, but determined.
You can still feel him. His pulse. His scent. That infuriating grin of his when he left you here like some half-starved mongrel.
It’s insulting almost, that when you reach the cellar door, it’s unlocked.
But it makes your job easier, so you don’t complain.
You creak it open, and instantly the scent of his skin hits your nose though he’s nowhere in sight.
So you follow it, tunnel visioned on the prospect of finding him and just sinking your teeth into him.
Driven by vengeance, craving, maybe even some fucked up part of you that think his blood belongs to you now.
You can barely think straight by the time you’re pushing open his door, your mind tunneled in on one thing alone- the promise of his blood, hot and pulsing, spilling down your throat.
The embalmer’s job will be easier when they find his body — pale, empty, and drained dry.
You peek inside.
Warm light spills from the open bathroom door, casting a golden sheen across the contours of his bare back. He’s facing away from you, wearing nothing but low-slung black sweats that cling to his hips like a sin.
Droplets still bead along his skin, glinting on muscle, his pink hair darkened and slick from a recent shower.
If you weren’t so ravenous — if you saw anything other than a cure to the ache gnawing through your chest — you might’ve paused. Might’ve taken in the sight of him and thought, briefly, cruelly…
Beautiful.
But right now, nothing exists beyond the hypnotic thrum of his heartbeat, a slow and steady beacon that tugs you forward, that dares you closer.
You linger behind the door, silent, calculating. Waiting for him to move — to shift, to turn, to slip into just the right position.
One clean strike. That’s all you need.
No games. No snarling, clawing mess like the last time.
Just blood.
But then, there’s a subtle shift in the air, and the slightest stiffening of his spine.
Your stomach drops.
He shouldn’t know you’re here. It’s not possible — not for a human, not against your kind. You were made to hunt in silence, to kill before the prey ever knows what touched them.
Still, you don’t falter and he doesn’t turn.
And then—he moves. Slowly, casually.
He sits at the edge of the bed, back still to you, elbows resting on his thighs.
Exposed and vulnerable.
Perfect.
Just as you’re getting ready to pounce, Sukuna completely throws you off base—by pure, stupid luck.
He leans back onto one hand, legs spreading ever so slightly, just enough for the faint shape forming beneath his sweats to catch your eye. His other hand moves lower, casually palming himself through the fabric.
You should move. You know you should.
But something invisible roots you in place. Your hunger simmers beneath your skin, thrumming like static, but your bloodthirsty gaze is locked—utterly transfixed—on him. On the slow, almost lazy drag of his hand over the swelling bulge, coaxing it with idle strokes.
Your body betrays you.
There’s a strange heat building inside you, crawling up your spine, prickling across your skin. It shouldn’t be there. Not when you’re here to feed. Not when your only goal is to strike clean and fast and end this.
But it’s him.
Your breathing falters when his eyelids lower, chin tilting back just slightly as a quiet exhale leaves his parted lips. The light catches on the water still clinging to his shoulders, muscles shifting beneath his skin with every languid movement.
Through the fabric, the outline of his cock becomes more prominent. You can see the shape of it now, the thickness, even from where you stand.
Sukuna tightens his grip, and that’s when you catch it—the faint, almost acrid scent in the air. Slightly metallic. Slightly alkaline.
You suck in a silent breath, stomach flipping when you realize what you’re smelling.
Then he starts to rut slowly into his hand, sighing as the friction builds, and his voice cuts through the stillness, casual but low with strain.
“If you’re gonna do it, do it. Or are you too…” A cruel little grin curves his mouth. “Distracted, now?”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.
You’re on him in an instant—before the last syllable even finishes, slamming your full weight into him. The bed creaks under the force as you straddle him, one hand fisting into his damp hair, the other clawing his shoulder, nails digging in deep enough to make him hiss through his teeth.
“Don’t fuck with me, Sukuna,” you growl, pupils dilated, lips curled in a snarl. His heartbeat is a war drum beneath your hands, loud and intoxicating, and every one of your senses is alive with it—drunk on it.
His grin only sharpens.
“Then stop staring like you wanna fuck me and kill me, sweetheart. Pick one.”
To your irritation, you don’t even have to yank his head back—he tilts it on his own, baring his throat with an infuriatingly smug laugh. A mocking little motion, like he’s offering himself up on purpose.
“That’s more like it,” he murmurs.
And then your fangs sink in.
A soft, distinct crunch as teeth break through muscle and vein.
The instant his skin gives, blood rushes into your mouth—and it’s intoxicating. Thicker, hotter than anything else you’ve ever tasted. Rich and pulsing with life. Almost scalding.
The puncture wounds tighten slightly around your fangs, muscles resisting before stretching open, your jaw clenching as you bury deep—even your cracked fang pushing in with a sharp throb.
His blood is... pure. Potent.
Undiluted, unlike the thin, lifeless taste of most human blood. It tastes like something alive.
Like power, like violence.
The absence of that sharp medicinal tang—no trace of the antivenom you expected—flickers across your thoughts.
But the moment passes. Irrelevant.
Your body’s already screaming for more.
You drink greedily, copper heat washing down your throat, his pulse drumming against your lips. Your grip tightens.
Sukuna doesn’t flinch.
You suck harder, lips sealing tighter over the wound with a wet, obscene sound. Blood flows freely now. Your body trembles, senses blown wide open, muscles twitching as strength floods into you—but even as it does, something gnaws at you.
It still isn’t enough.
There’s a maddening itch, deep under your skin, pulsing low in your gut. A hunger that persists no matter how much you drink.
A raw, aching need that grows stronger, fiercer.
You notice everything.
His heartbeat skipping slightly under your mouth, the way your thighs grip his hips tighter, almost involuntarily. The rake of your nails down his back, searching for purchase, something to ground you.
You drink, and drink, and drink—and yet, the ache won’t go away.
Sukuna notices, of course. His eyes heavy-lidded, dark with knowing amusement, watching as you fall apart in real time, the tremble in your thighs, the desperation in the way you hold him.
He shifts beneath you—just slightly—but it’s enough. Enough for you to feel the hard outline of his arousal pressing right against your core.
And still—not enough.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Sukuna’s voice is low, almost gentle. But there’s that ever-present curl of amusement beneath it. “You’re still hungry.”
You growl against his neck, fangs still sunk deep, refusing to acknowledge whatever smug bullshit he’s whispering now.
His skin burns under your lips. His body is flush against yours, scent heavy in your nose with every inhale—clean, musky, tinged with something spicy and masculine.
It makes him taste even better somehow—complementing the copper tang in your mouth like wine pairing with a rich meal. You have to smell him to taste him fully.
The most disturbing part isn’t the blood. It’s that he’s letting you take it. Letting you drink him dry, take as much as you want.
And if your mind were clearer—sharper—you’d be suspicious. Hell, you’d be insulted.
You tremble.
Because despite the feast, despite the rush of strength, the power flooding your veins like molten heat—you’re still not satisfied.
The hunger claws deeper.
And the awful, rising truth starts to sink in, that maybe it’s not just his blood you crave.
Maybe you’re starving for something else entirely.
Sukuna’s hand moves—slowly, deliberately—dragging rough fingertips across your scalp. He threads them through your hair, the pressure grounding, possessive. His fingers massage along your roots, a slow, sensual gesture that sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.
The other hand slides up your hip, ghosting along your side before settling at the small of your back, easing you down closer, pressing you into him—
That’s when it hits you.
You snap back, instinct lashing out. You tear your mouth away, blood slick on your lips, and shove at his chest hard enough to make him grunt as you push yourself back.
Your breath comes quick. Your head swims. Your mouth tastes like heat and iron and him.
The hand tangled in your hair slips away, settling instead at your waist—not stopping you, but not letting you go either. Possessive and anchoring.
His neck is still bleeding, slow trickles slipping down the curve of his throat, the skin around the puncture turning a deep shade of red-purple, bruised and tender.
You’re not sure what you feel.
Dazed. Disoriented. Blood-drunk.
Angry. Irritated. Frustrated.
Warm.
Too warm.
Sukuna grins up at you, lazy and smug, his eye catching the light just enough to glint with something unreadable.
“Ahh, there it is,” he hums, like he’s been waiting. “Now you get it.”
You fight the urge to recoil—to put space between your bodies—even as the haze lingers, even as your mind reels, trying to make sense of what the hell is happening to you.
“What the fuck did you do to me?” you breathe, your voice hoarse and thin, raw from drinking. Your lips are still slick with his blood. “I should kill you.”
And you mean it. You’ve done it before—taken blood from men, used sex like bait, like a weapon, left them cold and emptied by the time you were done. It never mattered, never lingered.
But this—this is something else entirely.
You try again to pull away, to snap the illusion, but this time his grip tightens. Not roughly, not harsh—but firm. Deliberate. He’s not fazed in the slightest by the open wound on his neck or the fresh blood on your mouth.
“Go ahead,” he murmurs, voice low, almost affectionate. “Then you’ll keep starving. Just like you are right now…”
His fingers drift lower, dragging over your waist, brushing the tops of your thighs. Teasing. Knowing.
Your head spins.
“Just shut up,” you snap, though the words come out thin, like you’re already losing ground.
You fed long enough that the venom should be kicking in by now. But it isn’t.
Maybe he’s built up a resistance—modified something in his blood. It wouldn’t be out of character for a hunter like him, someone who turns his own body into a weapon.
“Mm.” His fingers inch higher along your thigh, nails grazing over the fabric in a light, scraping touch that sends a sharp jolt through your nerves. “You don’t even know what you’re hungry for, do you?”
You grit your teeth, refusing to rise to the bait.
“It’s... not whatever the fuck you think it is,” you mutter, jaw tight. “You must’ve laced your blood or something—”
You’re trying to rationalize it. Trying to explain away the curl of heat low in your belly, the way your skin burns where he touches you.
His chuckle is low and cruel.
“Didn’t have to.” His voice dips to a taunt. “You gorged yourself on my blood after I left you starved for days—like a filthy, mindless little animal.”
His hand slides higher, creeping toward the center of you, and you shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut.
But you still don’t move.
“Tell me something I don’t kn—”
“Shut up.”
His voice slices through yours, dark and final. His grip tightens on your thigh—fingers digging into flesh—not playful anymore.
“If I wanted to hear you run your mouth, I’d fucking ask.”
Your lip twitches. Your eyes narrow into a venomous slit. But you don’t interrupt.
Not yet.
“That blood you drowned in?” he murmurs, tilting his head like he’s about to deliver a punchline. “It flooded your veins. Your muscles. Your heart…”
His smirk deepens, a slow cruel carving across his face.
“But when all your precious organs had their fill—guess where the rest ended up?”
“Right—” His hand fully cups your clothed sex now, before pressing into your clit with the tips of his fingers. “Here.”
You gasp at the sudden pressure against that sensitive bundle of nerves—electricity crackling up your spine.
All at once, you’re excruciatingly aware of every ache in your body, most of all the one blooming between your thighs—tight, pulsing, centered on that single point he’s still pressing down on with cruel precision.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, almost bored. “How long’s it been since you felt this? Since you actually needed?” His scoff is pure venom. “What, years? Bet your body just gave up going into heat altogether—until now.”
That’s what finally snaps the last thread of your restraint.
Your eyes darken, and a vicious smile cuts across your face like a blade. Bitterness burns like acid on your tongue, venom sharpening every syllable.
“Look at you,” you sneer, voice laced with poison. “You talk like I’m some starving beast—but what does that make you?”
Your tone drops, cruel now, twisted to mirror his own.
“A man so desperate for control he gets hard watching a half-dead monster squirm on his lap?”
You laugh—cold, guttural, mean.
“That’s pathetic.”
His expression shifts. Something twists behind his eyes. The lazy smirk vanishes, replaced by a deep crease between his brows—his crimson iris shrinking to a pinprick of rage.
You only lean in closer, fueled by the spark of danger.
“Tell me,” you whisper, voice thick with mockery, lips brushing his. “Did it make you feel powerful, starving me like that? Watching me suffer, weaken, beg?”
You grind your hips deliberately into his hand—now limp and fallen to your side—mocking him with your body, even as it betrays you with heat.
You tilt your head, lashes fluttering.
“Or did it just turn you the fuck on?”
His fingers twitch under your thigh.
“I think I hit a nerve.”
And then—just to twist the knife—you drop your voice to a whisper, every syllable soaked in contempt.
“…Maybe you wanted to see me like this. Needy. Weak. Because deep down, you know it’s the only time I’d ever want you—”
It happens fast.
Sukuna lunges.
But you’re already moving, twisting away—only for him to anticipate it, catching your wrist mid-swipe as you aim for his throat.
You snarl, feral, baring your fangs as you twist and struggle—but he’s stronger.
Of course he is. Vampire or not, you’re still a woman. And he’s a man carved from violence and dominance.
He wrenches your arm behind your back and yanks you in, spine arching painfully as he traps you against him. You snap toward his shoulder—teeth meeting only air as he shifts—and then—
His hand clamps the back of your neck, shoving you down hard into the mattress.
You buck, claw, writhe—but his weight pins you mercilessly.
“Fuck—get the hell off me!” you spit, claws tearing at the sheets.
But Sukuna only laughs. A low, rich sound that rumbles against your spine.
“Why?” he whispers, his breath ghosting hot along your ear. “Scared?”
You growl and slam your elbow back, desperate—
And then you feel it.
A sharp kiss at your throat—cold. Burning. Paralyzing.
Silver.
It must’ve been hidden beneath the bedding—because of course the bastard would sleep with a knife under his pillow.
Your breath catches as the blade’s tip glides across your skin in a slow, almost tender caress. Even that featherlight touch bites sharply against your hypersensitive nerves, lighting them up like fire.
Sukuna hums, clearly entertained. “Thought so.”
His grip in your hair tightens painfully, yanking your head back until your throat is exposed, vulnerable.
“You know what’s funny?” His voice is low, almost musing, edged with cruel amusement. “For all your mouth. All your fucking posturing—”
He presses the flat of the silver blade just beneath your jaw, and the threat of it steals the breath from your lungs.
“—you still end up right here.”
Your breath trembles, a furious mix of rage and something deeper, darker, coiling low in your stomach. Something instinctual and shamefully real.
The knife tilts ever so slightly—just enough for the point to kiss your skin, teasing the possibility of a cut.
You don’t dare move.
“That’s right,” he murmurs, satisfied. “Hold still.”
Your fingers twitch. You could fight—should fight. But the weight of him above you, the glint of silver at your throat... you’re pinned. And you both know it.
The edge of the blade shifts—and this time, it bites. A shallow line, but enough for crimson to bloom and trail slowly down your throat.
You grit your teeth, jaw locked tight, forcing yourself not to flinch.
But he feels it. The way your body tenses beneath him. And it thrills him.
“Not so tough now, are you?”
The blade drags lower, agonizingly slow, skimming the line of your throat, across your collarbone, down your sternum. It sings along your skin, a thread of fire in its wake.
“Nothing but a weak, pathetic, blood-drunk little leech.”
You snarl—but it sounds broken. Frayed and fragile.
Sukuna clicks his tongue, mockingly. “Still got fight in you?”
And then—without warning—he flips the blade, and drags the edge down your chest, slicing through both fabric and skin in one fluid stroke.
Down, down, down—until your shirt splits beneath the pressure. The cold rush of air hitting your exposed skin only amplifies the heat.
You suck in a breath, jaw clenched as the knife cuts a shallow path across your sternum, not deep, but just enough to sting.
“Fucking pervert,” you mutter hoarsely, your voice barely holding together.
He doesn’t reply.
He just keeps going—dragging the knife horizontally now, the blade peeling the torn fabric away from your chest, slow and deliberate. It climbs, tracing up the valley between your breasts like he’s unwrapping a present—leisurely, merciless, fascinated.
A searing line is traced up the swell of one of your tits, and you put all your focus into keeping your breath steady, because the slightest inhale only pushes the delicate mound of fat further against the burning blade.
You stiffen completely when the tattered top is pulled away completely, air brushing against your nipple.
Sukuna watches it harden further with fascination, a cruel smirk curling his lips. “Oh?”
Because he notices everything, to your humiliation. You shiver, despising how your body reacts despite everything.
Hate how much he enjoys it.
“You like this, don’t you?” His tone is taunting, disgusted, but there’s a cruel entertainment beneath it.
You can’t say anything, much more focused on the sharp silver that’s much too close to your areola for comfort. Then with the slightest shift of his wrist the blade moves, the tip of it scraping against the sensitive bud.
You inhale sharply, body reflexively jerking against him as the prickling lances through your chest.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” he chides, circling the blade delicately around your breast before continuing downwards.
“Go to hell,” you spit, voice thick with both vitriol and bitter lust.
The knife descends, running over the curve of your ribs, the delicate dip of your stomach, leaving a trail of burning goosebumps in its wake.
“I’d drag you down with me.”
Another shudder as the blade presses lower, a lump forming in your throat. Another jolt of pain and there’s a shallow cut right below your navel.
Blood wells, reminding you of his control.
His free hand slides up your thigh, just enough to make you hyper-aware of how helpless you are.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper, trying not to audibly pant.
Sukuna just chuckles, running the flat of the blade over the cut, smearing your own blood across your skin.
He watches as you try to shrink away, eyes glinting, before his grip tightens, forcing your hips to still.
“Say it.” His voice is quieter now, something that frays your nerves further.
Your heart pounds. “Say what?”
The blade presses lower, and you feel cold fear beginning to surge through your veins.
“Say you need me.” His nose is in hollow beneath your jaw now, brushing against the skin, as the words crawl down your spine like icy.
“Say you want me.” The tip of the blade drags lower, slipping just beneath the hem of your waistband—dangerously close to something far more intimate.
“Or I’ll carve the truth out of you myself.”
And though you throb between your thighs, your mind is wracked with a new wave of anxiety.
Yet still your pride, your stubborn ego refuses to force the words out of your mouth, so you keep silent, choking on them.
Sukuna just sighs and pushes the metal into your panties.
All thoughts of defiance are exorcised from you as the silver brushes against the vulnerable, soft flesh of your folds, down till it nearly touches your clit.
You yelp at the pain. “S-Stop!”
Partially because it fucking stings, but partially because for a second that jolt of burning heat almost felt…good.
Curse your pathetic, needy cunt that can’t tell the difference between pain and pleasure.
And it only reminds you of the hollow, aching hunger that grows in you. Sukuna, watching you so closely, knows it too.
You break.
“…I need you,” you breathe.
The bastard presses the blade against your sex again and you wince, desperately trying to jerk your hips away. “Louder.”
So finally, you spit through clenched teeth, “I need you.”
The moment the words leave your lips — strained, humiliated, dragged from the deepest part of your throat — Sukuna stills.
Then he laughs, finally pulling the blade back out from your thighs, giving your body a second to relax. Still the sting of silver, the heat of your blood — it lingers.
And the worst part, is that you feel colder without it. You can’t ignore the arousal that’s pooled in your panties, so much so that it feels uncomfortable.
“That’s what I thought.” His voice drips with smug victory. “All that fight, all that snarling, all those ugly words — and look at you now.” The blade presses under your chin, forcing your head to tilt up and look directly into his face. “Whimpering out the truth like a good little leech.”
You want to say something , anything, but the opportunity is stolen from you when you feel his other hand, fingers dragging through the blood seeping from the wound below your navel. The pressure is deliberate, just enough to make it hurt, to remind you of what he’s done to you.
“You’re making such a mess,” he muses, voiced soaked in condescension. “Bleeding all over yourself. Over me.” His fingers travel lower, slow and purposeful as they slide into your panties, where the heat is unbearable. “Dumb little thing.”
He smears it on your clit, using the tacky liquid as lube to rub tight aggressive circles on the swollen nub.
You gasp, lips falling open as the relief lights you up from inside. His other hand keeps the blade pressed under your chin, forcing you to meet his eye so he can watch as you try to keep your own gaze focused.
“You’re lucky I’m merciful,” he purrs, before taking two fingers and abruptly pinching your abused clit to elicit a wince from you. “Go on, leech. Say thank you.”
“…Thank you,” you say quietly, nothing on your mind except his touch where you’ve been needing it most.
He smiles, and then without warning, the sensations stop as he pulls his fingers away.
His weight disappears, leaving an unbearable cold where his warmth once was, in more places than one.
“Now get the fuck off my bed.”
You watch him, blinking in confusion, brows furrowing as desperation clouds your judgement. “Wh-Why? You can’t—”
“Dirty leeches get to stay on the ground where they belong,” he says coldly, clearly trying to suppress a grin.
You stare at him, body thrumming with unfulfilled need, like a wound he only ripped open even wider. Your fingers dig into the sheet, pride once against warring against pulsing ache between your thighs, cool skin burning with need and making your head spin.
You feel like you have a fever.
God, what the hell did his blood do to you?
“…You’re fucking joking.” Your voice wavers, but it’s not weakness — it’s rage. Humiliation.
Sukuna only tilts his head, regarding you like a roach he’s already crushed beneath his heel but is still alive for some reason.
“You think I’d let you defile my bed? After you whined like a bitch in heat just for me to touch you?” he scoffs. “Have some dignity, leech.”
Your breath turns sharp. Hot. Your body betrays you, trembling ever so slightly. The shame burns worse than silver, spreading all over you.
“You’re fucking sick.”
“And you love it.”
You hate that he’s right.
You grit your teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response as you force yourself to move, dragging your shaky limbs off the bed, only to collapse onto the cold, hard floor.
You hear his quiet chuckle before he walks to the edge of the bed, sitting back down beside where you’re on the ground.
Then—
“But I’m not evil. It’s clear you can’t even think straight with the condition you’re in.” He leans down, cupping your chin to look into your glaring eyes, swimming with desire. “Though I can’t help you if you keep your pants on, can I?”
You frown a bit, not the slightest clue where this is going, but the gentleness in his touch and the promise of his words coaxes your heat-addled brain to tug at the waist of your pants, pulling them off to leave you in just your panties.
You look back up at him expectantly.
“Good girl,” he says almost affectionately, and you feel yourself wetten further in anticipation. “But, a leech like you doesn’t deserve my fingers, let alone my cock or tongue.”
Just like that your heart sinks in your chest, into the pit in your stomach as something wicked creeps across his features.
“You’re worth nothing more than my—” His bare foot shifts between your legs, tattooed ankle lifting up between your thighs, applying pressure there. “Feet.”
Your eyes widen, cheeks heating up till it almost hurts as you open your mouth to protest, save yourself the last bit of your dignity.
“N-No.” Your voice shakes just a little despite your efforts, mouth pulling into a pout as tears sting your lash line.
Sukuna hums, a condescending little sound that makes your skin crawl with equal parts shame and heat. His foot presses in just a little more, sending a pulse of sensation through your body that makes you shudder violently.
“No?” he mocks, tilting his head. “Oh, but look at you, leech. Dripping—” he shifts slightly, grinding against the soaked fabric of your underwear, and you choke on a breath, “—like the desperate little parasite you are.”
You look down, suddenly noting that he strangely…actually has nice feet. Long, prominent bones, veins running their length. They’re a lot like his hands.
And somehow the fact that you can actually see the appeal only sickens you more.
You shake your head, trying to summon what’s left of your pride, but the second you do, his foot pushes, forcing a gasp from your lips.
His grin sharpens. “You can’t even pretend to hate it.”
You squeeze your thighs together instinctively, but the movement only traps him there, pressing deeper against you. Your breath stutters, shame and pleasure warring violently inside you.
Then he laughs, shaking his head like he’s watching something pathetic try and fail to crawl away.
“Go on then,” he taunts. “Show me just how low you’ll go. If you want it so bad, you can grind against my foot like the filthy little leech you are.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. “I—I won’t—”
He lifts it away just slightly, just enough to take away the friction, the heat, the pleasure that had you teetering on the edge. The loss is unbearable, your body screaming in protest.
And he sees it. He knows.
His smirk is pure, unfiltered cruelty.
“Oh?” he coos, feigning innocence. “Then I guess you don’t need my help after all.”
He moves to pull away entirely—
And before you can stop yourself, your hips jerk forward, chasing the friction, the pleasure, the relief—
He catches it instantly.
He freezes, pressing back in an instant, and your stomach drops as you realize what you’ve done.
His smirk turns razor-sharp, eyes gleaming with victory.
“That’s what I thought.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, resting your forehead on his knee, chewing on your lip.
You want this. You know it, and he knows it.
So with a shaky breath you lift yourself to quickly slide off your panties, kicking them to the side. “You’re disgusting,” you mutter, a half-hearted attempt to somehow deflect the degrading nature of what you’re willingly choosing to do right now.
He hums, looking down at you over the bridge of his nose with that unbearable smirk as you straddle his foot again. “Hm. Do tell me more.”
You can’t stand looking at his face right now, so you turn your head, leaning your cheek against his sturdy leg instead as you push your hips down, pressing your soaking cunt onto his foot.
It feels horribly good, and slowly you begin to undulate your hips back and forth, seeking the friction of the ridged metatarsals and tendons on his foot catching against your clit.
Back and forth, back and forth.
Sukuna snickers, watching you with interest, at the soft gasps falling from your lips. “If only your ancestors could see you now. How far your bloodline has fallen.”
You scowl a bit, speeding up your movements so that the pleasure can drown out his words and the soft clicking noises of your pussy. “Just….s-stop talking. Please.”
“Why? It was a compliment.” Sukuna lifts his leg again, angling his foot a little to move it in time with your grinding, pulling a soft moan from you. “I, for one, think you look good like this. Like you’re finally where you belong, y’know?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ignore him as you lean back on your hands, this new angle making it easier for you to rub your clit against him.
For a few seconds he doesn’t say anything either, even as your movements start growing more frantic. You open your eyes to look at him, just to find his eyes trained squarely on where your sticky cunt is sliding obscenely along his foot, his skin glistening with your arousal.
And it’s the fact that he looks painfully aroused himself, that he’s not quite as unaffected as he’s been pretending to be…
The sight makes you cum abruptly with a choked cry, hips thrusting faster and faster as your orgasm shoots up through your spine, the wet sounds growing noisier, as your pussy twitches and leaks an embarrassing amount of slick.
Your movements slow, as your orgasm finishes, leaving you to close your eyes again and catch your breath. Sukuna removes his foot, looking looking down at you and the juices that coat it.
“Eugh. God look what a mess you made.” Then he smirks deviously, gaze shifting to your mortified form, still reeling from your orgasm as you sit back. “I should make you clean your filth with your tongue.”
Your eyes widen to shoot him a look, already shaking your head when he laughs.
“Don’t worry. You should be grateful I’m not that sick.”
You don’t reply, just looking at him quietly, growing more and more aware by the second that your clitoral orgasm provided temporary reprieve just to heighten that horrible ache inside of you. Yet before you can even open your mouth to voice your concerns, he’s standing up.
“Where…are you going? That’s it??”
Sukuna stops in the doorway, shoulders loose, head tilted, and for a second—just a second—you think he might change his mind. Might turn around and give you something.
But then he snorts, sharp and derisive, slicing straight through your chest.
“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Listen to yourself.”
He glances over his shoulder, and the look in his eyes is nasty—not the usual smug amusement, not even condescension. Just pure, unfiltered disgust.
“You’re still fucking dripping, aren’t you?” His lips curl in a sneer. “I already fed you, you don’t expect me to fuck you too, do you?” He laughs, slow and cruel. “God, you really have no fucking shame.”
Your face burns, humiliation crashing into you, but you refuse to let it show. You square your shoulders, jaw tightening. “You’re the one who—”
“You what? Made you?” His grin widens, something wicked in it. “Oh, come on, leech. Don’t be fucking pathetic. You were already soaking before I even touched you. You should be grateful I even let you rub yourself off on me like a stupid little parasite.”
He laughs again, shaking his head. His tone turns mocking, singsong. “Poor thing, all hot and needy, and still so fucking empty.”
Your nails dig into your palms. You hate him. You hate how much you want to hurt him. How much you want him to hurt you.
But most of all, you hate how easily he thinks he can win.
So you lift your head, tongue curling around something venomous. “Guess that makes two of us, huh?” you sneer.
Sukuna’s expression flickers—just a flicker—but you catch it. And it feeds you.
You hum, tilting your head, letting your gaze drop deliberately down his body before dragging it back up, slow, like you’re assessing him. “Or what, was that little act supposed to convince me you don’t want it just as bad?” You scoff, eyes glinting with something sharp and mean. “Please. You’re the one who gets hard over starving me out.”
His jaw tightens. Just a twitch. A flex of muscle. But you know him well enough to see it for what it is—annoyance.
Good.
“You act like you’re above it,” you murmur, voice like silk laced with barbed wire. “Like you don’t need it.” You shift, slowly stretching out your legs, like you aren’t still burning between them. “But I felt you, Sukuna.” Your voice dips, taunting. “I smelled you.”
His fingers twitch at his sides. You watch it, the way they flex—like he’s already imagining wrapping them around your throat.
But you’re not done.
“You like this just as much as I do.” Your smile sharpens. “No—probably more.”
A slow blink, a long inhale and then Sukuna’s lips curl again, his expression smoothing into something infuriatingly condescending.
“That’s cute,” he drawls. “Really. But let’s get one thing fucking straight—”
He moves before you can react, crouching down in front of you, one strong hand gripping your jaw. Hard. Forcing you to look at him.
“I could ruin you.” His voice is low, deadly. “Make you beg until your fucking throat is raw. And I still wouldn’t let you have it.”
His thumb brushes your bottom lip, a mockery of something tender.
“Because you don’t deserve it.”
Then, just as quickly, he shoves your face to the side.
“Oh, and—” He swipes his fingers through the mess between your thighs, then flicks it at you with a lazy smirk. “Clean yourself up,” he mutters, before sticking his fingers into his mouth and licking them clean of your arousal.
You don’t flinch, don’t let him see the way your breath shudders.
You just lift your chin, eyes locked onto his, and smile sweetly.
“Don’t forget to clean yourself up too,” you purr. “Can’t have you walking around smelling like me.”
He snarls—a real, actual snarl—but you only grin wider.
And then, with a final glare, he turns, disappearing into the bathroom.
cw: explicit sexual content, dubcon elements, serial dater Kyle Garrick, fake dating in a way, stalking, emotional manipulation, implied violence
Kyle is off his game.
It’s an unfamiliar position, one he resents himself for slipping into at all.
If he thinks on it too long, the kiss of a blunt, rubber blade presses at the side of his neck, right over the pulse. Ghost’s voice echoes in his ear, not bothering to hide his satisfaction over catching Price’s favorite and the record ‘older and, “—that’s ‘ow you die, Sergeant.”
He drags a hand over his neck and rolls it. The ache in his jaw pulses all the way up to his head. So does the next memory of sitting at Price’s desk, staring down three failed recce exercises. Pretending not to notice Ghost pleased as punch on the far wall.
Pretending not to notice the new gold ring on the old man’s finger.
“You’re hangin’ on by the skin of your teeth, Gaz. It’s not like you.”
Six months’ deployment will do that to a man. ‘Course, it didn’t do that to Soap or Ghost or Cap—but him. It reeks of failure. A lapse he should’ve been able to muscle through, and could, if he had a little more time. Kyle said as much, but the way Price regarded him said that the call had already been made. Paperwork stamped and filed away out of reach.
“Eight weeks leave. Approved, starting tomorrow. Go home, Gaz. Rest. Relax. Do not let me see or hear from you before your eight weeks are up, understood?”
Kyle had nodded, molars almost dust. What sticks out now as he plays it back is how Price rubbed at his ring and the faraway look in his eye as he added—
“Find a girl to pass the time with.”
Everything after that blurs. He couldn’t say how the meeting ended, only that two days later, he stood in the doorway of the cold, barely-lived-in city flat with a chip on his shoulder and no idea of how to grind it down.
Typically, when he has nothing better to do, Kyle runs.
He runs himself ragged outside, on the track or at the gym, at all hours. Sleep eludes him. It’s no good to lay in the dark, watching the ceiling and the headlights that sneak in through the curtains. The silence gets to him. There’s no chatter or stomping outside his door. No one telling him when to get up, where to go, what to do to fill the hours of the day. So running is how he copes.
He doesn’t track the time or distance. He goes by feel, specifically, the burn. How long before it blooms in his calves and then migrates to his lungs and throat, until it feels like they’re lined with fiberglass. He runs until all he can hear is the stock algo playlist du jour in his ears.
When he finally stops, it’s because his body at last turns on him and he doesn’t want to limp home. He folds over on the pavement, hands braced on his knees, hamstrings snarling at how close he came to ruining them anyway.
It’s never enough.
He drags himself home, taking the long way to wear down what’s left, but the rest of the day is there when he gets back. Long, idle hours with nothing to fill them. He needs a mission. He needs a boost.
So, he takes his Captain’s advice. He finds a girl.
Well. He finds girls.
The first is all nerves, with mile-long legs in heels.
Her arms wrap around him in the hallway of her building. She makes a small sound when he gathers her up against her door. Surprise, then ardor. Giggly when he bends her over the plaswood kitchen table. Afterward, she prattles on about going for breakfast in the morning, and insistently paws at him while he dresses. He gets her name wrong on the way out and she corrects him instantly, lips puckered around a pouty scowl of regret. He forgets it by the time he reaches the station.
The second is louder and five times needier. She clings to his bicep, afraid he’ll vanish if she lets go. He works her up in the last cubicle of the men’s toilet, her head tipped back against the marked-up wall while he marks up her neck in return. When he pauses, hand up her skirt, he sees hearts in her eyes. It extinguishes what he wants then and there. He unlatches the door before it can go any further, and she asks if they’re leaving. The wounded look she gives him rolls off his shoulders as she follows him out, all but sprinting back to her friends.
Objectively, he has fun, all this messing around, but it doesn’t stick.
By morning, it’s gone. In its place, the sense that he’s mislaid something important without ever knowing where he set it down or what it was, exactly. But by the end of the week, he’s got matches aplenty on different apps. Proof, as if he needs it, that he draws the eye.
That if he really wanted to, he could.
He takes to ending his morning runs with coffee.
Same spot, same order. Back to the wall, earbuds out, watching throngs of people stream past on their way to work. He itches for more, but no. This is what he’s been ordered to do.
Across the way, a couple lifts a pram in tandem over the curb, working effortlessly as partners. A two-person team. The wife bends to check on the kid, her full arse on display. He sips without thinking and scalds the roof of his mouth, nearly pitching the steaming cup into the street on reflex.
He hisses through his teeth and reaches for his phone instead.
For the first time in ages, he opens Instagram. The account he made a decade ago and never used. His work is not exactly conducive to having a life, much less documenting one. He scrolls anyway, checking in on old classmates and cousins. Spying their engagements, promotions, and toddling children in coordinated outfits. Milestones, one after another. Evidence of forward motion.
He pauses on a photo of a former footie teammate—arm slung around his wife, both glowing and smiling on a beach somewhere. His ringed hand rests on the curve of her belly.
He lingers on that detail long enough for the screen to go black.
Eight weeks is long enough to fuck off somewhere warm. Book a flight, find a beach. Find a bird and pretend he could be a man who belongs in pictures like that. The sun warming his back, an arm curled around him like he’s the center of a world.
The thought fizzles. He’s seen the inside of enough planes this year alone.
He’s stuck on the blank screen when a pair of shoes steps into his line of sight.
Polished burgundy leather. Fancy.
His gaze tracks upward to stockinged legs that disappear beneath a skirt. The rest is wrapped in a buttoned coat.
Then he reaches the face, and it catches him off guard. Open and welcoming. Your cheeks lift in a tentative smile, lips stained a shade of red that suits you perfectly. Your eyes are warm and bright with an energy he burned through several streets back.
You hesitate, indecision writ plain in your drawn-up shoulders. The worry of your fingers pinching a card.
“Excuse me, hi. I don’t mean to bother you, but do you have a minute?”
You’re younger than him. Not by a decade, maybe, but in his line of work, even four or five years is a gulf of experience. You don’t read as especially confident. He reckons you’re breaking it in like those expensive shoes on your feet. Your manicured fingers tremble as you offer your card, and his attention snags on the tiny, intricate designs decorating them.
You give him a name. It burrows right in.
“—I run a boutique matchmaking service, well, not run, as in by myself, exactly, but, well, I’m building my client base—”
He takes the card, and your relief is immediate, as if you’d cleared the highest hurdle. The cardstock is thin. A cheap, creamy white, with a heart and arrow logo that looks like it came free with the template. Your name and a website sit below the words Made to Last Matchmaking.
He blinks, attention snapping back, realizing he’s missed the meat of your pitch while he was busy deciding exactly what, if anything, to do with you.
“—dating can be so difficult in this day and age, and I’m working to revitalize the old fashioned way of meeting people face-to-face, outside of those lousy, impersonal apps. Now, obviously, I don’t know if you’re single, but, well, do you have any trouble meeting people? I’m offering steep discounts—”
His mouth twists with delayed offense. One look and you decided he’s lacking. That he has another problem to fix.
He looks from the card back to your face, brow furrowing. “I don’t need help.”
Your smile falters, but you recover quickly and snap back into place. “Of course. I just thought I’d ask.”
“What about me gave you the idea?”
That gives you pause. You must know you’ve stepped in it.
“You seem like someone who might be too busy to find someone, or…particular.”
Particular. He scoffs.
Kyle reclines, hooking one arm over the back of the café chair, and catches them—your eyes. The quick dart from the sweat cooling on his biceps to where his thighs strain the hems of his shorts, then away again. Kyle doesn’t call you out, but a thoroughly smug pleasure unfurls in his chest. He isn’t ignorant of his looks, never has been.
Pretty eyes, pretty hair, and a smile he knows how to use. Down to the scar on his cheek, which he lets do some of the talking when he flirts and talks around what he does for a living. Beyond what God saw fit to give him, he has a spendy vintage watch on his wrist and the activewear he’s in now is performance-grade. He can’t afford cheap on his salary.
And maybe that’s the real reason you approached. So he could be the feather in your cap.
He can see it: his face splashed on the front page of your website, in a carousel of success stories. Handsome, young, reasonably well-to-do. His first name above a tidy testimonial he’d be required to supply as a satisfied client. Exaggerated enough to sell and proof of concept.
He knows he’s a catch by any metric that matters.
But particular? That, he won’t touch.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve got a date this weekend.”
You press your pretty lips together and rub. He wants to know what kind of lipstick holds that well. You give him a tight smile in a look that says you’ve realized the conversation’s a dead end, but have to back out of it politely.
“Really? Lucky girl.” You adjust the strap of your purse, puffing up a touch, birdlike. A vexed dove. One small, dismissive flutter of your hand toward his cup of coffee. “Sorry for taking up some of your busy morning.”
Then you’re gone with a crisp turn on heel, pumps practically thundering as you rejoin the crowds. He watches until you meld into the mob completely, then reads your card again. He glares at the embossed letters and bends it between two fingers, shoving it into his pocket.
Only then does he tip back to prop up his feet on the empty chair across from him. His sprawl bumps the café table, and his cup wobbles in slow motion before it dumps straight into his lap.
The coffee’s cooled enough, but it drenches him completely. A half-second later, the cup hits the pavement and shatters, and a dozen passerby turn in his direction.
Perfect.
At home, he texts and inveigles the girl from the cubicle into a date.
It doesn’t stop his surveying at the gym, tracking the pretty birds that flit past his stations. No one holds his attention.
On his way out, he stops for an overpriced juice. As the cashier hands it over, he catches her nails—painted a plain, forgettable milky white.
Just like that, his thoughts veer off where they don’t belong.
He wonders if you’ve found any takers yet.
Cubicle Girl cancels minutes after he sits down. A wall of text along the lines of I talked to my friends and you’re stringing along a nice girl.
It puts him back at square one, but he won’t stay there for long. He’s got a phone and bar full of options.
There’s no rush. It’s Friday. The place is packed, bar to dance floor. The air is thick with body spray and perfumes, the souring musk of sweat, liquor, and vape pens. The seat beside him will remain empty as long as he wants it to.
By drink two, he’s attracted a warm-blooded stray who has wandered off from her group. One compliment about her smile, and she’s more than happy to join him. She’s in town for a conference and wouldn’t you know it, she’d love recommendations from a local. Never mind he’s only home a handful weeks out of the year, and doesn’t recognize half the block anymore. He plays along, chatting her up until he’s certain she’s about to invite him back to her hotel.
Until she drops she’s sharing lodgings with her colleagues.
He thinks of Soap, who doesn’t mind an audience. Kyle has never understood the appeal.
His place is out of the question. When he spends months at a time sharing close quarters with Soap and Ghost, he keeps his space his.
Kyle doesn’t push it when she announces her party is moving on, or when she stalls, suggesting they meet up next time she’s in town. He dismisses the idea, and tells her to enjoy the rest of her trip. He does not give her his number.
Alone again, he reclaims his spot at the bar, ignoring the peals of high-pitched laughter and cheery voices all around him. It all eats at him more than it should, especially when his thoughts drift back to the girl on the street and the cheap business card.
He thinks about the way you saw him and decided he needed help. Him.
If the matches and messages blowing up his phone aren’t enough proof that he knows what he’s doing, what is? He hasn’t needed help in this department since he enlisted. No wingman, certainly no coaching. He knows exactly what he brings to the table. It’s not arrogance if it’s true, and for him, it usually is.
Still. He has to give you this, if only in the privacy of his own head. A reluctant and begrudging concession—there is more that he wants, that until recently, he’d had little patience for, and no interest in entertaining beyond the abstract.
It’s Price’s fault, the greedy bastard. Cap had only shared the one picture of his new missus, and even that had been heavily influenced by drink. Stupefying, really, how Price swore him to secrecy with all that color in his puffed-up cheeks. He’d herded Kyle out onto the pavement beyond that dingy pub, one bear-like mitt locked tight around his phone while the other cupped protectively over the screen to shield it from prying eyes, cigar pinched between his teeth like he was guarding yet another state secret instead of showing off a pretty woman.
“Beautiful, isn’t she? Skittish. Got some bad habits we’re still tryin’ t’break, but toothache sweet.”
The photo itself had been nothing, mundane and domestic, yet it’s burned into his skull.
Price with his arm around her shoulders, his hand fisted in the chain of a small heart necklace at her throat. Her shy face. And the look on Price’s? Kyle’s never seen him smile like that—never thought Price could make a woman smile like that, either. That’s what stuck.
Because he wants it for himself.
And if a man like Price—irascible, immovable, inflexible—can lasso a piece of heaven and pin it down long enough to plant a flag in it, then there’s no reason he can’t do the same.
He knocks back the rest of his drink and resentfully writes the night off as a wash. He signals to the bartender for his tab, and a hand lands on the bar beside him.
The nails are a familiar vibrant shade he remembers admiring. His cheek twitches with a smile, but he squashes it. Good thing, too, because the first thing out of your mouth is,
“Your date running late?”
Fucking hell.
You hover, angled toward the bar, one hip cocked slightly while you peer down at him. The slope of your face sits half in shadow while the lighting catches on the brownish-mauve stain of your lips and the smears of glitter on your eyelids.
Then you turn to flag the bartender down and neon spills across you, filling in the rest. Greens, blues, and pinks—refracted color sliding over your skin like the inside of a kaleidoscope. A strobe light from the dance floor lights up your face, three concentric circles pulse over your features. Your eyes shine, glossy with however long you’ve been drinking, as you set an empty glass on the bar.
Kyle can’t look away. His heart lurches.
“She canceled. Something came up.”
“Nooo,” You smirk as you fold onto your elbow, cheek settling into the bridge of your curled fingers. “That’s a shame.”
He chuckles under his breath and scratches his brow, using it as cover for another peek.
Tonight you’re in a silk velvet skirt the color of moss, gold where the lights touch it, in a halo for your hips, and a black top that leaves your arms bare and dips low. A thin gold necklace rests against the sheen of sweat gathering at the tops of your breasts, drawing attention exactly where it ought to.
Who exactly are you when you’re not trying to set all the single men and women in the city up for a living?
“Hardly.”
“Clearly. Her loss, I bet.”
“Absolutely.” He leans back in his seat. “You stalking me, by the way? That determined to land me?”
“As if. No, I’m here—thank you,” you pause mid-sentence to accept your cocktail from the bartender. Kyle taps his card against the reader before you can reach for your purse. Your smile turns wry. “Thanks. I’m here for a hen party.”
You take a half-step closer and twist, revealing a garish button pinned to your top. The silhouette of a hot pink hen with swooping lettering Team Bride. He laughs, then he gets a lungful. Juniper gin and jasmine perfume. He’d like to lean in and bury his nose in your neck for another whiff, lick the sweat off from below your ear to see if it tastes the same. Cross-reference it with the sheen on your tits.
“Client’s?”
“In a way. It’s for a friend I set up with an old coworker three years ago.”
“So you’ve always been a meddler?”
“I’ve got a knack for it.”
“Better remember that when I win back your favor.”
“That implies you had it.”
He lays a hand dramatically over his heart. “And here I was thinking paying for your drink might make up for the other day.”
“That’ll take more than one cocktail, I think.”
“Are you trying to guilt me into buying a round for the entire party?”
“Maybe.” You smile coyly behind your glass. “But you were considerably less charming last we met.”
“Yeah, well, I hadn’t realized who I was talking to.”
“Wow.”
“If I get drinks, do you think the bride-to-be would mind if I crashed for a bit?” he grins, surprising even himself, but he can’t help it.
Normally, he wouldn’t be caught dead at a hen party. Been there, done that, it’s either too much of a good thing or a bloody hazard—hauling Soap out of a pub before he pounces on some poor, unsuspecting girl. And yet, because it’s you? He’ll make an exception. Play nice, charm your friends, let them interrogate him if it means another hour or two of puzzling you out.
Your nose scrunches with a laugh. “Not this time, stranger.”
You squeeze his shoulder as you say it, as a warm and friendly gesture. All it really does is superheat the alcohol in his bloodstream. Makes him think about what those fingers would feel like clawing at his back.
“It’s Kyle,” he manages, clamping one hand down on his thigh. “My name?”
That earns him a brief once-over.
“Not this time, Kyle.”
It takes effort to keep his arse planted instead of tailing after you when you head back to your friends. A whole flock of women crowded around a table near the back, all wearing that same pink button save for the bride in white.
It’s his turn to drag out his departure, sticking around longer than he should for a man with no drink in hand. And Christ, he should probably just walk up and ask you out properly, like a sane man would.
But he already cocked that up at the café. His ego too busy sneering at your pitch to notice the woman giving it and the opportunity. Now, seeing you again while he’s fresh off back-to-back false starts, it’s difficult to separate how much of this is pure want and how much is pride rearing its head. Because by the looks of it, you might actually be too good for him.
Convenient, that Price’s voice should surface in his head.
“I’m tellin’ you, Gaz. You see something you want, you take it.”
He runs his tongue along his teeth, deciding to get out before he does something stupid just then. He’s perfectly capable of waiting until he gets home for that.
Kyle finds your card beneath a menu for Ola’s and mulls it over for all of three seconds before pulling up the website.
It’s not quite as shameless as he originally imagined, but the site is awash with photos of happy couples. He scrolls past a manifesto on love, an overly romantic mythos about soulmates for the tender-hearted, and for those less-inclined, hard statistics. The reviews he knew would be there encourage visitors like him to Take a chance, tempt Cupid’s aim.
Instagram next. Boutique, just like you said. The company account only has a couple hundred followers. Near the beginning is a photo of you beside another woman who must be your co-founder. It doesn’t take long to find you in the followers list. Your personal account is public. Bold, considering how you’d been earlier.
Curated, but not contrived, and chock full of colorful squares. Stray cats, graffiti, uni throwbacks, plates at restaurants—then he reaches a series of posts from a girl’s trip!!! beach holiday, dated a year ago.
(Where was I? he wonders, Getting shot at, probably.)
The crown jewel of the collection is you.
Stretched out on your stomach on a towel, a book open and tented in front. A beer bottle stuck into the sand within reach. You’re looking back over your shoulder at whoever took the photo, hand lifted to shield your eyes from the sun, smiling wide.
A persimmon silk scarf wraps around your hair. The straps of your swimsuit press into your shoulders, taut over your arse, and dig in enough to flash a crescent of a cheek dusted in sand.
The caption’s simple: beach bum
He exhales through his nose.
Yeah. I’ll say.
He takes you to bed with him like that. Your smile and arse beaming down at him in the dark, his fist working furiously beneath the sheets.
He imagines what kind of internal struggle you’d put up, with him staring you down. Would you be self-loathing? Shy, embarrassed? Would you be in disbelief as you spread your legs, or apologetic that you ever doubted him as his cock slid home in your warm cunt?
He shudders, cursing into the dark, staring at the pixels of your arse until his retinas fry. He’d take you on your hands and knees, just to watch it bounce.
His orgasm comes quick at the thought, messy strings of cum splashing up his abs. He groans as he squeezes himself on the upstroke, going until there’s nothing left but a puddle on his skin.
If you were here, he’d tell you to lick it up. Gather it on the tip of one of those nails and suck it off.
His cock twitches at that and he groans in discomfort, but he finds himself swiping through your photos again, beginning and end.
You, at your first proper job, a sneaky selfie in the lift. You, holding a friend’s new labrador puppy. You, on holiday in Madrid with your parents. Notably absent from all of it—a partner.
Secondary fantasy follows the first.
You, on that beach towel again, except this time with him stretched out beside you. Him, nudging at your hip until you roll onto your back for a kiss. Sand sticking to warm, sweaty skin. The curve of a pregnant belly beneath his palm.
It should embarrass him, but it does the opposite.
He stays up late combing through the scraps the internet offers up. Your university’s blog to your extended family’s businesses. Abandoned accounts you probably forgot were public. A sprawling Pinterest account from half a decade ago, dated in taste but deliciously informative: places you dreamed of visiting, the wedding aesthetic of the time, and other evidence of the hopelessly romantic life you’ve imagined. All these breadcrumbs left behind without realizing someone might follow them. It’s basic recon.
Once he’s seen enough and the decision’s made, the rest comes easy. Here’s his worthy pursuit. The opposite of Price’s orders, but once the old man learns the details, he’ll understand. Might even be proud.
Twice now, you’ve come within reach. If that isn’t the universe conspiring in his favor, what is? Fate insists upon putting you in his path—he’ll draw Cupid’s bloody bow himself.
“So, Mr. Garrick, what made you change your mind?”
Today you are in plum. Monochrome, the top a shade lighter than the trousers it’s tucked into. Stylish glasses perch atop your nose and he can’t tell if they’re prescription or decorative.
You are far too professional and clothed for his liking.
“Just ‘Kyle’. Our conversation got me thinking, is all.”
“How so?”
“I did some self-reflecting,” Half a lie. He certainly reflected when he wiped his belly in the mirror last night. “And I think you’re right. I’m particular.”
The pinch of your lips when you suppress a smirk nearly takes him.
“It’s not necessarily a bad thing. Being selective is important. Most people just don’t stop to assess themselves honestly, and consider how to engage with or present themselves to other people.”
Kyle filled out the inquiry form in bed, expecting a wait. Instead, you’d carved time out immediately. A casual coffee chat to ensure he knew what he was getting into and more paperwork to formally onboard him into your little operation.
He didn’t know what to fully expect, only that it brought him into your orbit and gave him the opportunity to start luring you down from the sky. He didn’t think you’d be so upfront.
“How I present myself. What, you think I need a new look? New haircut?”
You smile slyly and glance down at your notes. “No, I think we both know that isn’t the problem, but according to you, you haven’t had a serious relationship in years. You listed work as the primary obstacle, which, fair enough, but I know plenty of married soldiers.”
Not many like him, he wants to argue, but you aren’t wrong, either. There are operators who manage to build lives between deployments, but they don’t do what he does. They only play at it.
You tilt your head, and he gets the distinct impression you’ve stopped reading from whatever internal script guides these things.
“And between us? I don’t actually think work is the real problem.”
Defensiveness flares on first instinct. He could shut this down. Deflect and charm you sideways, or turn it all into a joke. Instead, he keeps his face agreeable, because snapping at you would be shortsighted.
“Suppose that’s why I’m here, hm? So, what’s next?”
That restores your smile.
You launch into your explanation of the entire process. Intake and compatibility assessments and vetting.
He mostly listens, but the lion’s share of his attention falls to your mouth. The short pauses you take to collect your thoughts. The shine of your lipstick and how this one leaves a print on your cup.
“I actually have someone in mind for you.”
His brows shoot up mid-sip. “Oh?”
You nod, pleased with yourself. “Potentially. It’ll take one or two days before I can set you up. Background check, first.”
Kyle nearly laughs into his coffee. Kate and her connections scrubbed his records years ago. All you’ll find is the good soldier Kyle Garrick.
The meeting winds down not long after. Your phone buzzes and you frown at the screen.
“Oof,” you wince, gathering your things. “Afraid I need to take this and be on my way.”
He rises as you do, leaning closer when you offer your hand. What do you know, fits perfect.
“I’m looking forward to working with you, Kyle.”
He gives your hand a little squeeze before letting it go. “Likewise.”
He’s approved within days.
You forward the results and his first match. Kyle skims the details while breakfast burns on the stove.
Camille is an orthopedic surgeon, an avid outdoorswoman, and a fellow runner. Ambitious, disciplined, and a good person on paper. In another life, she might’ve suited him. Unfortunately for her, he’s already met you.
He meets her at a restaurant she’s been wanting to try for months, and he tries sabotaging the evening from the start. He arrives fifteen minutes late, shirt visibly wrinkled, and prolongedly whinges about paying nearly thirty quid for grilled octopus.
She takes it all in stride.
She’s unflappable. She gives as good as she gets, too, parrying every attempt he makes to scuttle the date.
Doubt creeps in when their plates are cleared. Maybe he’s overestimated his ability to tank things, and you’re actually good enough at this to make him forget why he signed up in the first place. Then football comes up, and he mentions Liverpool. A side effect of spending months on end with Price.
The warmth drains out of her face. Honestly, it’s comedic. She breaks and saw limbs every day, and this is what disgusts her.
By dessert, she’s monosyllabic. The guilt for having wasted her time is there and gone as he pays, reasoning that now she has something to report-worthy for you. She’ll probably ask that you screen for club loyalties, and the next poor bastard you pair her with can sit beside her nursing United’s losses for the rest of their lives together.
Every date comes with a debrief with feedback from both parties. He rings you while Camille disappears into the back of a taxi alone.
“Well?”
“Sadly,” he says gravely, “We had irreconcilable differences.”
“Oh? What happened?”
“She supports Manchester United.”
“You’re joking.”
“‘Fraid not.”
“Football? Really?”
Kyle smiles to himself, looking toward the ground as he nudges a pebble with his foot. “What can I say?”
Your sigh crackles warmly down the line. “Okay. You’ll try again.”
Dates two, three, and four follow in quick succession.
The women continue to be perfectly pleasant. He continues to kneecap things.
Date two sours when he talks in circles until she gives up trying to pry anything meaningful out of him. Date three doesn’t last when she asks him for his birth time, and he tells her astrology is fake.
Date four is tough, because she’s funny and clever. She works in publishing and takes pride in her tracking her reading. It pains him to lie, especially with the stack of books waiting for him back at his quarters on base, but he tells her he doesn’t read for fun, and doesn’t see the appeal.
When they part for the night, she’s kind enough to tell him they’d work better as friends.
So when you text him the morning after date four, asking if he can pop by for a quick check-in, he knows it’s all on course.
You share your office with your co-founder, your desks side by side and decorated with small tokens. One framed photograph draws his eye. The trip to Istanbul last spring to visit your cousin. Beside it, a photostrip from the bar down the street from your flat. In the corner, a vase with no flowers. He’ll fix that later.
You’re gorgeous, though the puffiness beneath your eyes leaves you looking frazzled, like you’ve slept poorly all week. The sleeves of your cardigan are shoved unevenly to your elbows, the front buttons misaligned. You greet him as you organize a stack of papers.
“So this is more of a progress report.”
You slide the papers across the desk—they’re feedback forms, neatly transcribed in your handwriting.
He skims. Most of it trends positive.
Attractive. Funny. Intelligent. Easy to talk to. Confident.
Then come the circled sections.
Off-putting comments. A little condescending. It felt like he lost interest halfway through? Hit a wall. Emotionally constipated. Cracks jokes at inappropriate moments.
Kyle bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
You tap the pages. “As you can see, there’s a pattern. You start strong. Your dates like you. Everything’s grand until you either disengage or, frankly, kill the conversation.”
“Maybe I’m just boring.”
“You are not boring, but there’s a difference between being charming and being emotionally available.”
His teeth will leave a permanent indent in his cheek by the time you’re done here. You frown, seemingly mistaking his silence for offense, but truly, he isn’t. Every one of those dates went exactly as he intended. He’d been as unavailable as he needed to be to end up here.
“Kyle, look, I think you–”
Your phone buzzes suddenly on your desk. The name Daniel flashes across the screen.
“For the love of…” you mutter under your breath. Your thumb comes down hard on decline, and you stare at the screen for a beat. You flip it face down, then plow on without apology. “As I was saying…I think you’re throwing the dates.”
There that is—but what was that? Who was that?
“Throwing them? What makes you say that?” he asks innocently.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Your phone lights up with a voicemail notification. It sits upon a stack of countless others, and you ignore those too. Makes him wonder if this Daniel’s why you haven’t slept. Shit landlord, maybe? Another, needier client?
“Maybe I haven’t taken out the right person yet.”
“Mmhm, and not one of those lovely women qualified. Curious. Well,” You clasp your hands atop your desk. “I called you in because I think it’s time we discussed–”
Your phone starts vibrating again. Persistent bastard.
The glare you shoot at your phone is downright venomous. You finally snatch it up, shut it off, and then bury it with a shove into your purse. Both hands come up to your temples and massage circles as you worry your bottom lip between your teeth. A sigh forcefully hisses out. When the irritation ebbs, it leaves behind pure exhaustion in every part of your pretty face.
Kyle leans back into your line of sight. “Unhappy customer?”
“No. That’d be simpler.” You turn fully to him, rubbing at your forehead next. “My boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?”
The world about falls out from underneath him. Nothing he found suggested a boyfriend. It’s a glaring gap in his intelligence. Ghost would have a field day.
Unless, this Daniel was—
“Sort of. My ex.” Bingo. “It’s complicated.”
The weariness with which you say it stirs up ugly feelings. He imagines the kind of man who keeps calling after being ignored and what he’d look like bleeding from the mouth.
His jaw hurts again.
“Yeah, looks like he’s rung you about a hundred times. He bother you like that often?”
“No, not usually. It’s just, well yesterday, I…” You stop yourself with a light slap to your forehead. “We’re not here to talk about my love life.”
The universe intervenes on your behalf with the swing of the office door.
Your co-founder appears carrying coffees, stopping short when she sees him. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t know we had a guest. I’ll, um….”
You shoot to your feet. “It’s alright. We’re done here. Kyle? I’ll see you out.”
He lets you hustle him out, the two of you nearly knocking shoulders as you hurry down the hall, shrugging into your coats as you go.
Outside, you stand with him at the bottom of the steps, crossing your arms tight across your chest as the wind sends leaves tumbling down the street.
“So, okay, back to what I was saying before that.”
You return to the bullet points of the check-in, as if you can shove the entire Daniel-not-boyfriend situation back into Pandora’s box. You go on about intentionality and all the ways he can supposedly work on himself. He doesn’t interrupt, because this new development with your ex changes things, and he needs to factor it in.
Ten minutes ago, Daniel hadn’t existed. Now the loathsome oaf sits squarely in his path like a dead policeman. Or, more apt, a sinkhole.
Kyle watches you suppress a yawn mid-sentence and he’s irritated all over again.
You’re sweet. Clever. Earnest to a fault. He would wager that you’ve given this man several chances, and what have you got in return? Apparently many sleepless nights and no flowers to show for them.
Fortunately, Kyle is more than capable of changing tack.
“Maybe you could coach me.”
The suggestion derails whatever you were about to say next. You blink, eyebrows lifting up and up and up.
“Coach you?”
“Yeah. Maybe you’re right and I’m rusty.”
You laugh nervously. “Kyle. That’s not—I don’t think—that’s not what I do. I’m not a dating coach, that’s more her thing.” You point a thumb back toward the office windows where your partner’s probably halfway through her latte by now. “I could set up a meeting?”
Kyle tries to look disappointed and your expression breaks a little. A sliver, but that’s all he needs. Once he finds an opening, he knows how to force the rest of himself through it.
“I don’t want her. I want you.”
You let him pick the place and he’s glad you did.
It’s the sort of posh restaurant he’d catch endless hell for if the rest of the 141 ever found out he brought a date to it. Olive tile lines the wall behind the bar, and every table is made from rich sapele wood. Glowing fixtures posted few and far between, while smaller tables like yours make do with candlelight. Smoke and scorched citrus drift out every time the kitchen door swings open, turning hopeful heads when someone in a white apron sweeps past with plates.
Your nails drum while you take the place in with quick, furtive glances. Your attention flocks to the loaded shelves behind the bar then to a waiter balancing a tray full of oysters nested in ice.
You haven’t outright said you’re impressed, but he assumes.
The moment your wine glass is filled, though, you snap right back to attention.
“So, Kyle, is it as awkward for you as it is for me that this was arranged?”
Right. The roleplay. You’d mentioned it in your texts.
It took some cajoling to get you here. Out there on the blustery walk outside your office, imploring you to sit down with him over a nice meal to help him figure out where, oh where, he’s been going wrong. You said three times that this was unofficial, a favor rather than a formal extension of the matchmaking package, and therefore absolutely could not appear in any review.
Kyle agreed to all of it, because he knew it would be worth it.
And now you’re here, pretending this is purely educational while he thinks about how the fuck your ex botched things with you.
He hadn’t spent the intervening days idle. He found the worm lurking on the follower list of a friend. One query led to another, then a brief chat with an old contact still working for the Met, through which he uncovered a nasty little trail. Several small disasters follow Daniel. Nothing dramatic enough to make the evening news, but enough to paint a picture—one he doesn’t want you in.
Multiple CCJs and thousands of pounds in gambling debts. Assault within the last year. Three employers in eighteen months with behavior cited as reason for dismissal.
You spend your days vetting strangers for other people, yet what care do you take for yourself?
“Not at all. We all need a little push sometimes.”
“Really?”
“‘Course. I suspect even you need one from time to time.”
You huff quietly through your nose, but the conversation comes easier after that.
First comes family.
He gives the broad strokes. That cannot change too soon, even if he has plans for you that stretch farther into the future. With the spotless records you’ve already pulled, you should be satisfied. He talks about his mums, their troupe of rescue cats. About his last trip out of the country, where he fell down a flight of steps in Minsk and walked away only mildly concussed.
(He leaves out how that happened. That his target tried throwing him down them, and how the man ended up going headfirst beneath Kyle’s tumbling weight, and never got back up afterward.)
In return, you tell him about your siblings. Your old job in marketing and how you pivoted. About university, too, and how half your social circle ended up dating because you kept introducing people. You weren’t lying about your aptitude.
The waiter comes and goes. Somewhere between dishes, the conversation loses its scaffolding entirely. You lean across the table, eyes glittering. Laughter sweet as honey and bubbly as champagne.
For a fake date, it certainly feels real.
And for him, it’s as simple as flipping a switch. All that effort spent sabotaging his dates redirected. He doesn’t waste time now that he has you to himself. Every detail goes into the ever-thickening file he’s been compiling on you.
“You know, you’re easier to talk to than anyone else you’ve set me up with.”
You snort. “That’s because this is practice. I’m not trying to impress you.”
“Too late.”
“Mm, I believe ‘joking at inappropriate moments’ was feedback you received.”
Kyle grins. “I’m dead serious. Best date in years.”
Before you can roll your eyes, he reaches and settles his hand over yours. Your gaze drops to where you touch, then returns to his face with an uneasy look.
“This is practice,” you repeat.
“Doesn’t have to be.” He drags his thumb over the back of your knuckles. “See, I’ve been listening to everything you’ve said about chemistry and all that. Think we’ve got it.”
“Kyle.”
“You’ve had a good time, right? Be honest.”
You worry your lip instead of answering. Your gaze bounces from your drink, to the candle, to the dining room beyond his shoulder. Anywhere but his face.
When it finally returns, you admit it with a sigh. “Yes, alright, I’ve had a good time.”
The satisfaction that sparks in his chest is wholly disproportionate in its strength. He has to resist smiling too broadly, galvanized by your concession.
“Right. And if you were your own client?” He gestures between the two of you. “Would you set us up?”
“That’s beside the point.”
“Is it? Look, I know you’ve got that ex of yours, or whatever you want to call him,” he adds when your brow furrows. “He’s a piece of work.” The kindest thing he could say after what he’s found. “Walk me through it. One more drink and let’s see if we can’t sort it.”
Your fingers twitch beneath his.
It’s funny, really. In the field, getting answers is often ugly business. Fear, exhaustion, pain, truth serum. Most people who find themselves seated across from him are either terrified civilians trapped in a mess far bigger than themselves, or enemy combatants determined to die before informing.
You are neither. You’re a pretty girl with wine in her belly. Nervous, certainly, but you haven’t tucked tail. You could have fled at any time. Could’ve smacked him and told him to piss off.
Force was never going to work on you. It would’ve driven you off. Not that he minds a chase, but it would be unnecessary. Given enough room, you’ll arrive at the conclusion he wants all on your own. That’s the beauty of it. It’s masterclass. He is, after all, good at what he does. Always has been.
When the waiter sidles up, you ask for a refill.
It all spills out after that. You and Dan have a history. You technically go all the way back to primary school. Thick as thieves for years. You, a shy and bully-prone girl. Him, your pigtail-pulling protector, happy to terrorize everyone else if they left you alone.
In secondary, without much fanfare, he became your boyfriend. In the years that followed, your on-again, off-again man.
When he was good, he was easy to love. He’d stay up until four in the morning to help you study for exams. He knew your coffee order. He’d show up with your favorite takeaway when you were ill. Charmed complete strangers into hour-long chats when you went out. Picked you up all the way in Swindon once when you got a flat. He could be warm and thoughtful in these fleeting moments, enough to make you picture your life together in five, ten years.
Then the tide would inevitably turn.
He’d remember your anniversary but forget your birthday. Borrow your car without telling you and return it empty. Lose job after job because someone else was always the problem. Borrow money and never repay it.
The good and bad came in waves, and you’d become a champion swimmer. You kept hoping he’d grow up, and that the version you fell for would eventually turn up and stick. But the money—the mounting pile of debts and the broken promises attached to them—proved to be the final straw. You couldn’t keep pretending the good outweighed everything else.
Nowadays, your family hates him. His name taboo amongst your friends. Every time the relationship implodes, everyone celebrates. And like clockwork, weeks later, he worms his way back into your life, hat in hand, talking about the good old days.
As if Kyle needed any more reason to loathe the man.
You insist you’ve been better as starting the company changed things. You promised your partner you wouldn’t let Daniel drag you backwards, and for the most part you’ve kept that promise.
It’s just that he keeps testing you.
“He showed up at my flat last week.”
“What’d he want?”
“What do you think?” Fair. “He said he’d had a rough week and needed to talk.”
Daniel didn’t appreciate being told no, and within eight hours, you’d received eighty calls and a hundred plus texts—even after you blocked him.
The more you talk, the more tired you sound. By the time the bill arrives, you’re quiet.
Neither of you speak much more until you’re outside. Your chin stays tucked, all embarrassed now that your dirty laundry has been aired. You search this way and that for an opportune exit.
He won’t allow it. Every date comes with a debrief, after all.
He steers you toward the corner with a hand on your back. People pass, heads bowed against the wind, and music spills nearby from an open pub door. You stop beside a cut-through and begin fastening the remaining buttons of your coat, staring intently at your fingers.
“I’m sorry for dumping all that on you. Now that I’ve said it out loud, it sounds pathetic.”
“Pathetic?” He scoffs. “No. He’s skint, can’t keep a job, and thinks terrorizing you is a winning strategy. Pretty sure we know who the pathetic one here is.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes, but you still won’t look at him. “He wasn’t always like this.”
“Oh, they never are, are they?”
The corner of your mouth quirks. For the first time since Daniel’s name entered the conversation, you look relieved.
Kyle steps closer. “You know, for a matchmaker, you’ve got terrible taste in men.”
You tip your face up at last. “Yeah? What does that make you?”
It is, though you don’t know it, a trick question. He has done terrible things. He will continue to do terrible things. The world keeps providing reasons. The blood on his hands is there to stay.
He’s spent weeks in pursuit. Hunting, if he were being honest, though that hardly seems accurate when you’ve given him only opportunities the whole way. He’s never had to offer you an exit—not that he would. Maybe what he’s done makes him a terrible man, but watching your eyes flit to his mouth and back again, he doesn’t think it matters all that much.
He doesn’t preempt whatever objection is rattling around in your head. All he can think of is closing the space between your mouths.
Your throat clears.
“I should get home.” In a blink, you straighten and step around him, phone already in hand. “This was fun.”
Seven words to take the wind out of his sails. Aren’t you playing hard to get, taking things slow.
He lets you pass. The impulse to pull you into the dark alley to change your mind and speed things along rears its head. Ghost’s influence, most like.
“So you admit it. Does it mean you’d like to do it again?”
You make him wait until your ride is accepted before you look up almost bashfully from underneath your lashes. “It’s probably a wildly stupid decision, but...”
And another seven words for the urge to recede. A few more days won’t kill him.
“I can’t keep your money if I’m the one dating you. I’ll refund it.”
“Nah, keep it. You did exactly what I hired you for,” You walked right into it. “Found me a match.”
A smile tugs at your mouth. “We’ll see.”
“We will.”
Kyle relieves the ache of returning home alone with a long shower.
He finishes with a grunt, stomach and abs twinging with a side-stitch. His spend drips down the tile and swirls into the drain. With it, several options for how to approach his last loose end, most of which would land him in hot water.
(If he was stupid enough to get himself caught.)
Every idea falls short. Daniel’s a parasite who keeps crawling back. A cockroach. He could call in another favor with the Met, pad the man’s colorful file, make life more inconvenient for a while, but that won’t cut it.
He has his address. It would take him less than an hour to knock on the man’s door for a chat.
Yet, for all Daniel’s run-ins with the law, he’s exactly the sort to go crying to the police. Kyle has no desire to explain things to Price, let alone why he’s spent mandated leave paying social calls to a bird’s ex-boyfriend. Worse still, he’d also go crying to you, and that’d squander weeks of work.
He has to outsource.
Price is out, for obvious reasons. Soap would get too involved as he always does. Nik’s disappeared into one of his periods of radio silence. It leaves him with one unsavory choice.
He doesn’t want Ghost to know about you yet. He has a habit for collecting things people would rather keep quiet and saving them for a rainy day. Kyle, far less talkative than Soap, has always been one of his favorite marks. Unfortunately, he’s also the exact man for the job.
He sends the text when he goes to bed, and the reply is there when he wakes.
ETA 36.
Well into his morning run, his phone buzzes.
A selfie. Your co-founder, grinning over a box filled with cardamom buns and chocolatines, thumbs raised in emphatic approval.
Another. You, cradling the bouquet he had delivered to your office. A sunrise-colored bunch of snapdragons, peonies, and paper moons. Your smile peeks out from behind the petals.
Thank you for the treats xx
His runner’s high hits like never before.
One last point of due diligence: a visit to the halfwit.
Kyle tracks him down to a sticky-floored Grosvenor that’s seen better days, an apt comparison to the man himself. Daniel’s as unremarkable in the flesh as he is in his socials and police records, hunched over a poker table with a pint at his elbow and a shrinking stack of chips in front of him.
He only half pays attention to the slot machine he’s claimed. The flashing lights and chirping speakers drown out most of the table talk, but the louder notes of Daniels’s complaints carry.
A bored-looking woman hovers at his shoulder, nursing the dregs of a cocktail, chipped nails tapping idly while her attention wanders. He slaps his cards onto the felt after another losing hand, gesticulating at his companion while the dealer calmly pushes the pot toward the winner. He curses, knocks back his drink, and grudgingly buys back into the game, but not before awkwardly trying and failing to coax the woman down for a kiss. She turns her head without so much as looking at him.
Beyond him, posted beside the cashier’s cage, two broad-shouldered men speak amongst themselves, occasionally nodding toward Daniel’s table.
Kyle watches him unravel all over again when the next hand is dealt.
He decides then and there there’s no need to get any closer or learn anything more. Simply clapping eyes on the lout is enough. He’s not worth the risk.
Besides, Ghost’ll leave a more lasting impression.
Ghost has the rear of the pub to himself.
Last booth, back to the wall, one thick leg swung wide and extended out into the open floor waiting to trip someone. Two empty pint glasses at the edge of the table. He’s probably scared off any wandering staff. Kyle takes him a third.
“Could’ve texted you were here early, LT.”
“Needed the ‘me’ time. Soap’s insufferable without you to throw at ‘im.”
Kyle snorts. “Cap suspect anythin’?”
“‘e knows better than to pry when I take personal time,” he pulls the pint closer. “So, you fuckin’ stir crazy? What’s this about needin’ some bastard’s legs broken?”
That wasn’t what Kyle had sent. He’d mentioned an ‘old friend’ who needed setting straight, that he couldn’t be recognized, and that the job called for Ghost’s brand of finesse. Promised he’d owe Ghost a favor. He sticks to his story, offering no more detail than necessary.
“Mm. Called me ‘ere to do your dirty work. Wonder what Price’d say about his star pupil dishin’ out a little clandestine ‘urt?” Ghost tugs his mask aside for a drink, smirking. “Lemme see ‘er.”
Kyle bristles. “What?”
“The girl.” Ghost jerks his chin. “If I’m gonna get my ‘ands dirty for some bird, I wanna see.”
“This isn’t for—”
“Sure it isn’t. Y’asked me to slip off base, off the books, to rough up some schoolyard bully? Fuck if it ain’t for a woman. So let’s see ‘er.”
There’s no point in arguing. Kyle pulls up the selfie from that morning, and slides his phone over.
A man wandering to the toilet slows, neck craning to eavesdrop and steal a look, and Kyle glares to hurry him on his way.
“This ‘er?”
Kyle looks back at Ghost.
The look in his eyes sends a shiver down Kyle’s spine. Ghost’s pupils have fattened, his thick brow lower in focus. The big man’s gone completely still save for his chest, expanding like bellows in a deep, ragged inhale. His free hand migrates below the table to shamelessly adjust himself.
Kyle glances down at the screen and unclenches his fist with relief. Ghost has swiped one too far. He’s staring at the photo of the co-owner. Poor girl.
“Not her. Go back one.”
Ghost doesn’t do that right away, opting to airdrop himself the photo first, then swiping back. When your face pops up, he doesn’t nod or comment, and Kyle is absolutely fine with that. The last thing either him or you need is his approval. Once his phone is back in hand, he forwards everything he’s compiled on Daniel.
“And that’s him.”
A chuckle rumbles from across the table as Ghost skims the text. He turns the cracked screen to show the unimpressive mugshot that Kyle’s Met contact had forwarded. “S’rare for me to be the more ‘andsome one. She blind?”
“Watch it.”
Ghost just laughs. Kyle could save his life twice over, and he’d still dodge paying a compliment.
The discussion of what to do with Daniel is short. No killing, no permanent damage— physical at least—unless he decides to bother you again.
“Garrick,” Ghost leers down at the ring-shaped crack in his phone’s screen, its epicenter right around your friend’s face. “Favor for a favor.”
Kyle’s gaze slides right off the picture. Plausible deniability.
“‘Course.”
You pick this time. An intimate spot, where you get the best table.
(You know the head chef, you explain. Introduced her to her wife, a former coworker.)
Tonight you’re dressed in that deep burgundy shade again. A full-bodied red to make his mouth water. You’re brighter than you’ve been, though for the first quarter hour, you’re obviously nervous. There’s no pretense of coaching or protocol to fall back on. Knee bouncing, nails drumming.
Over the entrée, you don’t use Daniel’s name, apparently having adopted your friend’s taboo, and add that he never took you to a dinner like this—excluding your practice date. It’s brand new territory, being on the receiving end of effort. An advantage he won’t waste.
Everything he’s learned about you finally earns its keep. This is the home stretch. With only a handful of weeks left before his return to base, he wants to spend as much time as possible with you firmly nailed down.
The conversation threads from travel to music to books. He mentions cities he’s visited because he knows they were on your bucket list at one point. Namedrops authors whose books he’s seen in the background of your posts. Drops seeds he knows will make you bring up your family.
Kyle spends the meal waiting for the other shoe to drop, searching for a sign that you have any inkling of what he’s done, what he’s doing, but it never comes.
By the time you stumble out of the restaurant, you’re warmed by an endless supply of complimentary prosecco. Behind you, the staff have stacked the chairs and stools, all the candles but the one at your table snuffed. You slip both hands around the crook of his arm and lean in, painted lips curling into a smile that tells him you’ve lost complete track of your troubles. That alone would have been enough, but then you ask, slightly slurring—“What d’you say to a nightcap?”
Kyle can’t remember the last time he’s had company.
He watches you like a hawk from the door, toeing off his shoes and hanging your jacket as you amble further into his flat. Your fingers trail over the table before your attention meanders to the photographs on the wall.
In the periods of limbo such as this, the leaves he spends here as opposed to his mum’s, this place feels fake. Set dressing—sparse and unornamented, what is here are remnants of the man before the task force. Before Piccadilly and Price. Might as well be fossilized in amber or lidded like a time capsule. There’s been no sense in changing much.
You turn, surveying, and he can’t help but wonder what blanks you’re filling in. Whatever picture you’ve painted, he’ll spend the rest of his life speculating how close it is to the real thing. Is Kyle a terrible man? You don’t know. You never will. You’ll never learn that at this very moment, your ex is having the worst night of his life because Kyle arranged it. You won’t know that you’re standing in his home because he spent weeks laying the bricks in the road that led here.
Still, he would like you to know him as a good man. So if you find his space lacking, he will make room. He’ll let you breathe life into every empty corner.
You do the song and dance. Kyle offers the perfunctory drink, the one you ostensibly came back to his for. You turn it down, so instead he meets you at the mouth of the hall.
Though, as he closes the distance, he reckons you could’ve done with one last ounce of liquid courage. You sobered up too much in the car.
His hands land on your hips, bunching up the wine-red linen as he draws you the slightest step closer. Your eyes go big. The first part of the beginning of his name slips out, a soft and uncertain K, as you look utterly at a loss for what comes next now that you’re this close. Your faces hover an inch apart, but he diverts, dipping his head to skip his lips up the line of your neck to the spot beneath your ear. You melt, fingers curling in his shirt, and emboldened, he follows your jaw back down to your mouth, pausing long enough to let you meet him halfway.
He means for the first kiss to be sweet and exploratory, erring on the side of caution given who has had you before. That changes when everything from his navel down twitches at the softness of your lips.
He snakes a hand up to direct your head by the nape, tilting it up further to deepen the kiss almost immediately. His tongue eagerly swipes into your warm and so-far welcoming mouth. He licks behind your teeth and the roof of your mouth, his slow-growing hunger tested by the taste. He hums as you clutch at his shoulders, and when he pulls back, your grip loosens.
“You alright, angel?”
You swallow, smile wobbly. “Yeah.”
“C’mere, then.”
Seconds and thirds of your tongue stretch the time it takes to reach his room. Clothes fall by the wayside, namely your pretty dress, but his shirt goes too. While your hands skim up the carved planes of his stomach and chest, his fiddle with the hook of your bra. It pops open and catches his foot briefly on the descent before he shakes it off. The kissing comes to a pause when your legs hit the edge of his bed. You topple backwards and he lets you.
You land with a quiet oof and rise quick to your elbows, but stop when you see him looming over you.
Your expression flickers. One feeling gets overtaken by the next between blinks. A hint of embarrassment to a swell of delight to an uncharacteristic shyness. Underneath them all is want. Stark enough to survive every passing squirm.
Once upon a time he imagined you maybe hating this. Had he been hasty and pounced too soon, under poorer circumstances, you almost certainly would have. But this way? You’ve been aching for it, haven’t you? Sweet, love-lorn girl. Probably touched yourself after carrying that bouquet home. Did you think of him later, when ducking to smell the peonies, only for your brain to misfire and conjure your scent instead? God, he fucking hopes so.
You track his hands as he works off his belt and trousers, breath hitching when he finally drops a knee to crawl over you. Once he’s in range, you tug him down for a kiss.
Yeah, you’ve been wanting it.
The minutes pass by like this—languid kisses, heavy petting, and sweet nothings. For someone presumably so pent up, you’re savoring.
His fingers pet the skin below your navel then hook over the waistband of your knickers. Your hips buck, jutting against the leg he’s slotted between yours. He chuckles against your lips then moves to mouth at other expanses of skin.
You fidget as he merely holds onto the fabric. He gets caught up in the hills and valleys, leisurely touring your tits and stomach. He waits until you’re distracted by him dragging his teeth over the curve of a breast to twist and push his fingers into your panties.
“Fuck, baby.”
You say his name, but the sound’s pure fuzz before it ever reaches his ears. He drags his fingers through your warmth and shows them to you. Sticky, tacky, wet.
“All worked up, huh? All for me?” He answers his own question with a nod and you echo it a moment later.
He licks his fingers first, then pushes them into your mouth.
You nod a second time unprompted, and the sight of your kiss-swollen lips wrapped around his fingers makes his cock pulse.
After you suck them clean, he trails them back down.
His fingers slip back between your folds, teasing your entrance every few passes until he feels your thighs jerk. It takes very little for one to sink in and little more to add another. He’s lazy with it, slowly sliding them in and out, the whole of his hand stretching the cotton it’s trapped inside. He’d like to peel your panties off and take a proper look, but he’s glued to your face.
“Kyle, please,” you pant, claws digging in where you can reach. Pinpricks on his forearm and shoulder.
“Yeah? You like that, angel?”
Words fail you when the heel of his hand presses to your clit. Sensitive like the rest of you. He rubs it in tandem with the fingers stuffed inside, rubbing incessantly at a spot that’s got you shivering.
“Think you do, oh, I really think you do—feel that? You needed this, didn’t you?”
He knew it wouldn’t take much, but the speed at which you hurtle to the brink prompts ink-blots to appear at the edges of his vision. He’s drunk on it. Can’t get enough of it—your pitchy and shallow breaths, your needy pussy, all your scratching—and he hasn’t even gotten his cock in you yet.
You come with a cry, a couple tears rolling down your cheeks, cunt pulsing around his knuckles.
Through the aftershocks, you weakly paw at him, but he only lethargically pets between your folds. He kisses your temple and neck, grinning against your jaw when you mumble about his cock. You blindly reach for it, eyes welded shut and beaded with tears. You’re so good to think of him, but he can wait. He can still taste prosecco.
He migrates down the bed, using your lagging coherency to get your ruined panties off and tucked into the mattress. It isn’t until his arms hook under your thighs that you realize what he’s doing. You try to close up, but that’s what his shoulders are for.
“Kyle, wait, it’s too much—”
Yet after one long swipe, he knows it’s not enough. ‘Least not for him.
He kisses with an open mouth, using more spit and pushing it through your already sopping folds tongue-first. He latches on to your crying clit, sucking and rolling his tongue until you’re shaking more violently than before, so worked up neither of you can tell if the hands on his head are pushing him away or pulling him in.
Your hole clenches around his tongue when you come for the second time. The orchard-sweet taste of wine gushes over his tongue again.
He’s slower with his retreat this time, shoving his boxers off and indulging himself. He stamps his nose to the fat and hair above your cunt for a whiff before he climbs up to brush the tears from your cheeks.
You’re stunned, out of breath and words. You jolt some when he leans down to kiss your tear tracks, cock dragging over the crease of your thigh and leaving a trail.
“I, um, wow, I’ve never…” You eke out as you wipe your forehead. “Back-to-back like that.”
“What else haven’t you done?” He lifts your hand to kiss the divot of your wrist, pressing a sly smile to it.
You push at his chin as if shooing him away, but breathlessly laugh.
He is teasing, but your lack of an answer leaves a blank space for his imagination to fill. He’ll find whatever lines you drew for your ex and test them for himself. After all, according to you, these things loop back to compatibility. Sometimes it just takes the right partner.
He smooths his palms up your legs.
You’re primed for him, prepped by hands and mouth, your spit and cum-slick cunt gleaming up at him—a homing beacon calling him in. You watch him in awe like he’s the man with the golden touch. He’s never felt so god-like between a woman’s legs before, and he’s had a few.
He lifts his cock off the warm cradle of your thigh. He brushes the tip of it over your clit and licks his lips at how your whole body shivers.
This is a courtship some might wrinkle their noses at and say it’s too short a runway to be sure. Others’ll politely talk around it and call it a whirlwind romance. Doesn’t matter a whit to him. Not with how easy it is for him to sink inside you. Proof has a wet-hot grip.
He drops over you, leaning down on a forearm to swallow the noises you make as he bottoms out. One soft plea escapes.
“Oh, Kyle, please—”
Somewhere in the world, a starting gun fires.
Like that first kiss, maybe these first seconds inside you ought to unfold slowly. A little more tenderness to cement the fact that this is it for the both of you. That bit of goodwill and sense shrivels when he pulls out a couple inches and sees your pupils dilate.
You see something you want, you take it.
He holds on long enough to give you a sporting chance. A few minutes of gentle rocking and smooth, shallow strokes. All it is a wind-up though, he knows it, and he’s sure you do too when your eyes and mouth open wide when he pulls out. He pushes one of your legs open and toward your chest to watch your skin stretch taut around him.
He drives the breath out of you with that first earnest thrust. You won’t get a lungful until he’s done.
Your hands fly to his biceps, slick palms scrabbling at their swell as he gets going.
Gorgeous, is all he can think. An angel spread out in his bed, tits bouncing in time with his thrusts. Sweat shines along your neck. He stoops to lap it up, moving from your throat to the tears beading under your eyes, answering another indulgence he seems incapable of denying himself. If providence saw fit to lay you at his feet—it would be a shame to ignore whatever impulses that follow.
His face returns to the junction of your shoulder and neck, eyes shutting so all he hears are the punchy noises he knocks out of you. His thrusts turn shallow, furious. Your hands jump to his back, nails scraping down his skin and setting off a chain of tremors in his spine. He groans and shudders as he pushes up, peeling himself off of you.
His cock slips out as he readjusts. A shiny gloss paints its length, droplets of pre-cum dribbling onto your waiting cunt. It’s a head rush seeing a pretty girl like this. Fucking obscene.
“Fuck, angel,” he rasps as he feeds his cock back into your twitching hole. “You are something else.”
You’re far past coherency. Distilled to needy moans and whimpers that struggle to even make it out around his thrusts. His hands plaster to your hips, pulling you to meet him when it’s clear you’re past keeping up with him, too.
“Kyle,” you gasp as he zeroes in on a spot that makes your nails sink into him.
“I know—I know—”
You’re both so close, circling each other and racing to the finish.
You bite your bottom lip, back bowing off his bed, until the whole line of your body draws taut before coming hard. Thought finally abandons him, warm static filling his head and ears, complete tunnel-vision on the cunt strangling his cock and his own release hot on its heels.
He drags your hips up, sweaty palms on sweaty skin, and buries himself in as deep as he can go. A long, hissed-out fuck skating through his teeth as he empties himself into you.
It’s everything he’s wanted and more, this. Vindication twice over and then some.
He groans as he pulls out, watching his cum leak and pool between your folds. One last weak jerk and a stringy tag of it lays a trail down your crack.
A delirious, half-drunk mumble guides him back up the bed to where he tucks into your side like a good man. A hand ghosting over your quivering stomach to your face, stroking your cheek languorously along until you’re planet-side.
You don’t wake up much after that, not even when he cleans you up. He watches you breathe deeply, body and mind fully relaxed into a prosecco and orgasm-induced sleep.
Your ex problem, hopefully a hundred kilometers away and moving.
Kyle’s still awake when your phone lights up sometime after two.
Careful not to wake you, he reaches across your warm body and lifts it from the nightstand. It takes two attempts to guess your passcode—your mum’s birthday, very cute—and one new text awaits.
An unknown number with a long, winding apology riddled with typos. More excuses he plainly expects you to believe that boils down to something’s come up, a job opportunity overseas, and don’t expect to hear from him anytime soon.
Kyle considers deleting it, but it’s better if you have some measure of closure. Out of sight, out of mind and all.
He finds a text waiting on his phone as well.
All it is is another photograph. Daniel in a queue outside a coach bound for Dover, black-eyed and snot-faced. A plastic bag stuffed with clothes with a toothbrush protruding from a hole in the bottom. His face turned, looking over his shoulder, but missing the camera completely.
As tempting as it is to keep it as a token, that’s the message he opts to delete. No loose ends.
In the morning, while he’s making breakfast, you tell him you’re going to pop by the chemist on the way home.
You don’t want a baby yet, new business and all, and you want to see where this goes. Fair enough. He’s in no rush because he already knows where this’ll go, but then the thought wells up, dark and thick as oil: the look on the old man’s face if he manages to knock you up before the new Missus Price.
His mind runs with it, beyond the horizon of what exists and into the future.
A strip of coastline, both of you hiding out under an umbrella. Sand sticking to your damp skin. Your hand in his, a ring glittering in the light as you admire it.
A cold afternoon in the city, him knotting your scarf and buttoning your coat over the bump of your belly.
You, standing in the doorway of your home, puppeting his baby’s arm in a wave, cooing Hi daddy, we missed you, daddy.
He can see it all so clearly.
But he’s staring down the tail-end of leave, so he simply kisses your cheek and tells you to forward the receipt.
He’ll start making plans for phase two of his grand plan tomorrow. For now, he’s got you where he wants you. That’s more than enough for him.
Summary: Jack came on too strong, so you broke up with him. But now you're left wondering…why did you end things with a man that you're actually totally in love with?
Warning: (MDNI 18+) ex's to lovers, angst, language, emotionally constipated reader (low key self sabotaging), love avoidance, fear of vulnerability, mentions of a miscarriage (not descriptive), alcohol, tipsy reader, feelings, mutual pining/yearning, steamy kissing, pet names, mentions of injury during car accident (not reader), teenagers causing grey hairs (driving under the influence), cool fun aunt vibes, hurt/comfort, mean girls movie references, sexual tension, more steamy and horny kissing, smidge dirty talk, fluffy/happy ending cause its me, loverboy!jack
A/N: This story is a love letter to all the aunties out there. I hope people enjoy <3 dividers by @saradika-graphics
Your colleagues were discussing the renovation timeline for the Carter residence. On your screen was the shared design board for their master suite, filled with images of tufted headboards, marble tile samples, and serene grey palettes. But the elegant visuals swam before your eyes. All you could see was the stark, antiseptic white of an examination room; all you could feel was the cold, metallic touch of stirrups against your heels.
"...and we really need to confirm the plumbing fixtures before the tile guy starts work in the ensuite," said Leo, your senior project manager. He tapped the table with his pen, directing his gaze down the line, and called out your name. "…you sourced those beautiful matte black shower sets. The client loved them, but the wife is now concerned about water spots. What's your take on the maintenance versus the aesthetic? Should we pivot to a brushed nickel?"
Your name was repeated, and Leo's voice cut through the fog. Everyone was looking at you.
"Sorry," you managed, your voice strangely thin. "Could you repeat the question?"
"Are you with us?" he asked, not unkindly, but with a note of professional impatience.
"Y-yes. Sorry. Just… a lot on my mind." You offered a weak smile that felt like it might crack your face.
The meeting droned on for another ten eternal minutes before it ended. You moved on autopilot, gathering your notebook and pen, your movements slow and heavy. You walked back to your cubicle and sank into your chair, the world feeling muffled and distant.
"Hey." It was Laura from the next desk over, leaning around the partition. A look of concern replaced her usual easy-going smile. "You okay? You looked like you were on another planet in there."
You opened your mouth to give the standard easy lie.
I'm fine. Just tired.
The words were right there, polished and ready. But they didn't come out. Instead, your throat closed. You stared at your computer monitor, the sleek black surface reflecting a version of you that looked terrible.
"I don't know," you whispered.
The confession hung there, and Laura's expression softened, but she didn't press. She just gave a slow nod, a silent offer of space.
You turned back to your screen, but it wasn't a file you saw.
You were sitting on the crinkling paper of the exam table, a thin gown over your lap. Dr. Montgomery was washing her hands at the sink, her back to you. You came in for the bleeding, the cramping that felt like a fist twisting inside you. Dr. Montgomery turned, her face a careful mask of professional compassion that did nothing to soften the blow.
"I know the bleeding was more than usual, and the pain concerned you," she said, her voice gentle. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "The ultrasound was very clear. What you are experiencing... it's a miscarriage. Your body is passing a pregnancy. I'd estimate you were about six weeks along."
The words landed like a physical blow. The room tilted.
A pregnancy?
The concept was so foreign, so impossible, it simply bounced off the numb wall of your shock. You hadn't been trying. You hadn't even suspected. Your period was always irregular. The fatigue, the nausea you blamed on stress...
"But I'm on the pill," you heard yourself say, the words sharp and too loud in the quiet room. You looked up at Dr. Montgomery, searching her face for an answer, for a mistake. "I take it every day.. I don't... I don't know how this happened."
The statement hung there, less a question and more a plea for the world to make sense again.
"No form of contraception is one hundred percent effective, even with perfect use. It's rare, but it happens. The body can be unpredictable. That doesn't make it your fault."
"O-okay," you stuttered.
"I know you're probably in shock," Dr. Montgomery continued, watching your face. "It's a lot to process. Miscarriages, particularly this early, are far more common than people think. I have some numbers for you—for counseling, support groups. There's no right or wrong way to feel about this."
You stared at your hands, clenched in the thin material of the gown. A strange, hollow laugh threatened to bubble up. Feel? How were you supposed to feel about losing something you never knew you had? Grief felt like a costume that didn't fit, meant for someone else, for a planned nursery and broken dreams. Your reality was confusion, a dizzying void where a secret had been and was now just... gone.
"I don't... I don't know how I feel." The admission was pathetic, but it was the only truth you had. "I'm in shock."
Dr. Montgomery nodded. "That is all perfectly normal. Shock isn't just about sadness. It's about the entire system trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. There is no timeline for this. Be gentle with yourself." She handed you a printed sheet with numbers and websites, the paper crisp and impersonal in your trembling hand. "Go home if you can. Rest. Your body needs it. And your mind will catch up, in its own time."
The memory of this morning faded, replaced by the solid, unyielding reality of your desk. You took a long, shaky breath and turned back to your computer screen, where a 3D rendering of a client's living room waited. You mechanically clicked on the sectional sofa, adjusting the fabric swatch to a calming seafoam green. You typed notes into the project file with numb fingers: Client prefers matte finishes. Source organic linen for throw pillows. The words were fucking meaningless. The afternoon passed in a blur of fabric samples, paint codes, and vendor emails, each task a tiny island of normalcy in a sea of static.
At exactly 6 o'clock, you shut down your computer. The drive home was a series of autopilot turns and stops, the city passing by your car windows like a silent film. You pulled into your driveway, the familiar sight of your front door offering no comfort. You collected the mail from the box—a utility bill, a furniture catalog, a flyer for a pizza place. Inside, your house felt immense and heavy. You dropped the mail on the kitchen counter.
You walked into the living room and sank into the cushions, the fabric feeling strangely coarse against your skin. You pulled your phone from your bag, your thumb moving on its own to your messages. You typed a name at the top: Jack.
The cursor blinked in the empty text field, a tiny, demanding heartbeat.
Your fingers hovered over the screen, the words forming and dissolving in your mind like mist. How did you even fucking begin?
You typed, your movements stiff.
Jack. It's me.
You deleted it. Too formal. You weren't formal.
You tried again, the truth coming out in a blunt, clumsy rush.
I had a doctor's appointment today. I was pregnant. I didn't know. I'm not anymore. But, I thought you should know.
Your thumb hovered over the send button. The sentences sat there, black and brutal on the bright screen. Was this a text message kind of thing? Or a phone call? Was there an etiquette for informing your ex-boyfriend that you were pregnant with his kid and then oh oops, your body decided to play fucking Russian roulette on you.
You didn't send it, lowering the phone and the screen darkening as it rested on your thigh. Why would he want to hear from you? You had broken up with him a month ago, and you were pretending you were fine.
Jack wasn't like any guy you had ever dated before. He was a disruption to your entire design philosophy of love—a philosophy built on safe distances, and men who communicated in vague subtext and last-minute plans.
You met him through one of your clients. Dana was an ER nurse, tough as nails with a heart of gold, and you helped her turn her dated home into a functional, calming sanctuary after her brutal shifts. She threw a small get-together once you finished the interior design on her home. Jack was there, and he was one of her colleagues from the hospital. He was handsome in an intensely unfair way, with beautiful hazel eyes that missed nothing and a quiet steadiness that felt like an anchor in the noisy room. He found you by the window seat you designed for Dana and her husband, a cozy nook for them to decompress.
"Dana said her home finally feels like a place where the adrenaline can drain away," he'd said, his voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to the usual party chatter. "That's a rare gift to give someone."
An hour later, Jack asked for your number, and his gaze was direct and unwavering. He called the next day. He took you to a quiet, unpretentious restaurant. He was direct. No games. He listened, really listened, when you talked, and his questions were insightful. He kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth when he dropped you off at home. Jack waited a respectful but not distant couple of dates before he took you back to his place.
That night, he fucked you in a way you'd never been fucked before. It wasn't just the sex (though that was transformative). It wasn't just his deep, purposeful strokes that seemed to reach something untouched inside you, and his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that felt like being seen for the first time. It was the way he took command of your pleasure. It was the way he worshipped your body with his mouth and hands. He knew exactly where to apply pressure, where to linger, leaving you utterly shattered and reassembled in his arms.
He asked you to be his girlfriend a week later. Was this how men in their 40's were? No slow burn, no months of "seeing where things go," just a decisive, full-throttle commitment? A month later, he bought you the exact expensive electric toothbrush model he used, in a different color, and it was already charging in his bathroom holder next to his. He didn't just give you a drawer at his house after 2 months; he cleared out an entire section of his walk-in closet, saying, "Hangers are better than a drawer. Things don't get wrinkled." After 3 months, he surprised you with a weekend at a rustic-but-luxurious cabin in the Laurel Highlands.
You were curled on the oversized leather sofa, the fire crackling, a blanket over your legs. Then he turned his head, his gaze finding yours in the flickering light.
"I love you," he said, the words leaving his lips as a simple, undeniable fact, like stating the time or the weather. Your heart didn't flutter; it seized. A cold, sharp panic shot through your veins, freezing the cozy warmth of the moment. Your smile felt stiff, plastered on.
I love you launched after a mere 12 weeks?
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You could see the exact moment he registered your panic—a slight tightening around his eyes, a microscopic shift in his posture.
So…you kissed him because you didn't know what to say—but you didn't say it back.
After returning to Pittsburgh, your panic made you pull away. You created distance with flimsy excuses about a crushing work deadline, about needing "headspace" to focus. You became short over text, cancelling plans at the last minute. One night, you started a fight over something trivial—and in your fear, you ended it. It somehow felt safer than confronting the terrifying, perfect weight of his love.
The words "I think we need to break up" tasted like shit in your mouth. "This is all going too fast for me. I'm… just not in the same place as you."
He didn't yell. He just went very still, his hazel eyes analyzing you.
"Okay," he said, his voice flat.
You broke up with the most substantial man you had ever known because his love felt too real, too fast, and you weren't sure you were built to handle it. The truth was you loved him too, and that was the most terrifying part of all. Because love, in your experience, was a prelude to loss. It was a vulnerability you couldn't afford. Letting him go now, while it was still early, was a mercy. For him, and for you. Staying would only mean watching him eventually see the real, flawed, frightened you—and then, he would inevitably leave. That was the unspoken script you knew by heart. So you took the pen and wrote the ending yourself, a tragic but controlled finale.
He would have been a good father, you suddenly thought.
You didn't even know if you wanted kids. The future had always been a vague, hazy concept you preferred not to examine too closely. In an instant, ugly sobs racked your body. You cried until your throat was scraped raw and your head throbbed. But the terrible truth was you didn't know what you were grieving. Was it the ghost of a child who would have had his calm eyes and your stubborn streak?
Or… were you simply, finally, grieving Jack?
You decided not to contact him.
Of course, the responsible thing to do after a secret, soul-crushing loss was to get blindingly drunk with your girlfriends days later. You laughed too loud, you danced with a frantic energy, and you still hadn't told a soul. By last call, the world had a pleasant, fuzzy edge. You ordered an Uber, fumbling with your phone. You were going to type in your address… but your fingers (traitorous and memory-laden) didn't type that. They typed in an address your heart knew by muscle memory: Jack's. It was a silly, drunk girl idea. He was probably at work. But a small, desperate part of you whispered that maybe, just maybe, he had a rare night off. You weren't falling-down drunk, but you were floating, untethered enough for grief and cheap vodka to steer the ship. That's why you had the dumb, beautiful, catastrophic idea to tell the driver to take you to him.
It was 2:07 am when the Uber pulled up to his familiar house. You stepped out and stood on the sidewalk, the night air cool against your skin, while you stared at his house. The liquid courage was rapidly souring into pure, cold terror.
What were you going to say?
You hesitated outside his door, and then finally rang his doorbell. When you didn’t see any lights turn on after a minute, you let your knuckles fall against the wood, three soft, uncertain taps. The silence on the other side stretched, long enough for you to start backing away. Then you heard the deadbolt turn.
The door opened, not all the way, just enough to reveal him. He was in a worn gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly mussed since he had clearly been fucking sleeping. His face shifted from mild, late-night annoyance to blank shock, then to something unreadable. His eyes scanned you quickly, taking in your slightly smudged makeup, your dress that was way too short, and the way you swayed just a fraction on your feet.
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. All the rehearsed lines, the drunken confessions, evaporated. You just stood there, exposed, waiting for him to shut the door. He didn't. He let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders dropping slightly.
"Are you drunk?"
A weak, defensive laugh escaped you. "I was," you joked, the words feeling hollow. "But I'm feeling pretty sober right now."
It was the truest thing you said all night. The sight of him, the reality of being here, had burned away the alcohol's haze. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, and he pulled you inside, your body stumbling across the threshold. You automatically toed off your heels, and he guided you, his hand now a steady pressure on your lower back, to the familiar couch. You sank into the cushions, the soft fabric smelling like him, like home. You watched him move to the kitchen, his back to you and the muscles in his shoulders tense. His gait was slightly uneven, a subtle hitch in his step that you hadn't noticed earlier. You felt guilty since he had to put his prosthetic back on when he answered the door. He took a tall glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, then snatched one of those powdered electrolyte packets from a box on the counter. Jack ripped it open with his teeth, poured it in, and grabbed a butter knife to stir the powder.
He walked back over to you, holding the glass out.
"Here. It'll help with the hangover you're building."
"Thanks," you mumbled, the word slurring at the edges as you took the glass. Your fingers brushed his, and you fumbled, nearly dropping it. You took a gulp, and the flavor was aggressively artificial, a shock to your system. He finally sank into the armchair opposite you, the leather sighing under his weight. He dragged a hand slowly down his face, his fingers pressing into his closed eyes.
"Okay," he sighed, the word heavy with exhaustion. He dropped his hand and looked at you, his gaze clear and utterly drained. "Why are you here? And let's skip the part where you were just 'in the neighborhood.' or some bullshit."
You set the half-empty glass on the coffee table with a soft click, the sound too loud in the tense quiet. The words were there… so you forced them out.
"I just..." the words were thick and sticking in your dry throat. "I miss you, Jack."
He let out a short, humorless sound—a scoff that was more like a punch to the gut. He leaned back in the armchair, his expression not angry, but chillingly detached.
"You miss me," he repeated, analyzing the statement.
"Yes."
"You're drunk, and you're lonely. That's not missing me."
You flinched and stared at your hands. They twisted together in your lap, and you felt like you were unable to meet the ice in his gaze.
"I deserve that," you finally said. You wanted to tell him everything. But… the voice in your head was a familiar, cruel critic.
It hissed at you now, slick and poisonous.
Tell him about the miscarriage? It sneered. So he can do what? Console you about the baby you two accidentally created? That's what you want, isn't it? You want to drop this bomb so he has to catch you. You walked away from him, and now that you've failed at that too, you come crawling back to make it his problem. You don't get to use this pain as a key to unlock his kindness. You forfeited that right. You deserve the cold. You deserve to choke on the words you were too afraid to say when they actually mattered.
The voice was so loud, so convincing.
It painted your desperation as manipulation, your grief as a weapon. So you sat there, trapped in the suffocating silence. You just stared at him, your eyes wide, the war inside you rendering you utterly mute. He was waiting. You could see the question in his eyes, the last frayed thread of his patience. But… the words wouldn't come. The critic had won.
"I'll get my keys," he said, his voice devoid of all inflection. He stood up, the movement sharp. "Let me drive you home."
You took a shuddering breath, the tears you'd been holding back finally spilling over.
"I know you don't want me here," you blurted out, a desperate, wet hiccup catching in your throat. You stood up and wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand. "And I know that I don't really have the right to show up here."
"You don't…" he started, then stopped, correcting himself with a brutal honesty. "It's not that I don't want you here. It's that I can't handle you being here. There's a difference."
You swayed slightly on your feet, the emotional vertigo merging with the physical. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a feeble attempt to hold the pieces together.
"I know. And I'm… God, Jack, I am so sorry. For how I ended things. For the way I did it." You swallowed hard, your apology feeling pathetic and small. "I got scared. I see something real, something good, and my first instinct is to run. I push people away before they can get close enough to really see me... or before I can disappoint them."
"Why?"
"Because the higher the high, the harder the fall…" you hugged yourself tighter, the room feeling both too large and too small. The answer was a miserable, well-worn truth you'd carried for years.
He was quiet for a long moment, absorbing your words.
“I know I’m not making any sense… but I don't miss you because I'm lonely or drunk," you paused, gathering the shattered pieces of your nerve, and the truth tumbled out—inaudible. "It's because I love you."
"What?" he asked.
A hysterical, fleeting thought crossed your mind: Of course he didn't hear it. The universe wouldn't let you be that brave. You looked at his frowning face, his eyes searching yours for the answer he missed. So, you took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the very bottom of your soul.
"I said," you repeated. "It's because I love you, Jack."
You watched the shock ripple across his face, and you closed the distance between you in three quick, unsteady steps. Your hands came up slowly, framing his face, your thumbs brushing over the stubble on his jaw.
"You've been drinking. You don't know what you're saying."
"Jack," you whispered, your voice thick. "I know what I'm saying." You tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his. For a few suspended seconds, he didn't pull away. Then, with a rough, shuddering sound that was half-surrender, half-agony, he kissed you back. It wasn't gentle. It was a hungry claiming thing. A 1 month drought breaking in an instant. His hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard, hauling you flush against him. The kiss deepened, turned messy and hot. Your mouth opened under his, and the taste of him (familiar and devastating) unraveled you. A soft, needy whimper escaped your throat as you felt yourself get wet. His tongue swept against yours, blurring into a white-hot haze of sensation and want. You could feel the hard line of his body, the frantic beat of his heart against your own.
But just as you were losing yourself in it, just as your hips pressed instinctively against his, he tore his mouth away. The kiss broke with a sharp, wet sound. Jack’s hands, which had been gripping your hips with bruising intensity a second before, came up and pressed firmly against your shoulders, creating a space between your bodies. His breath was coming in ragged pants, his lips swollen, eyes dark with a storm of desire.
"We can't... I can't do this," he said, the words strained.
"Why not?" you pleaded, the question a raw wound.
"Because when you left… you didn't just walk out the door. You took the sun with you. Do you have any idea what that's like? To have every color... drain out of your world?"
"Jack, I—"
"It’s not your fault," he interrupted, his voice softening into a weary rasp. "I know I came on too strong. I saw a future with you, and I just charged at it. I didn't stop to see if you were running beside me or if I was just dragging you along." He let out a short, humorless breath. "I'm sorry for that. Truly."
The apology was so unexpected and so utterly…Jack. It was a fucking knife twist.
"But…" your voice broke. "I love you. I want a future with you too."
"Sweetheart," he said, the old endearment slipping out, rough and achingly familiar. "You've been drinking."
"Ugh, stop saying that!" you snapped, the words sharper than you intended. “Don't you dare use it as an excuse to dismiss this! Dismiss me, fine. Tell me to go to hell, fine." You jabbed a finger in his direction, the movement jerky. "But don't you dare pretend that what I'm saying is bullshit!"
He rubbed a hand over his face, a slow, heavy drag from forehead to chin, as if trying to scrub away the entire night.
"I'm not saying it's bullshit necessarily." He didn't meet your fiery gaze, instead looking at a point on the floor near your feet. "But—"
"But what?" you pleaded, eyes glossy and slightly unfocused. They locked onto him with a fierce bleary intensity.
"I can't just switch the color back on with you. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
A cold, hollow ache bloomed deep in your chest, spreading outwards until your fingers felt numb.
Maybe not ever.
Maybe not ever.
Maybe not ever.
The repetition of it echoed in the fuzzy chambers of your mind.
"I'll take you home." He shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture closing off. "Seriously, you need to get some sleep. Sober up." The instruction was quiet, devoid of malice, but it was a dismissal all the same. "This... this isn't a conversation for tonight."
"Don't bother," you said, your voice surprisingly steady, though it felt weak. "I'll get an Uber. I've... I've embarrassed myself enough for one night without needing a chauffeur to underscore the point."
"Hey—"
You ignored him, your focus entirely on confirming a ride. You blinked hard, as you shoved your feet back into your heels, your movements hurried and graceless.
"Seriously, I can drive you home," Jack said, his voice closer now, edged with a frustration that wasn't anger but something more helpless. You stood up as the confirmation chime from your phone sounded at the same time.
"Car's here," you stated, opening the door, not turning around, and already walking toward the curb.
He rushed out after you, the door swinging shut behind him. "Wait—" he started, but the bright headlights of a silver sedan swung around the corner. You didn't give him another chance and just pulled the car door open. slid into the backseat, pulling the door closed with a solid, muffled thunk.
Through the window, you saw Jack standing frozen on the sidewalk. The Uber driver, a middle-aged man with a podcast playing softly, said your name to confirm the ride, and you nodded. You kept your eyes forward, refusing to look back as the car pulled smoothly away from the curb. The ache in your chest tightened into a hard, cold knot. The hum of the car, the murmur of the radio, it all felt miles away.
You let your head fall back against the seat, finally allowing the tears to fall silently, the passing streetlights painting fleeting stripes of gold across your closed, stinging eyes.
For weeks, a slow, quiet ache had taken up residence in Jack's chest, a persistent bleed he couldn't stop. That night (your confession) it replayed on a loop.
I love you.
The problem wasn't the memory; it was the question that poisoned it. Had you meant it? Or was it just the whiskey talking?
It was 2:21 am and he was currently standing beside a gurney in a private bay, his focus entirely on the teenage girl before him. She had a deep, bleeding laceration on her forehead and a rapidly swelling bruise around her eye from the airbag. A cervical collar was in place as a precaution. School's out, he thought. The summer months always brought a specific, grim tempo to the OR. Teenagers with time on their hands and poor impulse control as their only guide.
"Just hold still for me," Jack said, his voice calm but firm as he examined the wound under the bright light. "This is going to need a few stitches to close properly. Dr. Ellis is going to get a CT scan to rule out a concussion."
Nearby, Ellis was reviewing the girl's chart on a tablet, nodding. "Ambulance report says she was alert and oriented at the scene. GCS 15. We'll get the scan for definitive clearance."
"Local anesthetic is drawn up, Dr. Abbot." Nazley was setting up a suture tray, laying out the sterile instruments.
"Have the parents been contacted?" Jack asked, not looking up from his work, his focus on the wound edges.
"Just got off the phone," Mateo said, hanging up the wall phone nearby. "Parents are out of town. She's staying with an aunt. The aunt is on her way in now, said she can be here in 15 minutes and gave verbal consent to proceed with whatever we need to do."
"You'll feel a little pinch and then some pressure," Jack injected the anesthetic around the edges of the laceration gently. "Your friend who was driving is getting an X-ray on his arm. We'll know more soon."
As if on cue, the curtain to the bay rustled aside. Shen and Crus walked in.
"Update on the driver. X-ray is back," Shen said with a tablet in his hand. "It's a confirmed, non-displaced fracture of the distal radius. A clean break. Ortho is with him now. He's stable and alert." Shen paused, his eyes locking onto Jack's, then flicking to the girl on the table. She was staring at the ceiling, a single tear falling through the grime on her temple. "But the tox screen came back. We found alcohol in his system."
Jack let out a soft, sharp tsk from between his teeth. He shook his head slowly, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line.
"Is he going to get in trouble?" the girl asked.
"Yes," Jack grunted. "But, if it's his first offense, he'll probably just lose his license for a year and get to pick up trash on the highway every Saturday. Community service is a real blast. Very scenic". Jack picked up the needle holder. "You'll feel the first stitch now." The first stitch went in with a precise, sharp tug. The girl's breath hissed between her teeth.
"I'm so gonna be grounded for, like, the rest of high school," she mumbled, the words thick with self-pity and the dawning reality of parental wrath.
"Being grounded implies there's a home to go back to," Jack said, as he placed another neat stitch. "It implies people give a shit about you. That's not the worst problem to have," He tied off the suture.
A faint, almost unwilling snort of watery laughter escaped the girl.
"Look at it this way," he continued, his voice taking on a darkly pragmatic, almost amused edge. "You weren't driving. So, technically, you're having a significantly better night than your friend. He gets a cast, a court date, and a lifelong lesson in poor decision-making." Jack placed another stitch. "You get a cool scar and a thrilling story you can maybe embellish later, and a very, very long lecture from your aunt—and later your parents—about picking better friends. You're looking at a few weeks without your phone. Maybe a few extra chores. It's a better deal. Trust me."
"A scar?" the patient blurted out, her voice rising an octave. Her breathing became rapid and shallow, bordering on hyperventilation. Jack let out a slow, patient breath. He finished the stitch he was working on and then deliberately set his tools down on the tray.
"Look at me. Breathe." He waited for a beat until her wild eyes focused on his. "It's not forever. I'm using the finest sutures we have. With proper care—keeping it clean and using the ointment we'll give you—this is going to fade. In a few months, it'll be a faint line. In a year, you'll have to squint to see it." He made eye contact, holding her gaze. "Now, the stiller you hold, the straighter and smaller this temporary mark will be. Deal?"
She stared at him, her panicked breaths beginning to slow, hitching on a sob that was more relief than fear. She gave a tiny, jerky nod.
"Deal," she smiled, and then squinted her eyes. "You look familiar."
"I do?" Jack blinked, his brow furrowing just a touch.
"Yeah."
"I don't think we've met. I'd remember. I'm pretty good with faces."
Suddenly a voice from the hallway outside the curtained bay was muffled but unmistakable—a nurse's firm, professional baritone trying to block someone. "Ma'am, you can't just—" Then, came a second voice. Sharper. Panicked. And it shouted the girl's full, legal name. His head snapped up, his eyes, wide and suddenly stripped of all professional detachment, locked onto the curtain. Every muscle in his body went rigid because he recognized the voice.
"What the fuck," he breathed. He was already turning, his stool scraping back violently on the floor as he stood up. The commotion outside intensified. The nurse's voice grew more insistent.
"Ma'am, I need you to wait in the family area. The doctors are with her now." But the other voice, rose above it, raw and frayed at the edges with a terror. "That's my niece! She's a minor, let me see her!"
Jack's hand shot out and yanked the faded blue privacy curtain.
And there you were.
Your gaze, locked on the arguing nurse, snapped toward the sudden movement. It swept past the opening curtain, past the medical bay, and landed directly on him.
"Jack?"
Then, from behind Jack, a small, shaky voice pierced the stillness. "Auntie?"
Both of your heads turned in unison toward the bed.
"I can explain," she whispered, the words trembling.
After Jack confirmed your niece was fine and finished her stitches… the adrenaline that had been holding you together drained away all at once. In its place, a cold, sharp fury ignited in your chest, so sudden and intense it stole your breath. The fear was gone. Now, you were just pissed the fuck off. Especially when you noticed that your niece wasn't in the oversized, comfortable sweatshirt and pajama pants she had left your house in. She was wearing a black, sheer-mesh top over a tight, silver bralette, and impossibly short denim skirt. The outfit screamed "party," not "sleepover at Hannah's house."
"You said you were going to a sleepover," you stated, each word precise and icy. "You lied to me to go to some party, get drunk, and God knows what else!"
"Her tox screen came back clean, actually," Ellis muttered.
"Shut up," Jack mouthed at Ellis.
"What are you wearing?" you gestured sharply at her, your hand slicing through the air toward her outfit.
"It's just clothes! Everyone dresses like this!" she defended.
You leaned a hip against the bed rail, crossing your arms.
"Uh-huh. Sure. It's very scholarly." You let the silence hang for a beat, your eyes not leaving hers. "Who's it for?"
Your niece's mouth opened, then closed. She looked from you to the ceiling, anywhere but at you. "What? No one. It's not for anyone."
"Honey, I know the look," you growled. "I invented the look! I wore a skirt shorter than that in 2008 for the captain of the hockey team. I froze my ass off that night. So, I know the 'I'm trying to catch a specific person's eye' outfit when I see it."
Your niece stared at you, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her defensive pout at the oddly specific memory. Mateo let out a low, amused chuckle from his spot by the monitors. Jack's head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, warning glare.
Keep it the fuck professional
He held her gaze until Mateo gave a slight, chastised nod, the smirk vanishing from his face as he turned back to her charts with exaggerated focus.
"He's... he's not an athlete," you heard your niece say.
You raised a single eyebrow, your expression shifting to one of dramatic, knowing suspicion.
"Oh. I see." You leaned back, tapping a finger against your chin. "Not an athlete. So…the plot thickens. Let me guess... the brooding artist type? Smells like cigarettes?"
"He's a musician," she mumbled, looking down at her hands.
"A musician!" you declared. "He's a singer?"
"He... he plays guitar," she rolled her eyes.
"Ah! A guitarist!" you announced, throwing your hands up as if she'd just revealed a profound truth. "Of course! Slightly better than a bassist, marginally worse than a drummer."
Shen choked slightly on his coffee, a laugh muffled into his fist. Jack crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and despite his stern demeanor… his lips twitched slightly at the corners. He was always so attracted to the fact that you could use sarcasm and humor even during the most serious of situations.
"Okay, I get it!" your niece snapped. The tears were gone, burned away by a surge of defensive anger. She glared at you. "I messed up. You've made your point. No need to be so over the top about this. You're being so dramatic!"
Jack, sensing the nuclear family drama reaching critical mass, cleared his throat softly.
"You know, we're just gonna step out for a minute," Jack said, voice calm and diplomatic. "Let you two... do your thing." You gave Jack a single, curt nod. He gathered a chart from the counter and motioned for everyone in the room to leave. They clearly wanted to stay and watch the fight, but he wanted to give you some privacy. He was the last one out, but as Jack reached the doorway, he paused. His hand rested on the frame, and he turned back.
"You're lucky to have an aunt who loves and cares about you this much," he said, his words directed at your niece, but his eyes were already shifting— his focus landing squarely on you. You hadn't seen him since that fucking embarrassing night when you made a fool of yourself.
"She seems like a good kid," he said. Then, he let the door click softly shut behind him, leaving you both alone.
The silence that followed was thick.
"Dramatic?" you repeated, taking a deliberate step closer to the bed. Your eyes locked on hers, and you could see a flicker of uncertainty replace her anger. "You think this," you said, your voice trembling now not with suppressed laughter but with unraveling fear, "is me being dramatic?" You leaned in, your face now just inches from hers. "I got a phone call from the hospital at 2 fucking am telling me that you got into a car accident with a random guy. I drove here not knowing if you were conscious. I'm not your legal guardian, so they wouldn't tell me anything over the phone. 'Are you family?' 'I'm her aunt.' 'Are you listed as an emergency contact?' 'No, but—' 'We can only release information to parents or legal guardians.' Well, guess what? Her parents are 2 thousand miles away right now. So what can you tell me? The person who is fucking here!"
Her lower lip trembled.
"Why did you get into that car with that boy? You're smarter than that. I know you are. And why, for the love of god, didn't you call me? I have always told you, the one rule, the only rule that matters, is that if you're ever in a bind, you call me. No questions asked. No judgment. Just... call. And I'll come. I'll always come."
"I was going too," she swallowed hard. "The truth was… he seemed perfectly fine. He was laughing, he was walking straight, he was making sense. Everyone was saying I was overreacting, that he was just buzzed. And I started to feel… lame and stupid for worrying."
You sank slowly onto the edge of the hard plastic chair beside her bed, your shoulders slumping. Reaching out, you took one of her hands in both of yours, your thumbs rubbing gentle circles over her knuckles.
"Look," you began, your voice softer now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. "I know you and your friends see me as the cool, fun aunt who doesn't snitch about their secret tattoos, piercings, and relationships. And… I mean, I would be lying if I said that I didn't do my share of monumentally stupid shit in high school. I did." You looked up, meeting her watery gaze directly, your expression deadly serious. "But I never, ever got into a car with someone if I even suspected they had a sip of alcohol. Not once. That wasn't a rule from my parents. That was a rule I made for myself."
She nodded.
"Come here, you little shit," you murmured.
She didn't hesitate and buried her face in your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head. You could feel the dampness of her tears through your shirt, and you pressed a kiss to her temple.
"You scared the living hell out of me," you whispered into her hair.
"I know," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "I'm sorry. Really."
Finally, she pulled back, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.
"So," she said, her voice still a little wobbly. "That's the guy you were dating?"
"Yeah. That's him," you busied yourself smoothing down her rumpled hospital gown. "How did you know?"
She gave a small, knowing shrug. "Saw his badge. And... I recognized him from the picture you sent me."
A slow, reluctant smile touched your lips as the memory surfaced—the empty cartons of Chinese food, the truly awful monster movie roaring on the TV, and Jack, snoring softly on your couch before the credits even rolled. You had taken a picture of him (he didn't know), and you sent it to her as a secret, a piece of your private world.
Might bring this one around soon… you had texted her.
But… that never happened.
"He's really funny and nice, Auntie," she said softly, leaning her head back against the propped-up pillow. "I like him. Do you think you'll get back together?"
"I don't know." The ache in your chest was sudden and sharp, a physical tightness that made your next breath feel shallow. You couldn't talk about Jack, so you changed the subject.
"So. This boy. The one who caused all the… excitement," you rolled your eyes. "What's this stupid boy's name, anyway?"
Her face instantly transformed, the previous softness replaced by a vibrant, eager light. She leaned forward, wincing only slightly. "Tyler," she said, the name bursting from her with giddy energy. "His name is Tyler. And he…" she bit her lip, "...he kissed me tonight," she finished in a rushed, breathless whisper.
You stared at her. The dreamy look in her eyes—it was a mirror. A perfect, agonizing reflection of your own younger 16 year old self, diving headfirst into infatuation with a charming smile and zero forethought. Falling for some boy who wasn't exactly the best influence. The kind of kid who'd drink and drive.
"Tyler, huh? Well, I'm sure when your Mom and Dad hear about this, their first thought will be, 'We must invite this fine young gentleman for dinner!'"
You watched the horror solidify on her face from your sarcastic comment. The giddy afterglow of the kiss was gone, completely incinerated by the cold blast of consequence. And, honestly, there was no way your brother would be into wanting to meet this kid. There's no way he would be fine with his daughter having a crush on the kid who caused her to get hurt.
"Which reminds me… let's give them a call." You stood up, the chair screeching back, and pulled out your phone. Your thumb found her mom's contact. You hit dial. It rang once, twice.
"Hello…?" Your sister-in-law's voice was tiny through the speaker, laced with confusion and a hint of sleep. You felt bad because they were on a long-overdue romantic getaway vacation in Belize while your niece was staying with you. "Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay?"
You closed your eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of your nose.
"Um…"
You were jabbing at the button for the salt and vinegar chips. The machine whirred, clunked, and nothing happened. You sighed, leaning your forehead against the cool glass.
"Stupid piece of…" you muttered, giving the machine a half-hearted kick with the toe of your shoe.
"Pro tip: the one on the third floor by psych only takes exact change, but it always delivers. This one's a heartless bastard. I think it enjoys watching the suffering," a familiar voice said from behind you.
You turned. Jack was leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, looking amused. He pushed off and walked over.
"Listen," he said, his tone shifting to doctor mode. "We got the scans back. She doesn't have a concussion."
"Oh. Good. That's… really good," you managed, the words feeling inadequate.
"It is," Jack agreed. "But we're gonna keep her overnight. Just in case. Standard protocol."
"Yeah," you said, a weak, humorless laugh escaping you. "Her parents are gonna love that medical bill. 'Happy Anniversary' to them.
"You should go home," he said gently. "You look exhausted."
"Is that your professional medical opinion, Doctor? Or your way of saying I look like shit when I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown?"
"You never look like shit," he insisted, and his voice was completely serious.
"I'm too wired to go home," you admitted and then wrapped your arms around yourself. "I'll just… crash in the waiting room once I feel tired."
Jack studied your face for a long moment.
"I can get a cot brought into her room, so that you sleep in there with her," he reassured. He knew how much your niece meant to you, and he knew how scared you must have been tonight.
"Really?" you asked, the word coming out small and hopeful, betraying how much the idea of leaving her alone terrified you. "I thought no overnight guests were allowed in the rooms?"
"Fuck that. I'll put the order in. It'll be there in twenty minutes."
Your vision was suddenly completely blurry.
"Hey," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Everything's okay. She's safe. The scary part is over."
He didn't ask. He just stepped forward and opened his arms.
And you broke. The dam holding back the night's terror and relief and sheer fucking overwhelming responsibility finally shattered. You stepped into the hug, burying your face against his scrubs, and the tears came hard. After a minute, the storm passed. You pulled back, sniffling wetly, your face a mess. A fresh wave of embarrassment washed over you.
"Sorry," you mumbled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I'm getting snot all over your scrubs."
"They've seen worse than your snot, trust me." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled packet of tissues, offering it to you. "Here."
You dabbed clumsily at your eyes, then your nose. A few strands of your hair, damp with tears, were stuck to your cheek. As you sniffled, Jack's hand came up again; he gently brushed the wet hair away from your skin, his fingertips tracing a soft path from your temple to behind your ear.
The harsh fluorescent light caught the subtle flecks of emerald and moss in his irises.
You took a half-step back, breaking the gentle contact. "I'm… I'm sorry I ambushed you that night. It was fucked up." He opened his mouth, likely to offer one of his easy dismissals, but you cut him off, "No, seriously. It was. I was a mess, and I dumped it all on you." You swallowed hard, holding his beautiful, concerned gaze. "But I really did mean what I said. Every word of it."
His Adam's apple bobbed visibly.
You looked down at your hands, twisting the now-soggy tissue. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "And there's… there's another reason I came over that night."
"What reason?" His brow furrowed.
"I had a miscarriage," you forced yourself to meet his eyes again, the hazel green now seeming like a deep, troubled sea. "…the week before. I didn't even know I was pregnant until the OB-GYN told me," you let out a gasp that bordered on a sob. "And I'm realizing I'm probably saying this at the worst possible fucking time, with my niece in a hospital bed down the hall, and…" you gestured vaguely at your own tear-stained face, at the whole chaotic scene.
"Why didn't you tell me the day you found out?" he swallowed hard, as if fighting down a wave of nausea. The thought of you alone, carrying that secret and that pain while he sat across from you that night (fucking oblivious) made his stomach clench violently. "I would have… God," He cupped your jaw, his thumb pressing gently against your cheekbone. "I would have… I would have been there. Properly."
"I-I don't know," you choked out. "I guess… I guess I was punishing myself."
His expression shattered.
"I wish you hadn't done that", he pulled you tight against his chest, as if he could physically pull the lingering pain out of you and into himself. He couldn't stop his tears from falling and getting lost in your hair when you kept apologizing—he begged you to stop. Then, his lips pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. He held the contact for a long, trembling moment before he reluctantly eased back.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, the words gruff, almost desperate. His thumb stroked your cheek, a shaky, repetitive motion as if to soothe himself as much as you. Jack realized he could have been a father (if you had chosen to keep the child) and that was something he was still processing. "Is there anything I can help you with? Do you need anything?"
"I'm okay. Really. I'm doing better now. It was just... super hormonal at first. A real shitstorm of feelings. Questioning my fertility, you know, all the fun fucking stuff." You tried to inject a note of dark humor into your voice.
"Listen to me," his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that brooked no argument. "A miscarriage does not mean something is wrong with you. It is not a verdict on your body or your future."
"Can't you tell I'm great at catastrophizing?" you joked. "Gold medalist, right here. I’m great at taking a situation and immediately spiraling it into the worst possible, most permanent outcome. It's a real talent.”
"You can't live your life like that," he shot back. "You can't let the fear of what might happen dictate everything. It's a fucking prison."
"Logically, I know you're right. But knowing something in my head and... and feeling it in the pit of my stomach are two very completely different things."
"You're the smartest person I know, and you're telling me your stomach's outvoting your brain?" he teased.
"Apparently," you sighed dramatically. After more conversation, he couldn't seem to let go of the concern lingering in his eyes. He kept checking in on you, softly asking if you wanted to sit down or just be held. Each time, you reassured him and insisted you were fine—you promised him that you had processed it, and felt like you were finally moving forward. Despite your words, he still reached for you again and again, pulling you into comforting hugs.
Just then, Shen’s voice cut through the hallway.
"Yo, Abbot! Incoming. One critical head injury, possible spinal. They're rolling in now."
Jack's head snapped toward the sound. Shen stood a few yards away, a chart in hand, his brow furrowed in clear, blatant confusion as he took in the intimate scene of Jack's hands on you. A war flashed across Jack's features—duty versus need.
With a ragged sigh, he turned back to you to lean in and press a firm lingering kiss to your forehead.
"Fuck—I gotta go," he murmured against your skin, his breath warm.
"It's okay," you reached out to gently squeeze his arm.
"Go sleep. Please," he begged, nudging his nose against yours.
"You got it, Doc."
Jack stood on the front step of your townhouse, his finger having just left the doorbell. It had been 2 days since he'd discharged your niece, handing you a prescription and a stern look, telling you to keep him updated. The texts that followed had been brief—your updates on her pain level and him checking in. So here he was making an excuse about examining your niece's stitches that felt flimsy even to him. He shifted his weight nervously. In his hand was a modest, cheerful bouquet of sunflowers and daisies wrapped in brown paper.
Your niece looked up at him when she answered the door, her small face marked by the healing sutures on her forehead and the large bruise beneath her eye. She recognized him immediately, her eyes widening just a fraction.
"Dr. Abbot," she stated.
He crouched down, bringing himself closer to her level, the flowers rustling slightly in his grasp.
"You can call me Jack," he said, his tone warm but measured. His eyes, however, were already moving in a clinical sweep—assessing her forehead, the color and swelling of the bruise, and the alertness in her gaze. "How are you feeling?"
"Okay." She shrugged one shoulder, a gesture that looked both innocent and strangely mature. "But my parents are due back tomorrow from their vacation. They cut their trip short, so I'm preparing for a lecture that will last until I graduate college and a probable ban on anything fun."
Jack's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Ah, the parental debrief. A tough crowd."
"Are those for my aunt?" she pointed at the bouquet in his hand.
They are actually for you," he said, offering them to her.
,"Thank you."
She took the offered bouquet carefully, bringing the bright blooms to her nose for a tentative sniff. A small, pleased smile touched her lips before she looked back up at him.
"She's taking a shower," she announced, as if revealing a minor secret. "But you can come inside. It's fine."
Your niece stepped back, holding the door open wider for him. Jack rose from his crouch and crossed the threshold, the familiar, faint scent of your townhouse—something subtly sweet, like your perfume he loved so much—washing over him. He followed your niece, watching as she went straight to the kitchen counter. She pulled a simple glass vase from a lower cabinet, filled it at the sink with a focus that made him smile, and carefully arranged the sunflowers and daisies. She placed the vase in the center of the dining table with a satisfied nod.
Turning back to him, she clasped her hands in front of her. "Would you like some water?" she offered, her tone impeccably formal.
"Sure," he chuckled. "I'd love some water. Thank you."
She nodded and turned to get a glass, her small frame moving with purpose. As she carefully filled it from the filtered pitcher in the fridge, she glanced over her shoulder at him.
"You know," she said, her voice casual but her eyes sly, "I didn't realize doctors still made house calls."
Jack leaned a hip against the counter, accepting the water she handed to him with a grateful nod. The comment was playful, but also perceptive. Had you told her about him? Or was he just 'Dr. Abbot' (who happened to have a concerningly detailed knowledge of your preferred takeout order) that signed off on those discharge papers the other day.
"They usually don't," he acknowledged, taking a sip. "But this is a special exception."
She smirked, leaning against the opposite counter.
"Right. Special exception." She drew out the words just a little.
Just then, the sound of footsteps came from the staircase. Your voice, slightly raised with exasperation, floated into the room before you did. "What the fuck? Are you on your god damn phone? You're in deep shit, remember? I told you, and your parents told you no phone—"
You appeared in the archway to the living room, and the words died in your throat. Jack's gaze snapped to you. You were standing there, a bath towel wrapped securely around your body from chest to mid-thigh. The towel was modest, but it outlined the shape of your breasts and hugged the dip of your waist. Beads of water trailed down your collarbone. He knew exactly where they were heading, knew the taste of your skin there. His mouth went dry despite the water in his hand.
"Jack," you said, your voice a mix of surprise and something softer. You adjusted the towel at your chest, a reflexive, self-conscious gesture that made his stomach tighten. "I—uh—didn't know you were here."
He cleared his throat, setting the water glass down on the counter.
"House call," he smiled toward your niece, who was watching the exchange with keen interest. "Checking in. She passed with flying colors."
"Good to know," you answered.
"Well, since my warden has descended," your niece said, motioning toward you, "For my last supper, we were gonna order some sushi and re-watch the OG Mean Girls. You should join us, Jack."
"Oh, I think Jack," you shifted on your feet, the towel feeling suddenly very small. "—I mean, Dr. Abbot—has better things to do," you said quickly, your voice a little too high.
Jack's eyes never left yours. He caught your nervous energy. He wanted to chase it.
"I would love to," he said. "If that's okay with your aunt."
The direct question, asked in front of her, pinned you. You swallowed, then gave a small, almost nod. "Sure. That sounds... nice. Let me just go get changed."
You turned to head back upstairs. A knowing smirk played on your niece's lips as she looked directly at Jack once she heard your bedroom door close.
"By the way. I totally love that necklace you got my aunt. Her birth month constellation necklace," she winked at him.
Jack felt a hot, sharp thrill cut through the awkwardness.
So she knew.
You could not believe that Jack had never seen Mean Girls before.
The sushi was spread out on the coffee table, and Mean Girls was queued up. Your niece had claimed the middle cushion of the sofa, forcing you to sit on one side and Jack on the other. She was the buffer, but she also felt more like a chaperone. As the movie played on, the initial awkwardness began to melt into something warmer, more comfortable. Jack found himself asking questions, genuinely engaged. You'd explain a nuance, and your niece would jump in with a modern example, creating a running commentary. Jack's arm was stretched along the back of the couch behind your niece. His fingers, however, were just close enough that the very tips occasionally brushed against the sleeve of your sweater where it lay over the sofa back.
When Aaron Samuels asked what day it was, your niece chimed in perfectly on cue with, "It’s October 3rd," A few scenes later, during the infamous "She doesn't even go here!" rant, Jack let out a genuine chuckle, shaking his head. During a lull in the action, Jack leaned forward slightly to look past your niece at you. He picked up a piece of salmon nigiri, then asked, his tone one of genuine, baffled curiosity.
"So," he began, "is this… is this really what high school is like for a teenage girl? The… the burn books, the war over a guy, the relentless social calculus?"
You and your niece turned your heads in perfect unison, locking eyes with him. There was a beat of silent understanding between the two of you, a shared female exasperation that spanned generations. Then, in perfect harmony, you both deadpanned:
"Yes."
The simplicity and synchronicity of your answer made Jack lean back, a look of mock defeat on his face.
"Jesus. I'm suddenly very glad I was a teenage boy."
As the credits began to roll after the final "Junior Plastics" scene (where Cady jokingly imagined them being hit by a school bus), your niece let out a contented sigh.
"That," she declared, grabbing the last piece of spicy tuna roll, "never gets old." She stood up, gathering empty plates. "I'm gonna go load the dishwasher and then go to bed. Thanks for joining us, Jack."
"My pleasure," Jack replied. He meant it. The normalcy of it, the domestic bubble of takeout and a movie, was a stark, soothing contrast to the chaos of the ER. For the first time in weeks, the constant, low-grade tension in his shoulders had eased. He was exactly where he wanted to be. With you.
"Hey, Auntie," your niece paused in the doorway to the kitchen with the plates, "I'm sorry you've had to take time off from work to look after me. Or, shall I say, be on house arrest with me."
"Dude, stop. I needed this,” you offered her a warm, reassuring smile. "Seriously. It's been kinda nice just... relaxing at home. No commute, no deadlines. I'm honestly just going to take the rest of the week off even though your parents come back tomorrow."
"Oh, so basically," she said, her tone dripping with mock insight, "if my 'accident' hadn't happened, you wouldn't be enjoying this lovely little 'time off' right now. Is that the story we're going with my parents?"
"Nice try," you let out a short, genuine laugh. "Now go load the dishwasher."
She glanced between you and Jack, her smirk returning. "Anyway, I'm beat. Don't stay up too late talking about…" with a final, knowing wiggle of her eyebrows, "….whatever."
You rolled your eyes.
"Love you, goodnight!" she sing-songed.
"Love you more. Goodnight!" you chirped back.
Both of you heard her loading the dishwasher, and then her footsteps faded up the stairs, followed by the sound of your guestroom door closing. The sudden absence of her bubbly commentary left a thick, intimate silence in the living room. You heard the low hum of the dishwasher beginning its cycle in the kitchen and the faint, rhythmic thump of your own heart in your ears. You could feel the heat of Jack's body from across the space your niece had occupied. His arm was still resting on the back of the couch.
He didn't move it. Instead, he turned his head to look at you.
"She's something else," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He shifted then, just slightly, turning his body towards you. The movement brought his knee within an inch of touching yours on the cushion. His gaze dropped to your throat, to the constellation necklace he bought you, then back up to your eyes.
You smiled, feeling a flush of pride. "I'm sort of obsessed with her.”
"You're great with her. It's obvious that you're a big part of her life. I loved seeing you two together tonight." He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible tension tightening the line of his jaw. "I guess... before, it never felt like you wanted me to meet her even though I knew how important she was to you."
Jack had always known you were close to your family—how you'd often talked about your niece with a warmth that made it clear she was a central part of your world. He remembered you explaining that you and your brother had quite the age difference, and that you'd barley been in high school yourself when your niece was born. While you could technically be her mother, your niece clearly saw you as a big sister.
"I didn't," you confessed with a pained expression, "because I knew if she met you, she'd get attached to you."
"And that's a bad thing?" he frowned, a deep crease forming between his brows.
"No," you cut in softly, shaking your head. "It's just…remember, I'm really good at catastrophizing."
You knew all too well how kids could latch onto someone they cared about, especially when it came to someone their family was involved with. You remembered how she had been so visibly upset when your last serious relationship ended—how her small face had crumpled with sadness at the thought of never seeing him again.
Jack exhaled slowly. "You can catastrophize all the scenarios you want. Hell, you can build a hundred endings in your head." He reached out then, his hand finding yours where it rested on your own knee. His fingers slid between yours, lacing them together with a firm, possessive grip. "But I'm not going anywhere."
The tight coil of anxiety that had lived in your chest since you met him began (hesitantly) to unwind.
"Okay," you whispered, turning your hand in his, and pressing your palm more fully against his.
His other hand went to the delicate constellation necklace at your throat. His touch was startlingly gentle as he hooked a single finger under the chain. He tugged, just enough to pull it away from your skin for a moment before letting it fall against your collarbone.
"So," he murmured, his eyes locked on the point of contact. "No work for you for the rest of the week?"
"Nope."
He dragged his finger along the chain, tracing its path across your skin, the pad of his finger brushing the sensitive hollow at the base of your throat. A shiver you couldn't suppress raced down your spine. He felt it; a faint, satisfied smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
"Well," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate register meant only for you. "In an interesting turn of events, I happen to be off for the next couple of days, too." His gaze flicked down to your parted lips, then back up, holding you completely captive.
"Would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow?" he asked, yanking you over to straddle his lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, looking up at you with heart eyes.
You nodded deliriously.
"That is so fetch," he said with an utterly disarming perfect grin.
A snort escaped you, followed by a full-bodied, helpless laugh that shook your entire frame against his. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, his own laughter mingling with yours.
"Fetch, huh?" you murmured.
"Trying to make it happen," he breathed back, his gaze dropping to your lips.
And then he was kissing you. It started soft, a sweet, lingering press of his mouth against yours. But then the kiss deepened, turning hungry and consuming. One of his hands tangled in your hair, angling your head just so, while the other pressed firmly into the small of your back, arching you against him. You could feel the hard, eager length of him straining against his jeans, which was a thrilling pressure right where you needed it the most. A low, desperate sound escaped you, vibrating into his mouth. Your own hands were frantic, sliding under his shirt to feel the hot, smooth skin of his back, your nails scraping lightly down his spine. He groaned, the sound raw and needy, and his tongue sweeping against yours in a deep claiming rhythm that made your head spin. The kiss turned messy, wet, and perfectly frantic. Jack broke from your lips only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw to your throat, sucking a mark high on your collarbone that you know would bruise.
"We can't," you breathed, the protest weak even to your own ears. The rational part of your brain screamed about the teenager upstairs, the squeaky couch springs, and the sheer insanity of this. But that part was drowned out by the roaring in your blood, by the feel of his hard cock against you, and by the desperate, primal look in his eyes.
"We're not," he countered, his voice a low, velvety rumble that vibrated through your chest. But his actions betrayed him. His hips arched up, grinding against you in a slow, torturous rhythm that drove a ragged gasp from your throat. "We're just kissing."
A breathless laugh escaped you, cut short as his mouth found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin.
"This type of kissing is a felony in several states," you managed to say.
"Only the boring states," he murmured against your skin, his tongue soothing the slight sting. He shifted, one hand sliding to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip. The position opened you up to him completely, the thin barriers of clothing now feeling utterly, agonizingly insufficient. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, and he captured the sound with his mouth. After a few more kisses, you pulled back just enough to see his eyes. They were closed, his long lashes dark against his skin. He looked wrecked, beautiful, and like he was holding onto his last shred of sanity by his fingernails. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart where your chest was pressed to his.
"What should I wear on our date?"
His eyes fluttered open. The want was still there, a banked fire, but it was tempered now by a dawning, rueful awareness of your niece upstairs. His thumb stroked a gentle arc over the bare skin of your thigh where his hand still rested.
"Preferably nothing," he said with a playful edge.
You snickered, shoving lightly at his shoulder, though you made no move to dislodge his hand or your leg from his hip. "Charming. I was thinking more along the lines of that little black dress you always pretend not to stare at."
"I don't pretend," he countered smoothly, his smirk deepening. "I stare openly and with great appreciation. It's the polite thing to do."
You tilted your head. "Well, my boyfriend always did have excellent taste in what I wear… and I love him very much."
His heart slammed against his ribs, a wild, dizzying rush flooding his chest. You said it the other night when you were tipsy, but this… this was different. This was real. This was you, clear-eyed and deliberate, calling him yours and saying you loved him. The happiness that swelled inside him was almost too much to contain, a bright, aching pressure behind his sternum that made his throat tight. His fingers flexed against your thigh, the heat of your skin grounding him as he fought to keep his expression from cracking wide open.
"Oh, you do?" A slow, disbelieving smile curved his mouth.
"I do," you answered.
Jack's hand slid higher on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. "Careful with that kind of talk," he grunted. "A man might start getting ideas."
"What kind of ideas?"
Jack's grin turned wicked. "The kind where I peel that little black dress off you with my teeth as soon as I pick you up for our date tomorrow."
You shivered, nails digging into his shoulders. "Jack…"
"Seems you'll just have to wait until tomorrow," he teased, voice thick with promise. "When I can make good on every filthy thought running through my head right now." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "And when I can tell you properly that I love you, more."
Summary: Jack came on too strong, so you broke up with him. But now you're left wondering…why did you end things with a man that you're actually totally in love with?
Warning: (MDNI 18+) ex's to lovers, angst, language, emotionally constipated reader (low key self sabotaging), love avoidance, fear of vulnerability, mentions of a miscarriage (not descriptive), alcohol, tipsy reader, feelings, mutual pining/yearning, steamy kissing, pet names, mentions of injury during car accident (not reader), teenagers causing grey hairs (driving under the influence), cool fun aunt vibes, hurt/comfort, mean girls movie references, sexual tension, more steamy and horny kissing, smidge dirty talk, fluffy/happy ending cause its me, loverboy!jack
A/N: This story is a love letter to all the aunties out there. I hope people enjoy <3 dividers by @saradika-graphics
Your colleagues were discussing the renovation timeline for the Carter residence. On your screen was the shared design board for their master suite, filled with images of tufted headboards, marble tile samples, and serene grey palettes. But the elegant visuals swam before your eyes. All you could see was the stark, antiseptic white of an examination room; all you could feel was the cold, metallic touch of stirrups against your heels.
"...and we really need to confirm the plumbing fixtures before the tile guy starts work in the ensuite," said Leo, your senior project manager. He tapped the table with his pen, directing his gaze down the line, and called out your name. "…you sourced those beautiful matte black shower sets. The client loved them, but the wife is now concerned about water spots. What's your take on the maintenance versus the aesthetic? Should we pivot to a brushed nickel?"
Your name was repeated, and Leo's voice cut through the fog. Everyone was looking at you.
"Sorry," you managed, your voice strangely thin. "Could you repeat the question?"
"Are you with us?" he asked, not unkindly, but with a note of professional impatience.
"Y-yes. Sorry. Just… a lot on my mind." You offered a weak smile that felt like it might crack your face.
The meeting droned on for another ten eternal minutes before it ended. You moved on autopilot, gathering your notebook and pen, your movements slow and heavy. You walked back to your cubicle and sank into your chair, the world feeling muffled and distant.
"Hey." It was Laura from the next desk over, leaning around the partition. A look of concern replaced her usual easy-going smile. "You okay? You looked like you were on another planet in there."
You opened your mouth to give the standard easy lie.
I'm fine. Just tired.
The words were right there, polished and ready. But they didn't come out. Instead, your throat closed. You stared at your computer monitor, the sleek black surface reflecting a version of you that looked terrible.
"I don't know," you whispered.
The confession hung there, and Laura's expression softened, but she didn't press. She just gave a slow nod, a silent offer of space.
You turned back to your screen, but it wasn't a file you saw.
You were sitting on the crinkling paper of the exam table, a thin gown over your lap. Dr. Montgomery was washing her hands at the sink, her back to you. You came in for the bleeding, the cramping that felt like a fist twisting inside you. Dr. Montgomery turned, her face a careful mask of professional compassion that did nothing to soften the blow.
"I know the bleeding was more than usual, and the pain concerned you," she said, her voice gentle. She leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. "The ultrasound was very clear. What you are experiencing... it's a miscarriage. Your body is passing a pregnancy. I'd estimate you were about six weeks along."
The words landed like a physical blow. The room tilted.
A pregnancy?
The concept was so foreign, so impossible, it simply bounced off the numb wall of your shock. You hadn't been trying. You hadn't even suspected. Your period was always irregular. The fatigue, the nausea you blamed on stress...
"But I'm on the pill," you heard yourself say, the words sharp and too loud in the quiet room. You looked up at Dr. Montgomery, searching her face for an answer, for a mistake. "I take it every day.. I don't... I don't know how this happened."
The statement hung there, less a question and more a plea for the world to make sense again.
"No form of contraception is one hundred percent effective, even with perfect use. It's rare, but it happens. The body can be unpredictable. That doesn't make it your fault."
"O-okay," you stuttered.
"I know you're probably in shock," Dr. Montgomery continued, watching your face. "It's a lot to process. Miscarriages, particularly this early, are far more common than people think. I have some numbers for you—for counseling, support groups. There's no right or wrong way to feel about this."
You stared at your hands, clenched in the thin material of the gown. A strange, hollow laugh threatened to bubble up. Feel? How were you supposed to feel about losing something you never knew you had? Grief felt like a costume that didn't fit, meant for someone else, for a planned nursery and broken dreams. Your reality was confusion, a dizzying void where a secret had been and was now just... gone.
"I don't... I don't know how I feel." The admission was pathetic, but it was the only truth you had. "I'm in shock."
Dr. Montgomery nodded. "That is all perfectly normal. Shock isn't just about sadness. It's about the entire system trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. There is no timeline for this. Be gentle with yourself." She handed you a printed sheet with numbers and websites, the paper crisp and impersonal in your trembling hand. "Go home if you can. Rest. Your body needs it. And your mind will catch up, in its own time."
The memory of this morning faded, replaced by the solid, unyielding reality of your desk. You took a long, shaky breath and turned back to your computer screen, where a 3D rendering of a client's living room waited. You mechanically clicked on the sectional sofa, adjusting the fabric swatch to a calming seafoam green. You typed notes into the project file with numb fingers: Client prefers matte finishes. Source organic linen for throw pillows. The words were fucking meaningless. The afternoon passed in a blur of fabric samples, paint codes, and vendor emails, each task a tiny island of normalcy in a sea of static.
At exactly 6 o'clock, you shut down your computer. The drive home was a series of autopilot turns and stops, the city passing by your car windows like a silent film. You pulled into your driveway, the familiar sight of your front door offering no comfort. You collected the mail from the box—a utility bill, a furniture catalog, a flyer for a pizza place. Inside, your house felt immense and heavy. You dropped the mail on the kitchen counter.
You walked into the living room and sank into the cushions, the fabric feeling strangely coarse against your skin. You pulled your phone from your bag, your thumb moving on its own to your messages. You typed a name at the top: Jack.
The cursor blinked in the empty text field, a tiny, demanding heartbeat.
Your fingers hovered over the screen, the words forming and dissolving in your mind like mist. How did you even fucking begin?
You typed, your movements stiff.
Jack. It's me.
You deleted it. Too formal. You weren't formal.
You tried again, the truth coming out in a blunt, clumsy rush.
I had a doctor's appointment today. I was pregnant. I didn't know. I'm not anymore. But, I thought you should know.
Your thumb hovered over the send button. The sentences sat there, black and brutal on the bright screen. Was this a text message kind of thing? Or a phone call? Was there an etiquette for informing your ex-boyfriend that you were pregnant with his kid and then oh oops, your body decided to play fucking Russian roulette on you.
You didn't send it, lowering the phone and the screen darkening as it rested on your thigh. Why would he want to hear from you? You had broken up with him a month ago, and you were pretending you were fine.
Jack wasn't like any guy you had ever dated before. He was a disruption to your entire design philosophy of love—a philosophy built on safe distances, and men who communicated in vague subtext and last-minute plans.
You met him through one of your clients. Dana was an ER nurse, tough as nails with a heart of gold, and you helped her turn her dated home into a functional, calming sanctuary after her brutal shifts. She threw a small get-together once you finished the interior design on her home. Jack was there, and he was one of her colleagues from the hospital. He was handsome in an intensely unfair way, with beautiful hazel eyes that missed nothing and a quiet steadiness that felt like an anchor in the noisy room. He found you by the window seat you designed for Dana and her husband, a cozy nook for them to decompress.
"Dana said her home finally feels like a place where the adrenaline can drain away," he'd said, his voice calm and measured, a stark contrast to the usual party chatter. "That's a rare gift to give someone."
An hour later, Jack asked for your number, and his gaze was direct and unwavering. He called the next day. He took you to a quiet, unpretentious restaurant. He was direct. No games. He listened, really listened, when you talked, and his questions were insightful. He kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth when he dropped you off at home. Jack waited a respectful but not distant couple of dates before he took you back to his place.
That night, he fucked you in a way you'd never been fucked before. It wasn't just the sex (though that was transformative). It wasn't just his deep, purposeful strokes that seemed to reach something untouched inside you, and his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that felt like being seen for the first time. It was the way he took command of your pleasure. It was the way he worshipped your body with his mouth and hands. He knew exactly where to apply pressure, where to linger, leaving you utterly shattered and reassembled in his arms.
He asked you to be his girlfriend a week later. Was this how men in their 40's were? No slow burn, no months of "seeing where things go," just a decisive, full-throttle commitment? A month later, he bought you the exact expensive electric toothbrush model he used, in a different color, and it was already charging in his bathroom holder next to his. He didn't just give you a drawer at his house after 2 months; he cleared out an entire section of his walk-in closet, saying, "Hangers are better than a drawer. Things don't get wrinkled." After 3 months, he surprised you with a weekend at a rustic-but-luxurious cabin in the Laurel Highlands.
You were curled on the oversized leather sofa, the fire crackling, a blanket over your legs. Then he turned his head, his gaze finding yours in the flickering light.
"I love you," he said, the words leaving his lips as a simple, undeniable fact, like stating the time or the weather. Your heart didn't flutter; it seized. A cold, sharp panic shot through your veins, freezing the cozy warmth of the moment. Your smile felt stiff, plastered on.
I love you launched after a mere 12 weeks?
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You could see the exact moment he registered your panic—a slight tightening around his eyes, a microscopic shift in his posture.
So…you kissed him because you didn't know what to say—but you didn't say it back.
After returning to Pittsburgh, your panic made you pull away. You created distance with flimsy excuses about a crushing work deadline, about needing "headspace" to focus. You became short over text, cancelling plans at the last minute. One night, you started a fight over something trivial—and in your fear, you ended it. It somehow felt safer than confronting the terrifying, perfect weight of his love.
The words "I think we need to break up" tasted like shit in your mouth. "This is all going too fast for me. I'm… just not in the same place as you."
He didn't yell. He just went very still, his hazel eyes analyzing you.
"Okay," he said, his voice flat.
You broke up with the most substantial man you had ever known because his love felt too real, too fast, and you weren't sure you were built to handle it. The truth was you loved him too, and that was the most terrifying part of all. Because love, in your experience, was a prelude to loss. It was a vulnerability you couldn't afford. Letting him go now, while it was still early, was a mercy. For him, and for you. Staying would only mean watching him eventually see the real, flawed, frightened you—and then, he would inevitably leave. That was the unspoken script you knew by heart. So you took the pen and wrote the ending yourself, a tragic but controlled finale.
He would have been a good father, you suddenly thought.
You didn't even know if you wanted kids. The future had always been a vague, hazy concept you preferred not to examine too closely. In an instant, ugly sobs racked your body. You cried until your throat was scraped raw and your head throbbed. But the terrible truth was you didn't know what you were grieving. Was it the ghost of a child who would have had his calm eyes and your stubborn streak?
Or… were you simply, finally, grieving Jack?
You decided not to contact him.
Of course, the responsible thing to do after a secret, soul-crushing loss was to get blindingly drunk with your girlfriends days later. You laughed too loud, you danced with a frantic energy, and you still hadn't told a soul. By last call, the world had a pleasant, fuzzy edge. You ordered an Uber, fumbling with your phone. You were going to type in your address… but your fingers (traitorous and memory-laden) didn't type that. They typed in an address your heart knew by muscle memory: Jack's. It was a silly, drunk girl idea. He was probably at work. But a small, desperate part of you whispered that maybe, just maybe, he had a rare night off. You weren't falling-down drunk, but you were floating, untethered enough for grief and cheap vodka to steer the ship. That's why you had the dumb, beautiful, catastrophic idea to tell the driver to take you to him.
It was 2:07 am when the Uber pulled up to his familiar house. You stepped out and stood on the sidewalk, the night air cool against your skin, while you stared at his house. The liquid courage was rapidly souring into pure, cold terror.
What were you going to say?
You hesitated outside his door, and then finally rang his doorbell. When you didn’t see any lights turn on after a minute, you let your knuckles fall against the wood, three soft, uncertain taps. The silence on the other side stretched, long enough for you to start backing away. Then you heard the deadbolt turn.
The door opened, not all the way, just enough to reveal him. He was in a worn gray t-shirt and sweatpants, hair slightly mussed since he had clearly been fucking sleeping. His face shifted from mild, late-night annoyance to blank shock, then to something unreadable. His eyes scanned you quickly, taking in your slightly smudged makeup, your dress that was way too short, and the way you swayed just a fraction on your feet.
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. All the rehearsed lines, the drunken confessions, evaporated. You just stood there, exposed, waiting for him to shut the door. He didn't. He let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders dropping slightly.
"Are you drunk?"
A weak, defensive laugh escaped you. "I was," you joked, the words feeling hollow. "But I'm feeling pretty sober right now."
It was the truest thing you said all night. The sight of him, the reality of being here, had burned away the alcohol's haze. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, and he pulled you inside, your body stumbling across the threshold. You automatically toed off your heels, and he guided you, his hand now a steady pressure on your lower back, to the familiar couch. You sank into the cushions, the soft fabric smelling like him, like home. You watched him move to the kitchen, his back to you and the muscles in his shoulders tense. His gait was slightly uneven, a subtle hitch in his step that you hadn't noticed earlier. You felt guilty since he had to put his prosthetic back on when he answered the door. He took a tall glass from the cabinet, filled it with water, then snatched one of those powdered electrolyte packets from a box on the counter. Jack ripped it open with his teeth, poured it in, and grabbed a butter knife to stir the powder.
He walked back over to you, holding the glass out.
"Here. It'll help with the hangover you're building."
"Thanks," you mumbled, the word slurring at the edges as you took the glass. Your fingers brushed his, and you fumbled, nearly dropping it. You took a gulp, and the flavor was aggressively artificial, a shock to your system. He finally sank into the armchair opposite you, the leather sighing under his weight. He dragged a hand slowly down his face, his fingers pressing into his closed eyes.
"Okay," he sighed, the word heavy with exhaustion. He dropped his hand and looked at you, his gaze clear and utterly drained. "Why are you here? And let's skip the part where you were just 'in the neighborhood.' or some bullshit."
You set the half-empty glass on the coffee table with a soft click, the sound too loud in the tense quiet. The words were there… so you forced them out.
"I just..." the words were thick and sticking in your dry throat. "I miss you, Jack."
He let out a short, humorless sound—a scoff that was more like a punch to the gut. He leaned back in the armchair, his expression not angry, but chillingly detached.
"You miss me," he repeated, analyzing the statement.
"Yes."
"You're drunk, and you're lonely. That's not missing me."
You flinched and stared at your hands. They twisted together in your lap, and you felt like you were unable to meet the ice in his gaze.
"I deserve that," you finally said. You wanted to tell him everything. But… the voice in your head was a familiar, cruel critic.
It hissed at you now, slick and poisonous.
Tell him about the miscarriage? It sneered. So he can do what? Console you about the baby you two accidentally created? That's what you want, isn't it? You want to drop this bomb so he has to catch you. You walked away from him, and now that you've failed at that too, you come crawling back to make it his problem. You don't get to use this pain as a key to unlock his kindness. You forfeited that right. You deserve the cold. You deserve to choke on the words you were too afraid to say when they actually mattered.
The voice was so loud, so convincing.
It painted your desperation as manipulation, your grief as a weapon. So you sat there, trapped in the suffocating silence. You just stared at him, your eyes wide, the war inside you rendering you utterly mute. He was waiting. You could see the question in his eyes, the last frayed thread of his patience. But… the words wouldn't come. The critic had won.
"I'll get my keys," he said, his voice devoid of all inflection. He stood up, the movement sharp. "Let me drive you home."
You took a shuddering breath, the tears you'd been holding back finally spilling over.
"I know you don't want me here," you blurted out, a desperate, wet hiccup catching in your throat. You stood up and wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand. "And I know that I don't really have the right to show up here."
"You don't…" he started, then stopped, correcting himself with a brutal honesty. "It's not that I don't want you here. It's that I can't handle you being here. There's a difference."
You swayed slightly on your feet, the emotional vertigo merging with the physical. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a feeble attempt to hold the pieces together.
"I know. And I'm… God, Jack, I am so sorry. For how I ended things. For the way I did it." You swallowed hard, your apology feeling pathetic and small. "I got scared. I see something real, something good, and my first instinct is to run. I push people away before they can get close enough to really see me... or before I can disappoint them."
"Why?"
"Because the higher the high, the harder the fall…" you hugged yourself tighter, the room feeling both too large and too small. The answer was a miserable, well-worn truth you'd carried for years.
He was quiet for a long moment, absorbing your words.
“I know I’m not making any sense… but I don't miss you because I'm lonely or drunk," you paused, gathering the shattered pieces of your nerve, and the truth tumbled out—inaudible. "It's because I love you."
"What?" he asked.
A hysterical, fleeting thought crossed your mind: Of course he didn't hear it. The universe wouldn't let you be that brave. You looked at his frowning face, his eyes searching yours for the answer he missed. So, you took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the very bottom of your soul.
"I said," you repeated. "It's because I love you, Jack."
You watched the shock ripple across his face, and you closed the distance between you in three quick, unsteady steps. Your hands came up slowly, framing his face, your thumbs brushing over the stubble on his jaw.
"You've been drinking. You don't know what you're saying."
"Jack," you whispered, your voice thick. "I know what I'm saying." You tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his. For a few suspended seconds, he didn't pull away. Then, with a rough, shuddering sound that was half-surrender, half-agony, he kissed you back. It wasn't gentle. It was a hungry claiming thing. A 1 month drought breaking in an instant. His hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard, hauling you flush against him. The kiss deepened, turned messy and hot. Your mouth opened under his, and the taste of him (familiar and devastating) unraveled you. A soft, needy whimper escaped your throat as you felt yourself get wet. His tongue swept against yours, blurring into a white-hot haze of sensation and want. You could feel the hard line of his body, the frantic beat of his heart against your own.
But just as you were losing yourself in it, just as your hips pressed instinctively against his, he tore his mouth away. The kiss broke with a sharp, wet sound. Jack’s hands, which had been gripping your hips with bruising intensity a second before, came up and pressed firmly against your shoulders, creating a space between your bodies. His breath was coming in ragged pants, his lips swollen, eyes dark with a storm of desire.
"We can't... I can't do this," he said, the words strained.
"Why not?" you pleaded, the question a raw wound.
"Because when you left… you didn't just walk out the door. You took the sun with you. Do you have any idea what that's like? To have every color... drain out of your world?"
"Jack, I—"
"It’s not your fault," he interrupted, his voice softening into a weary rasp. "I know I came on too strong. I saw a future with you, and I just charged at it. I didn't stop to see if you were running beside me or if I was just dragging you along." He let out a short, humorless breath. "I'm sorry for that. Truly."
The apology was so unexpected and so utterly…Jack. It was a fucking knife twist.
"But…" your voice broke. "I love you. I want a future with you too."
"Sweetheart," he said, the old endearment slipping out, rough and achingly familiar. "You've been drinking."
"Ugh, stop saying that!" you snapped, the words sharper than you intended. “Don't you dare use it as an excuse to dismiss this! Dismiss me, fine. Tell me to go to hell, fine." You jabbed a finger in his direction, the movement jerky. "But don't you dare pretend that what I'm saying is bullshit!"
He rubbed a hand over his face, a slow, heavy drag from forehead to chin, as if trying to scrub away the entire night.
"I'm not saying it's bullshit necessarily." He didn't meet your fiery gaze, instead looking at a point on the floor near your feet. "But—"
"But what?" you pleaded, eyes glossy and slightly unfocused. They locked onto him with a fierce bleary intensity.
"I can't just switch the color back on with you. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
A cold, hollow ache bloomed deep in your chest, spreading outwards until your fingers felt numb.
Maybe not ever.
Maybe not ever.
Maybe not ever.
The repetition of it echoed in the fuzzy chambers of your mind.
"I'll take you home." He shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture closing off. "Seriously, you need to get some sleep. Sober up." The instruction was quiet, devoid of malice, but it was a dismissal all the same. "This... this isn't a conversation for tonight."
"Don't bother," you said, your voice surprisingly steady, though it felt weak. "I'll get an Uber. I've... I've embarrassed myself enough for one night without needing a chauffeur to underscore the point."
"Hey—"
You ignored him, your focus entirely on confirming a ride. You blinked hard, as you shoved your feet back into your heels, your movements hurried and graceless.
"Seriously, I can drive you home," Jack said, his voice closer now, edged with a frustration that wasn't anger but something more helpless. You stood up as the confirmation chime from your phone sounded at the same time.
"Car's here," you stated, opening the door, not turning around, and already walking toward the curb.
He rushed out after you, the door swinging shut behind him. "Wait—" he started, but the bright headlights of a silver sedan swung around the corner. You didn't give him another chance and just pulled the car door open. slid into the backseat, pulling the door closed with a solid, muffled thunk.
Through the window, you saw Jack standing frozen on the sidewalk. The Uber driver, a middle-aged man with a podcast playing softly, said your name to confirm the ride, and you nodded. You kept your eyes forward, refusing to look back as the car pulled smoothly away from the curb. The ache in your chest tightened into a hard, cold knot. The hum of the car, the murmur of the radio, it all felt miles away.
You let your head fall back against the seat, finally allowing the tears to fall silently, the passing streetlights painting fleeting stripes of gold across your closed, stinging eyes.
For weeks, a slow, quiet ache had taken up residence in Jack's chest, a persistent bleed he couldn't stop. That night (your confession) it replayed on a loop.
I love you.
The problem wasn't the memory; it was the question that poisoned it. Had you meant it? Or was it just the whiskey talking?
It was 2:21 am and he was currently standing beside a gurney in a private bay, his focus entirely on the teenage girl before him. She had a deep, bleeding laceration on her forehead and a rapidly swelling bruise around her eye from the airbag. A cervical collar was in place as a precaution. School's out, he thought. The summer months always brought a specific, grim tempo to the OR. Teenagers with time on their hands and poor impulse control as their only guide.
"Just hold still for me," Jack said, his voice calm but firm as he examined the wound under the bright light. "This is going to need a few stitches to close properly. Dr. Ellis is going to get a CT scan to rule out a concussion."
Nearby, Ellis was reviewing the girl's chart on a tablet, nodding. "Ambulance report says she was alert and oriented at the scene. GCS 15. We'll get the scan for definitive clearance."
"Local anesthetic is drawn up, Dr. Abbot." Nazley was setting up a suture tray, laying out the sterile instruments.
"Have the parents been contacted?" Jack asked, not looking up from his work, his focus on the wound edges.
"Just got off the phone," Mateo said, hanging up the wall phone nearby. "Parents are out of town. She's staying with an aunt. The aunt is on her way in now, said she can be here in 15 minutes and gave verbal consent to proceed with whatever we need to do."
"You'll feel a little pinch and then some pressure," Jack injected the anesthetic around the edges of the laceration gently. "Your friend who was driving is getting an X-ray on his arm. We'll know more soon."
As if on cue, the curtain to the bay rustled aside. Shen and Crus walked in.
"Update on the driver. X-ray is back," Shen said with a tablet in his hand. "It's a confirmed, non-displaced fracture of the distal radius. A clean break. Ortho is with him now. He's stable and alert." Shen paused, his eyes locking onto Jack's, then flicking to the girl on the table. She was staring at the ceiling, a single tear falling through the grime on her temple. "But the tox screen came back. We found alcohol in his system."
Jack let out a soft, sharp tsk from between his teeth. He shook his head slowly, his lips pressing into a thin, grim line.
"Is he going to get in trouble?" the girl asked.
"Yes," Jack grunted. "But, if it's his first offense, he'll probably just lose his license for a year and get to pick up trash on the highway every Saturday. Community service is a real blast. Very scenic". Jack picked up the needle holder. "You'll feel the first stitch now." The first stitch went in with a precise, sharp tug. The girl's breath hissed between her teeth.
"I'm so gonna be grounded for, like, the rest of high school," she mumbled, the words thick with self-pity and the dawning reality of parental wrath.
"Being grounded implies there's a home to go back to," Jack said, as he placed another neat stitch. "It implies people give a shit about you. That's not the worst problem to have," He tied off the suture.
A faint, almost unwilling snort of watery laughter escaped the girl.
"Look at it this way," he continued, his voice taking on a darkly pragmatic, almost amused edge. "You weren't driving. So, technically, you're having a significantly better night than your friend. He gets a cast, a court date, and a lifelong lesson in poor decision-making." Jack placed another stitch. "You get a cool scar and a thrilling story you can maybe embellish later, and a very, very long lecture from your aunt—and later your parents—about picking better friends. You're looking at a few weeks without your phone. Maybe a few extra chores. It's a better deal. Trust me."
"A scar?" the patient blurted out, her voice rising an octave. Her breathing became rapid and shallow, bordering on hyperventilation. Jack let out a slow, patient breath. He finished the stitch he was working on and then deliberately set his tools down on the tray.
"Look at me. Breathe." He waited for a beat until her wild eyes focused on his. "It's not forever. I'm using the finest sutures we have. With proper care—keeping it clean and using the ointment we'll give you—this is going to fade. In a few months, it'll be a faint line. In a year, you'll have to squint to see it." He made eye contact, holding her gaze. "Now, the stiller you hold, the straighter and smaller this temporary mark will be. Deal?"
She stared at him, her panicked breaths beginning to slow, hitching on a sob that was more relief than fear. She gave a tiny, jerky nod.
"Deal," she smiled, and then squinted her eyes. "You look familiar."
"I do?" Jack blinked, his brow furrowing just a touch.
"Yeah."
"I don't think we've met. I'd remember. I'm pretty good with faces."
Suddenly a voice from the hallway outside the curtained bay was muffled but unmistakable—a nurse's firm, professional baritone trying to block someone. "Ma'am, you can't just—" Then, came a second voice. Sharper. Panicked. And it shouted the girl's full, legal name. His head snapped up, his eyes, wide and suddenly stripped of all professional detachment, locked onto the curtain. Every muscle in his body went rigid because he recognized the voice.
"What the fuck," he breathed. He was already turning, his stool scraping back violently on the floor as he stood up. The commotion outside intensified. The nurse's voice grew more insistent.
"Ma'am, I need you to wait in the family area. The doctors are with her now." But the other voice, rose above it, raw and frayed at the edges with a terror. "That's my niece! She's a minor, let me see her!"
Jack's hand shot out and yanked the faded blue privacy curtain.
And there you were.
Your gaze, locked on the arguing nurse, snapped toward the sudden movement. It swept past the opening curtain, past the medical bay, and landed directly on him.
"Jack?"
Then, from behind Jack, a small, shaky voice pierced the stillness. "Auntie?"
Both of your heads turned in unison toward the bed.
"I can explain," she whispered, the words trembling.
After Jack confirmed your niece was fine and finished her stitches… the adrenaline that had been holding you together drained away all at once. In its place, a cold, sharp fury ignited in your chest, so sudden and intense it stole your breath. The fear was gone. Now, you were just pissed the fuck off. Especially when you noticed that your niece wasn't in the oversized, comfortable sweatshirt and pajama pants she had left your house in. She was wearing a black, sheer-mesh top over a tight, silver bralette, and impossibly short denim skirt. The outfit screamed "party," not "sleepover at Hannah's house."
"You said you were going to a sleepover," you stated, each word precise and icy. "You lied to me to go to some party, get drunk, and God knows what else!"
"Her tox screen came back clean, actually," Ellis muttered.
"Shut up," Jack mouthed at Ellis.
"What are you wearing?" you gestured sharply at her, your hand slicing through the air toward her outfit.
"It's just clothes! Everyone dresses like this!" she defended.
You leaned a hip against the bed rail, crossing your arms.
"Uh-huh. Sure. It's very scholarly." You let the silence hang for a beat, your eyes not leaving hers. "Who's it for?"
Your niece's mouth opened, then closed. She looked from you to the ceiling, anywhere but at you. "What? No one. It's not for anyone."
"Honey, I know the look," you growled. "I invented the look! I wore a skirt shorter than that in 2008 for the captain of the hockey team. I froze my ass off that night. So, I know the 'I'm trying to catch a specific person's eye' outfit when I see it."
Your niece stared at you, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her defensive pout at the oddly specific memory. Mateo let out a low, amused chuckle from his spot by the monitors. Jack's head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, warning glare.
Keep it the fuck professional
He held her gaze until Mateo gave a slight, chastised nod, the smirk vanishing from his face as he turned back to her charts with exaggerated focus.
"He's... he's not an athlete," you heard your niece say.
You raised a single eyebrow, your expression shifting to one of dramatic, knowing suspicion.
"Oh. I see." You leaned back, tapping a finger against your chin. "Not an athlete. So…the plot thickens. Let me guess... the brooding artist type? Smells like cigarettes?"
"He's a musician," she mumbled, looking down at her hands.
"A musician!" you declared. "He's a singer?"
"He... he plays guitar," she rolled her eyes.
"Ah! A guitarist!" you announced, throwing your hands up as if she'd just revealed a profound truth. "Of course! Slightly better than a bassist, marginally worse than a drummer."
Shen choked slightly on his coffee, a laugh muffled into his fist. Jack crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and despite his stern demeanor… his lips twitched slightly at the corners. He was always so attracted to the fact that you could use sarcasm and humor even during the most serious of situations.
"Okay, I get it!" your niece snapped. The tears were gone, burned away by a surge of defensive anger. She glared at you. "I messed up. You've made your point. No need to be so over the top about this. You're being so dramatic!"
Jack, sensing the nuclear family drama reaching critical mass, cleared his throat softly.
"You know, we're just gonna step out for a minute," Jack said, voice calm and diplomatic. "Let you two... do your thing." You gave Jack a single, curt nod. He gathered a chart from the counter and motioned for everyone in the room to leave. They clearly wanted to stay and watch the fight, but he wanted to give you some privacy. He was the last one out, but as Jack reached the doorway, he paused. His hand rested on the frame, and he turned back.
"You're lucky to have an aunt who loves and cares about you this much," he said, his words directed at your niece, but his eyes were already shifting— his focus landing squarely on you. You hadn't seen him since that fucking embarrassing night when you made a fool of yourself.
"She seems like a good kid," he said. Then, he let the door click softly shut behind him, leaving you both alone.
The silence that followed was thick.
"Dramatic?" you repeated, taking a deliberate step closer to the bed. Your eyes locked on hers, and you could see a flicker of uncertainty replace her anger. "You think this," you said, your voice trembling now not with suppressed laughter but with unraveling fear, "is me being dramatic?" You leaned in, your face now just inches from hers. "I got a phone call from the hospital at 2 fucking am telling me that you got into a car accident with a random guy. I drove here not knowing if you were conscious. I'm not your legal guardian, so they wouldn't tell me anything over the phone. 'Are you family?' 'I'm her aunt.' 'Are you listed as an emergency contact?' 'No, but—' 'We can only release information to parents or legal guardians.' Well, guess what? Her parents are 2 thousand miles away right now. So what can you tell me? The person who is fucking here!"
Her lower lip trembled.
"Why did you get into that car with that boy? You're smarter than that. I know you are. And why, for the love of god, didn't you call me? I have always told you, the one rule, the only rule that matters, is that if you're ever in a bind, you call me. No questions asked. No judgment. Just... call. And I'll come. I'll always come."
"I was going too," she swallowed hard. "The truth was… he seemed perfectly fine. He was laughing, he was walking straight, he was making sense. Everyone was saying I was overreacting, that he was just buzzed. And I started to feel… lame and stupid for worrying."
You sank slowly onto the edge of the hard plastic chair beside her bed, your shoulders slumping. Reaching out, you took one of her hands in both of yours, your thumbs rubbing gentle circles over her knuckles.
"Look," you began, your voice softer now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. "I know you and your friends see me as the cool, fun aunt who doesn't snitch about their secret tattoos, piercings, and relationships. And… I mean, I would be lying if I said that I didn't do my share of monumentally stupid shit in high school. I did." You looked up, meeting her watery gaze directly, your expression deadly serious. "But I never, ever got into a car with someone if I even suspected they had a sip of alcohol. Not once. That wasn't a rule from my parents. That was a rule I made for myself."
She nodded.
"Come here, you little shit," you murmured.
She didn't hesitate and buried her face in your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head. You could feel the dampness of her tears through your shirt, and you pressed a kiss to her temple.
"You scared the living hell out of me," you whispered into her hair.
"I know," she mumbled, her voice muffled. "I'm sorry. Really."
Finally, she pulled back, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.
"So," she said, her voice still a little wobbly. "That's the guy you were dating?"
"Yeah. That's him," you busied yourself smoothing down her rumpled hospital gown. "How did you know?"
She gave a small, knowing shrug. "Saw his badge. And... I recognized him from the picture you sent me."
A slow, reluctant smile touched your lips as the memory surfaced—the empty cartons of Chinese food, the truly awful monster movie roaring on the TV, and Jack, snoring softly on your couch before the credits even rolled. You had taken a picture of him (he didn't know), and you sent it to her as a secret, a piece of your private world.
Might bring this one around soon… you had texted her.
But… that never happened.
"He's really funny and nice, Auntie," she said softly, leaning her head back against the propped-up pillow. "I like him. Do you think you'll get back together?"
"I don't know." The ache in your chest was sudden and sharp, a physical tightness that made your next breath feel shallow. You couldn't talk about Jack, so you changed the subject.
"So. This boy. The one who caused all the… excitement," you rolled your eyes. "What's this stupid boy's name, anyway?"
Her face instantly transformed, the previous softness replaced by a vibrant, eager light. She leaned forward, wincing only slightly. "Tyler," she said, the name bursting from her with giddy energy. "His name is Tyler. And he…" she bit her lip, "...he kissed me tonight," she finished in a rushed, breathless whisper.
You stared at her. The dreamy look in her eyes—it was a mirror. A perfect, agonizing reflection of your own younger 16 year old self, diving headfirst into infatuation with a charming smile and zero forethought. Falling for some boy who wasn't exactly the best influence. The kind of kid who'd drink and drive.
"Tyler, huh? Well, I'm sure when your Mom and Dad hear about this, their first thought will be, 'We must invite this fine young gentleman for dinner!'"
You watched the horror solidify on her face from your sarcastic comment. The giddy afterglow of the kiss was gone, completely incinerated by the cold blast of consequence. And, honestly, there was no way your brother would be into wanting to meet this kid. There's no way he would be fine with his daughter having a crush on the kid who caused her to get hurt.
"Which reminds me… let's give them a call." You stood up, the chair screeching back, and pulled out your phone. Your thumb found her mom's contact. You hit dial. It rang once, twice.
"Hello…?" Your sister-in-law's voice was tiny through the speaker, laced with confusion and a hint of sleep. You felt bad because they were on a long-overdue romantic getaway vacation in Belize while your niece was staying with you. "Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay?"
You closed your eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of your nose.
"Um…"
You were jabbing at the button for the salt and vinegar chips. The machine whirred, clunked, and nothing happened. You sighed, leaning your forehead against the cool glass.
"Stupid piece of…" you muttered, giving the machine a half-hearted kick with the toe of your shoe.
"Pro tip: the one on the third floor by psych only takes exact change, but it always delivers. This one's a heartless bastard. I think it enjoys watching the suffering," a familiar voice said from behind you.
You turned. Jack was leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, looking amused. He pushed off and walked over.
"Listen," he said, his tone shifting to doctor mode. "We got the scans back. She doesn't have a concussion."
"Oh. Good. That's… really good," you managed, the words feeling inadequate.
"It is," Jack agreed. "But we're gonna keep her overnight. Just in case. Standard protocol."
"Yeah," you said, a weak, humorless laugh escaping you. "Her parents are gonna love that medical bill. 'Happy Anniversary' to them.
"You should go home," he said gently. "You look exhausted."
"Is that your professional medical opinion, Doctor? Or your way of saying I look like shit when I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown?"
"You never look like shit," he insisted, and his voice was completely serious.
"I'm too wired to go home," you admitted and then wrapped your arms around yourself. "I'll just… crash in the waiting room once I feel tired."
Jack studied your face for a long moment.
"I can get a cot brought into her room, so that you sleep in there with her," he reassured. He knew how much your niece meant to you, and he knew how scared you must have been tonight.
"Really?" you asked, the word coming out small and hopeful, betraying how much the idea of leaving her alone terrified you. "I thought no overnight guests were allowed in the rooms?"
"Fuck that. I'll put the order in. It'll be there in twenty minutes."
Your vision was suddenly completely blurry.
"Hey," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Everything's okay. She's safe. The scary part is over."
He didn't ask. He just stepped forward and opened his arms.
And you broke. The dam holding back the night's terror and relief and sheer fucking overwhelming responsibility finally shattered. You stepped into the hug, burying your face against his scrubs, and the tears came hard. After a minute, the storm passed. You pulled back, sniffling wetly, your face a mess. A fresh wave of embarrassment washed over you.
"Sorry," you mumbled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I'm getting snot all over your scrubs."
"They've seen worse than your snot, trust me." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled packet of tissues, offering it to you. "Here."
You dabbed clumsily at your eyes, then your nose. A few strands of your hair, damp with tears, were stuck to your cheek. As you sniffled, Jack's hand came up again; he gently brushed the wet hair away from your skin, his fingertips tracing a soft path from your temple to behind your ear.
The harsh fluorescent light caught the subtle flecks of emerald and moss in his irises.
You took a half-step back, breaking the gentle contact. "I'm… I'm sorry I ambushed you that night. It was fucked up." He opened his mouth, likely to offer one of his easy dismissals, but you cut him off, "No, seriously. It was. I was a mess, and I dumped it all on you." You swallowed hard, holding his beautiful, concerned gaze. "But I really did mean what I said. Every word of it."
His Adam's apple bobbed visibly.
You looked down at your hands, twisting the now-soggy tissue. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "And there's… there's another reason I came over that night."
"What reason?" His brow furrowed.
"I had a miscarriage," you forced yourself to meet his eyes again, the hazel green now seeming like a deep, troubled sea. "…the week before. I didn't even know I was pregnant until the OB-GYN told me," you let out a gasp that bordered on a sob. "And I'm realizing I'm probably saying this at the worst possible fucking time, with my niece in a hospital bed down the hall, and…" you gestured vaguely at your own tear-stained face, at the whole chaotic scene.
"Why didn't you tell me the day you found out?" he swallowed hard, as if fighting down a wave of nausea. The thought of you alone, carrying that secret and that pain while he sat across from you that night (fucking oblivious) made his stomach clench violently. "I would have… God," He cupped your jaw, his thumb pressing gently against your cheekbone. "I would have… I would have been there. Properly."
"I-I don't know," you choked out. "I guess… I guess I was punishing myself."
His expression shattered.
"I wish you hadn't done that", he pulled you tight against his chest, as if he could physically pull the lingering pain out of you and into himself. He couldn't stop his tears from falling and getting lost in your hair when you kept apologizing—he begged you to stop. Then, his lips pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. He held the contact for a long, trembling moment before he reluctantly eased back.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, the words gruff, almost desperate. His thumb stroked your cheek, a shaky, repetitive motion as if to soothe himself as much as you. Jack realized he could have been a father (if you had chosen to keep the child) and that was something he was still processing. "Is there anything I can help you with? Do you need anything?"
"I'm okay. Really. I'm doing better now. It was just... super hormonal at first. A real shitstorm of feelings. Questioning my fertility, you know, all the fun fucking stuff." You tried to inject a note of dark humor into your voice.
"Listen to me," his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that brooked no argument. "A miscarriage does not mean something is wrong with you. It is not a verdict on your body or your future."
"Can't you tell I'm great at catastrophizing?" you joked. "Gold medalist, right here. I’m great at taking a situation and immediately spiraling it into the worst possible, most permanent outcome. It's a real talent.”
"You can't live your life like that," he shot back. "You can't let the fear of what might happen dictate everything. It's a fucking prison."
"Logically, I know you're right. But knowing something in my head and... and feeling it in the pit of my stomach are two very completely different things."
"You're the smartest person I know, and you're telling me your stomach's outvoting your brain?" he teased.
"Apparently," you sighed dramatically. After more conversation, he couldn't seem to let go of the concern lingering in his eyes. He kept checking in on you, softly asking if you wanted to sit down or just be held. Each time, you reassured him and insisted you were fine—you promised him that you had processed it, and felt like you were finally moving forward. Despite your words, he still reached for you again and again, pulling you into comforting hugs.
Just then, Shen’s voice cut through the hallway.
"Yo, Abbot! Incoming. One critical head injury, possible spinal. They're rolling in now."
Jack's head snapped toward the sound. Shen stood a few yards away, a chart in hand, his brow furrowed in clear, blatant confusion as he took in the intimate scene of Jack's hands on you. A war flashed across Jack's features—duty versus need.
With a ragged sigh, he turned back to you to lean in and press a firm lingering kiss to your forehead.
"Fuck—I gotta go," he murmured against your skin, his breath warm.
"It's okay," you reached out to gently squeeze his arm.
"Go sleep. Please," he begged, nudging his nose against yours.
"You got it, Doc."
Jack stood on the front step of your townhouse, his finger having just left the doorbell. It had been 2 days since he'd discharged your niece, handing you a prescription and a stern look, telling you to keep him updated. The texts that followed had been brief—your updates on her pain level and him checking in. So here he was making an excuse about examining your niece's stitches that felt flimsy even to him. He shifted his weight nervously. In his hand was a modest, cheerful bouquet of sunflowers and daisies wrapped in brown paper.
Your niece looked up at him when she answered the door, her small face marked by the healing sutures on her forehead and the large bruise beneath her eye. She recognized him immediately, her eyes widening just a fraction.
"Dr. Abbot," she stated.
He crouched down, bringing himself closer to her level, the flowers rustling slightly in his grasp.
"You can call me Jack," he said, his tone warm but measured. His eyes, however, were already moving in a clinical sweep—assessing her forehead, the color and swelling of the bruise, and the alertness in her gaze. "How are you feeling?"
"Okay." She shrugged one shoulder, a gesture that looked both innocent and strangely mature. "But my parents are due back tomorrow from their vacation. They cut their trip short, so I'm preparing for a lecture that will last until I graduate college and a probable ban on anything fun."
Jack's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Ah, the parental debrief. A tough crowd."
"Are those for my aunt?" she pointed at the bouquet in his hand.
They are actually for you," he said, offering them to her.
,"Thank you."
She took the offered bouquet carefully, bringing the bright blooms to her nose for a tentative sniff. A small, pleased smile touched her lips before she looked back up at him.
"She's taking a shower," she announced, as if revealing a minor secret. "But you can come inside. It's fine."
Your niece stepped back, holding the door open wider for him. Jack rose from his crouch and crossed the threshold, the familiar, faint scent of your townhouse—something subtly sweet, like your perfume he loved so much—washing over him. He followed your niece, watching as she went straight to the kitchen counter. She pulled a simple glass vase from a lower cabinet, filled it at the sink with a focus that made him smile, and carefully arranged the sunflowers and daisies. She placed the vase in the center of the dining table with a satisfied nod.
Turning back to him, she clasped her hands in front of her. "Would you like some water?" she offered, her tone impeccably formal.
"Sure," he chuckled. "I'd love some water. Thank you."
She nodded and turned to get a glass, her small frame moving with purpose. As she carefully filled it from the filtered pitcher in the fridge, she glanced over her shoulder at him.
"You know," she said, her voice casual but her eyes sly, "I didn't realize doctors still made house calls."
Jack leaned a hip against the counter, accepting the water she handed to him with a grateful nod. The comment was playful, but also perceptive. Had you told her about him? Or was he just 'Dr. Abbot' (who happened to have a concerningly detailed knowledge of your preferred takeout order) that signed off on those discharge papers the other day.
"They usually don't," he acknowledged, taking a sip. "But this is a special exception."
She smirked, leaning against the opposite counter.
"Right. Special exception." She drew out the words just a little.
Just then, the sound of footsteps came from the staircase. Your voice, slightly raised with exasperation, floated into the room before you did. "What the fuck? Are you on your god damn phone? You're in deep shit, remember? I told you, and your parents told you no phone—"
You appeared in the archway to the living room, and the words died in your throat. Jack's gaze snapped to you. You were standing there, a bath towel wrapped securely around your body from chest to mid-thigh. The towel was modest, but it outlined the shape of your breasts and hugged the dip of your waist. Beads of water trailed down your collarbone. He knew exactly where they were heading, knew the taste of your skin there. His mouth went dry despite the water in his hand.
"Jack," you said, your voice a mix of surprise and something softer. You adjusted the towel at your chest, a reflexive, self-conscious gesture that made his stomach tighten. "I—uh—didn't know you were here."
He cleared his throat, setting the water glass down on the counter.
"House call," he smiled toward your niece, who was watching the exchange with keen interest. "Checking in. She passed with flying colors."
"Good to know," you answered.
"Well, since my warden has descended," your niece said, motioning toward you, "For my last supper, we were gonna order some sushi and re-watch the OG Mean Girls. You should join us, Jack."
"Oh, I think Jack," you shifted on your feet, the towel feeling suddenly very small. "—I mean, Dr. Abbot—has better things to do," you said quickly, your voice a little too high.
Jack's eyes never left yours. He caught your nervous energy. He wanted to chase it.
"I would love to," he said. "If that's okay with your aunt."
The direct question, asked in front of her, pinned you. You swallowed, then gave a small, almost nod. "Sure. That sounds... nice. Let me just go get changed."
You turned to head back upstairs. A knowing smirk played on your niece's lips as she looked directly at Jack once she heard your bedroom door close.
"By the way. I totally love that necklace you got my aunt. Her birth month constellation necklace," she winked at him.
Jack felt a hot, sharp thrill cut through the awkwardness.
So she knew.
You could not believe that Jack had never seen Mean Girls before.
The sushi was spread out on the coffee table, and Mean Girls was queued up. Your niece had claimed the middle cushion of the sofa, forcing you to sit on one side and Jack on the other. She was the buffer, but she also felt more like a chaperone. As the movie played on, the initial awkwardness began to melt into something warmer, more comfortable. Jack found himself asking questions, genuinely engaged. You'd explain a nuance, and your niece would jump in with a modern example, creating a running commentary. Jack's arm was stretched along the back of the couch behind your niece. His fingers, however, were just close enough that the very tips occasionally brushed against the sleeve of your sweater where it lay over the sofa back.
When Aaron Samuels asked what day it was, your niece chimed in perfectly on cue with, "It’s October 3rd," A few scenes later, during the infamous "She doesn't even go here!" rant, Jack let out a genuine chuckle, shaking his head. During a lull in the action, Jack leaned forward slightly to look past your niece at you. He picked up a piece of salmon nigiri, then asked, his tone one of genuine, baffled curiosity.
"So," he began, "is this… is this really what high school is like for a teenage girl? The… the burn books, the war over a guy, the relentless social calculus?"
You and your niece turned your heads in perfect unison, locking eyes with him. There was a beat of silent understanding between the two of you, a shared female exasperation that spanned generations. Then, in perfect harmony, you both deadpanned:
"Yes."
The simplicity and synchronicity of your answer made Jack lean back, a look of mock defeat on his face.
"Jesus. I'm suddenly very glad I was a teenage boy."
As the credits began to roll after the final "Junior Plastics" scene (where Cady jokingly imagined them being hit by a school bus), your niece let out a contented sigh.
"That," she declared, grabbing the last piece of spicy tuna roll, "never gets old." She stood up, gathering empty plates. "I'm gonna go load the dishwasher and then go to bed. Thanks for joining us, Jack."
"My pleasure," Jack replied. He meant it. The normalcy of it, the domestic bubble of takeout and a movie, was a stark, soothing contrast to the chaos of the ER. For the first time in weeks, the constant, low-grade tension in his shoulders had eased. He was exactly where he wanted to be. With you.
"Hey, Auntie," your niece paused in the doorway to the kitchen with the plates, "I'm sorry you've had to take time off from work to look after me. Or, shall I say, be on house arrest with me."
"Dude, stop. I needed this,” you offered her a warm, reassuring smile. "Seriously. It's been kinda nice just... relaxing at home. No commute, no deadlines. I'm honestly just going to take the rest of the week off even though your parents come back tomorrow."
"Oh, so basically," she said, her tone dripping with mock insight, "if my 'accident' hadn't happened, you wouldn't be enjoying this lovely little 'time off' right now. Is that the story we're going with my parents?"
"Nice try," you let out a short, genuine laugh. "Now go load the dishwasher."
She glanced between you and Jack, her smirk returning. "Anyway, I'm beat. Don't stay up too late talking about…" with a final, knowing wiggle of her eyebrows, "….whatever."
You rolled your eyes.
"Love you, goodnight!" she sing-songed.
"Love you more. Goodnight!" you chirped back.
Both of you heard her loading the dishwasher, and then her footsteps faded up the stairs, followed by the sound of your guestroom door closing. The sudden absence of her bubbly commentary left a thick, intimate silence in the living room. You heard the low hum of the dishwasher beginning its cycle in the kitchen and the faint, rhythmic thump of your own heart in your ears. You could feel the heat of Jack's body from across the space your niece had occupied. His arm was still resting on the back of the couch.
He didn't move it. Instead, he turned his head to look at you.
"She's something else," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He shifted then, just slightly, turning his body towards you. The movement brought his knee within an inch of touching yours on the cushion. His gaze dropped to your throat, to the constellation necklace he bought you, then back up to your eyes.
You smiled, feeling a flush of pride. "I'm sort of obsessed with her.”
"You're great with her. It's obvious that you're a big part of her life. I loved seeing you two together tonight." He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible tension tightening the line of his jaw. "I guess... before, it never felt like you wanted me to meet her even though I knew how important she was to you."
Jack had always known you were close to your family—how you'd often talked about your niece with a warmth that made it clear she was a central part of your world. He remembered you explaining that you and your brother had quite the age difference, and that you'd barley been in high school yourself when your niece was born. While you could technically be her mother, your niece clearly saw you as a big sister.
"I didn't," you confessed with a pained expression, "because I knew if she met you, she'd get attached to you."
"And that's a bad thing?" he frowned, a deep crease forming between his brows.
"No," you cut in softly, shaking your head. "It's just…remember, I'm really good at catastrophizing."
You knew all too well how kids could latch onto someone they cared about, especially when it came to someone their family was involved with. You remembered how she had been so visibly upset when your last serious relationship ended—how her small face had crumpled with sadness at the thought of never seeing him again.
Jack exhaled slowly. "You can catastrophize all the scenarios you want. Hell, you can build a hundred endings in your head." He reached out then, his hand finding yours where it rested on your own knee. His fingers slid between yours, lacing them together with a firm, possessive grip. "But I'm not going anywhere."
The tight coil of anxiety that had lived in your chest since you met him began (hesitantly) to unwind.
"Okay," you whispered, turning your hand in his, and pressing your palm more fully against his.
His other hand went to the delicate constellation necklace at your throat. His touch was startlingly gentle as he hooked a single finger under the chain. He tugged, just enough to pull it away from your skin for a moment before letting it fall against your collarbone.
"So," he murmured, his eyes locked on the point of contact. "No work for you for the rest of the week?"
"Nope."
He dragged his finger along the chain, tracing its path across your skin, the pad of his finger brushing the sensitive hollow at the base of your throat. A shiver you couldn't suppress raced down your spine. He felt it; a faint, satisfied smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
"Well," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate register meant only for you. "In an interesting turn of events, I happen to be off for the next couple of days, too." His gaze flicked down to your parted lips, then back up, holding you completely captive.
"Would you like to go on a date with me tomorrow?" he asked, yanking you over to straddle his lap and wrapping his arms around your waist, looking up at you with heart eyes.
You nodded deliriously.
"That is so fetch," he said with an utterly disarming perfect grin.
A snort escaped you, followed by a full-bodied, helpless laugh that shook your entire frame against his. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, his own laughter mingling with yours.
"Fetch, huh?" you murmured.
"Trying to make it happen," he breathed back, his gaze dropping to your lips.
And then he was kissing you. It started soft, a sweet, lingering press of his mouth against yours. But then the kiss deepened, turning hungry and consuming. One of his hands tangled in your hair, angling your head just so, while the other pressed firmly into the small of your back, arching you against him. You could feel the hard, eager length of him straining against his jeans, which was a thrilling pressure right where you needed it the most. A low, desperate sound escaped you, vibrating into his mouth. Your own hands were frantic, sliding under his shirt to feel the hot, smooth skin of his back, your nails scraping lightly down his spine. He groaned, the sound raw and needy, and his tongue sweeping against yours in a deep claiming rhythm that made your head spin. The kiss turned messy, wet, and perfectly frantic. Jack broke from your lips only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw to your throat, sucking a mark high on your collarbone that you know would bruise.
"We can't," you breathed, the protest weak even to your own ears. The rational part of your brain screamed about the teenager upstairs, the squeaky couch springs, and the sheer insanity of this. But that part was drowned out by the roaring in your blood, by the feel of his hard cock against you, and by the desperate, primal look in his eyes.
"We're not," he countered, his voice a low, velvety rumble that vibrated through your chest. But his actions betrayed him. His hips arched up, grinding against you in a slow, torturous rhythm that drove a ragged gasp from your throat. "We're just kissing."
A breathless laugh escaped you, cut short as his mouth found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin.
"This type of kissing is a felony in several states," you managed to say.
"Only the boring states," he murmured against your skin, his tongue soothing the slight sting. He shifted, one hand sliding to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip. The position opened you up to him completely, the thin barriers of clothing now feeling utterly, agonizingly insufficient. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, and he captured the sound with his mouth. After a few more kisses, you pulled back just enough to see his eyes. They were closed, his long lashes dark against his skin. He looked wrecked, beautiful, and like he was holding onto his last shred of sanity by his fingernails. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart where your chest was pressed to his.
"What should I wear on our date?"
His eyes fluttered open. The want was still there, a banked fire, but it was tempered now by a dawning, rueful awareness of your niece upstairs. His thumb stroked a gentle arc over the bare skin of your thigh where his hand still rested.
"Preferably nothing," he said with a playful edge.
You snickered, shoving lightly at his shoulder, though you made no move to dislodge his hand or your leg from his hip. "Charming. I was thinking more along the lines of that little black dress you always pretend not to stare at."
"I don't pretend," he countered smoothly, his smirk deepening. "I stare openly and with great appreciation. It's the polite thing to do."
You tilted your head. "Well, my boyfriend always did have excellent taste in what I wear… and I love him very much."
His heart slammed against his ribs, a wild, dizzying rush flooding his chest. You said it the other night when you were tipsy, but this… this was different. This was real. This was you, clear-eyed and deliberate, calling him yours and saying you loved him. The happiness that swelled inside him was almost too much to contain, a bright, aching pressure behind his sternum that made his throat tight. His fingers flexed against your thigh, the heat of your skin grounding him as he fought to keep his expression from cracking wide open.
"Oh, you do?" A slow, disbelieving smile curved his mouth.
"I do," you answered.
Jack's hand slid higher on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. "Careful with that kind of talk," he grunted. "A man might start getting ideas."
"What kind of ideas?"
Jack's grin turned wicked. "The kind where I peel that little black dress off you with my teeth as soon as I pick you up for our date tomorrow."
You shivered, nails digging into his shoulders. "Jack…"
"Seems you'll just have to wait until tomorrow," he teased, voice thick with promise. "When I can make good on every filthy thought running through my head right now." He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "And when I can tell you properly that I love you, more."
Simon "Ghost" Riley is not the kind of man to get your name tattooed on his skin.
He is the kind of man to get a red line tattooed, though.
"And what's this one?" You point to a circle-shaped serpent eating its own tail. "What does it mean?"
Simon closes his eyes for a moment, relishing on the feeling of having your hands on him. Your fingertips trace the black ink on his bicep, touch soft, touch too soft for him. Too tender. He shivers.
"Ouroboros," he grunts out, voice thick, as though that should clarify everything. The arm he has wrapped around your middle is pushed away as you sit up on the bed and glare down at him. He holds your glare for a moment, not because he’s returning it, but because your eyes are so beautiful and expressive that he bet he could tell what you're feeling just by the looks you give him.
Right now, you’re feeling mildly annoyed; he's confident in that.
His arm snakes around you, lightly pulling you back to lay beside him again, squeezing your waist as an apology. You relent, allowing him to pull you, resting your head just under his chin. "Means cycle," he murmurs against your hair. "Means..." he sighs heavily, not really into this whole pillow talk thing you’re doing, but indulging you still. Anything for you. "Means eternal cycle. Bein' stuck in it. Never breakin' free; eatin' you away."
That's the meaning he'd attributed to it, when he got that tattoo. Corny in hindsight, but true, nonetheless. Accurately reflects his life; born to a druggie father who'd beat him up, and his brother, and his mother. Grew up to be an angry teen and even angrier adult, so full of rage it scared him. Burdened to a shitty life as a butcher, and stubbornly rejecting it and choosing his own destiny by joining the military didn't help much. More suffering there, more violence, more blood. Different, but at its core, the same. Certainly didn’t stop things from crashing down right in front of him; didn’t stop his brother from following his father's footsteps and shooting junk up his veins. Didn’t stop his family from being killed. Over and over and over again; past, present and future, always been like that for him, full of grief and anger and violence, no matter how hard he tried to break free.
Until you. Until he met you.
You went quiet for a while in his arms, a frown on your face, looking pensive. Simon takes it all in while he can; he takes in the weight of your body against his, the smell of your hair, of your skin, of sex. The feeling of your body rising and falling with your breathing against his ribs, of your warmth, of the little hairs on your forearm that stand up as he traces an aimless finger there. Then you shoot up again, disrupting his quiet relaxation once more.
"Well," you start, turning away from him and rummaging inside one of the drawers on the bedside table. He feels your absence like he’s got a collapsed lung and someone has ripped away the oxygen mask from his face. "You're just perpetuating it, then. With that tattoo."
Simon lifts a skeptical brow. "Meanin'?"
"Meaning," you triumphantly hold up for him a red sharpie, "you're doing it wrong. If you want to break free, you gotta kill the snake."
He watches, immobile, as you uncap the pen and draw a single, thick line across the serpent's neck, like you’re effectively cutting its head off. The red ink contrasts nicely with the black, almost making it look real. Final.
"There," you smile amusedly, though behind your eyes Simon can see the seriousness there. The sternness of you, like you have his shoulders pinned with an iron grip, nails digging into his skin so he can’t tear himself away, an angry frown on your face, teeth bared. Like you’re shaking him, shaking the suffering off him, shaking all of the blood off, the death, the rage, the sadness and the violence. Forcefully cleansing him of the guilt that sticks to his skin like tar. "You've been freed."
Simple as that. Like he has no choice but to accept it. Accept your kindness, your understanding, your mercy. Let it make him into a better man; into a better person. Let you help him to forgive himself.
He'd spent almost a week bent awkwardly over the shower so the water wouldn't wash away your red line.
"If you don't got this exact shade of red ink," Simon had warned the tattoo artist, a scrawny bloke shaking from head to toe, "I'm –" gonna make you do it with your own blood, is what Simon was about to say, but stopped himself before the words had built up. Cutting the snake's head off, or whatever. "I'm leavin'."
captain john price x gn!reader | a gift to anonymous for their donation to Mikinakoos Children's Fund
prompt: john recovers you from a dangerous situation, then takes care of you in the aftermath.
cw: hurt/comfort, armed home robbery, blood, non-sexual nudity
A/N: i wrote this story as a gift as a part of this initiative me and a few other writers are doing to help raise money for the fires in Canada that have devastated Indigenous communities! please donate if you can, or reblog this post to spread the word!
Amber and azure lights bathe your apartment by the time John arrives.
Ambulances and police cars surround the complex like omens, drawing curious eyes from neighbors as their homes suddenly become the backdrop to a crime scene. He can't bring himself to care about the lookie loos in the distance or the body bag being loaded into a hearse. All he can focus on is you.
He never thought that he could grow so close to someone in such a short amount of time. You stir up sensations in the depths of his chest that he hasn't felt since he was younger, and he didn't realize how much he missed it until you stumbled into his life. Pouring rain, clothes soaked, skin glistening as you smiled at him in apology.
Now, the only thing that soaks you is blood.
Sitting on the steps, your hands are limp in your lap as a detective kneels before you. Her posture is professional but kind as she nods along to your rambling while she records it on her notepad. You keep shaking your head. Eyes squeezing shut, you go to wipe at your eyes until you realize you can't with the substance that stains you. Your tears are quiet. The detective hands you a tissue, but it's not enough.
A few officers stop him from approaching you—a job he appreciates as a captain. Keep the area secure. But they don't see the storm raging in his chest. Anger and fear bundled into one from your frantic please, they're in the house text message that stirred him from a dead sleep at half past two in the morning. They don't know how he would rip the world apart to hold you.
"John?"
Tender—your call for him is the only key he needs. They let him pass. Understanding the look on his face, the detective says she has enough information for now, but still gives you her card to call her if there's anything else you want to add. John replaces her spot, kneeling before you with his hands cupping over yours, unafraid of the blood that taints them.
"Are you hurt?" It's the thing that's been eating at him the most. He can heal the emotional and psychological scars, but he wouldn't be able to live with himself if you were injured.
You shake your head. "It's not my blood. It's not my blood."
He has to scrape you off of the steps to get you into his car. Limp like fresh carrion, he guides you the whole way there, leading you to the passenger's seat and buckling you in when you can't seem to get your fingers to work well enough to do it yourself. The drive to his place is quiet. He doesn't bother to turn the radio on as the engine rattles below his feet while you stare through the windshield with eyes he wishes he could polish back into shining again.
Everything is simple once he pulls up to his house—slow. No sudden movements lest he scares you into hiding again. When he opens the door for you, offering you his hand to keep yourself steady as you rise, he expects you to keep quiet but is pleasantly surprised when you speak.
"I want a bath."
He has no qualms about it, and leads you to the bathroom the moment the front door is locked behind him. There's no fuss about being naked in front of him. You're too numb to it. All you can do is sink down into the water John's drawn for you and sit as the plain water dissolves the filth staining you. John stays nearby watching as you pitifully thumb at the dried blood on your hands, but it's all you seem focused on. It still lingers in dry patches along your throat, chin—even the tip of your nose that he loves to pepper with kisses.
Seeing you like this breaks him. It's as if you're holding a mirror up to him when he comes back from overseas, body battered and mind attempting to mend and replace the parts that make him human; but he's just a copy of a copy of a copy. He's so blurred out that sometimes he can't see his true self through the gore.
Unable to handle seeing you like this, John dips his hand in the water and raises it to your face. You don't move or flinch when he rubs his thumb over your collarbone to scrape away the blood, and he's not sure if he should take pride in knowing that you don't fear him, or mourn the smile that should be breaking on your lips at this movement.
"I was so scared." Your voice is hollow. It lacks the lilt of happiness that should be there; that wide-eyed awe he loves to witness in your spirit that now seems snuffed out—ash baked into the ground. "I thought I was going to die when they broke in. I didn't know what to do. Grabbed a knife from the kitchen and I just… I dunno…"
John doesn't stop cleaning you. Each pass of his wet thumb over your body is another inch clean—another inch of you he gets back. He passes over the apple of your cheek and the tip of your nose before you finally look up at him.
"I just kept thinking that I couldn't die. I had to stay alive. For you." Your voice breaks as the tears begin to well up in the corners of your eyes again. "I had to see you again."
Someday, John will tell you about the mantra that keeps him going when he's away from you, and how eerily similar it is to the one you're spewing at him now. He'll tell you about all the things he's done, and how he's done them all for you. For now, he settles for kissing the tip of your nose and revels in knowing that you're safe in his hands.
"You were so brave, darling. I've got you. You did what you had to," he assures before cradling the back of your head. "Let me do the work, now."
there are still some slots open! if you wish to receive a gift in exchange for donating, click here!
I don’t care for grrm slander (re: his unfinished books) because that is my brother in arms. Any writer with an unfinished wip that haunts them day and night understands him. He could never in a million years earn my ire
coming down the stairs in a string bikini with a lil charm dangling in between your tits. jack is sooooo dad about it, standing from the couch with one arm extended as he walks towards you
“uh uh, no way”
“jaaaack it’s cute!” you whine, cocking your hip and placing your hand on the swell as you stand your ground.
“yeah too fuckin’ cute, i can’t pop a chubby on the beach, baby. please, for my sake, change.” he tries, but you know he wants you to wear it. he just loves the teasing faux argument, riles him up, even.
sauntering out the door with a smile and jack rubs his thumb on the bone at the center of your chest. “so fuckin’ sexy, love you” he relents, a soft whisper and rough kiss to your lips before he pulls back to grab the beach umbrella and your tote.
⋮⟢ drabble: jack abbot and his controversially young gf who’s overly possessive (and he loves every second of it!)
⋮⟢ feeling tired couldn’t write a full fic so here’s a self-indulgent thought!
jack dating a girl who hasn’t quite kicked her petty and possessive tendencies™. it’s definitely a learning curve for both of you, and the fact that he is objectively the most charming man you’ve ever met implies that he definitely comes across as that to everyone else doesn’t help your case. what does help, though, is how keen he is on showing you he’s spoken for, has been for a while, and is not planning on looking anywhere else.
he’s both endeared and confused by it. he’s confused when it pops up at random times. he was also confused about how when it first showed up in your relationship – when you started giving him the silent treatment after a barista left a little heart on his coffee – and he felt so giddy proving to you that he’s only got eyes for you. he’d lit up like a christmas tree on the inside at the idea that you’d gotten mad over him. there was probably something wrong with him.
he knew someone else may have considered this somewhat of a red flag. but jack, instead, found that kissing you all over underneath a tree outside the coffee shop – your cheek, your neck, the corner of your cute scowl, hands holding your waist until the sulk gave out – undid you inside of ninety seconds. it also undid him considerably faster.
he’d thrown out the cup without mentioning it, tucking you both into the dappled shade. the bark of the tree caught roughly against his palms where his arms braced your head, and he was too busy watching the tightness drain out of your pretty face to notice the sting of it. he felt the exact second your fists uncurled from where they’d been pressed against his chest, fingers finding the collar of his shirt, forgetting what they were mad about.
this would not be a problem, he’d decided. he’d take about four hundred more of what people considered a ‘red flag’ if it meant you were entirely his to soothe.
he’d be scanning the groceries at self-checkout, and you’d turn to see one of the workers looking at him. your spine went stiff, a frown marring your face. and then you’d start tugging on his sleeve from beside him, telling him to hurry, hurry up, hurry up, let’s go.
“who wants to have their way with me now?” he’d mumble, bumping his hip into yours, still not looking away from the register.
“no one,” you’d say. you didn’t want to boost his ego anymore. “just fucking hurry up now.”
“who is it?”
“me. i do. let’s go home so i can have my way with you.”
he clicked his tongue. “liar. you’re just gonna yell at me.” still, he turned his neck slightly to where yours was, murmuring a small “ah” to himself.
you groaned, but he did speed up. with bags in hand, he turned to walk out with you, placing himself behind you, free palm on your shoulder, thumb finding the curve where your neck met it. you’d come face-to-face with the poor woman you’d theorized was already in love with jack.
“hey, my girlfriend here really wants some lottery tickets. can you let my girlfriend know where she can find them?”
he couldn’t help it! he loves the little way the corners of your mouth curves up whenever he makes it clear that he’s taken.
the woman would blink, an obvious wedding band catching under the lights (jack would snort softly from behind you), as she pointed toward the front counter, entirely married, entirely not the threat you’d decided she was.
“good,” you murmured later, grabbing the lottery ticket as it printed.
his free palm would settle on your waist and he’d murmur, “did i make you happy back there?”
“yup.”
and jack would smile because he truly did feel like he’d won the lottery. he’d watch you over your shoulder as you fussed out a coin, brow furrowed as you did the scratch-off.
“i won two dollars,” you’d say after revealing the last symbol. you’d twist in his arms, ticket held up with a smile like you’d just told him you were pregnant with triplets instead of two dollars richer.
“lucky girl,” he’d say, matching your smile. his mouth would brush your hairline.
“uh-huh,” you’d say, letting him stay there, nose tucked against your hair.
“c’mon then, let’s go.” he’d put his hand on the small of your back after a minute, turning you around, to lead you out. clearly still hanging onto your short burst of jealousy. “before someone else decides to steal me.”
“don’t.”
“i’m vulnerable,” he’d tease.
or you’d go to pick him up in the morning, watching him handover the shift to robby, and then he’d go and say goodbye to one of his patients who thanked him profusely.
when he’d come back out, you’d roll your eyes and turn your back to him, already walking to the exit. “aren’t you just a ladies man?”
robby’d look at jack slightly confused and maybe even a bit put off, but jack would just wet his lips as he watched you leave, looking completely and utterly delighted.
“your girlfriend’s got a jealous streak, i think.”
“she does, doesn’t she?” jack would still be watching the doors you’d gone through, tugging the lanyard off his neck. “i love her. i gotta go.”
robby would rub his chin as he watches the man he’s known for too long look utterly delighted to get chewed out and wonder what the hell was going on in your home.
meanwhile you’d be at the car with your arms crossed, watching jack walk toward you with a little smile on his face that should’ve been wiped off with the long shift.
“i’m sorry,” he’d say immediately, slightly out of breath because he’d sped up to find you. “she thought i was her son,” he said about the patient, an eighty-year-old woman who truly did think he was her son. “but i’m sorry.”
“you’re too old to be her son.”
“too old to be a lotta things.” he’d back you gently into the passenger door, hands finding your hips. “not for this, though.”
and you’d keep going anyway, muttering how he was too nice, that he should only smile at you, that it wasn’t fair, that he was doing it on purpose.
“tell me to shut up,” you’d say out of nowhere, in the middle of your rant, furrowing your brows as he let you go on and on.
“no.” he’d rear his head back like he was confused by the demand. “i’ve wanted to hear your voice for the last twelve hours.”
you’d stare up at him with your mouth slightly open and nothing at all to say. his thumb would come up to press gently on your chin, keeping the expression there.
“there she is,” he’d murmur, pleased. “quiet at last.”
in the car, on the way home, he’d respond to bits of your rant.
“all my patient satisfaction scores are gonna go down.”
“so those are more important than me?”
his hand would land on your thigh as he kept his eyes on the road. “nope. i like the girl more than the scores.”
a lot of the time with you, he’d feel like a puppy getting a trick right. which is why he’d started doing it on purpose; introducing you before he introduces himself, texting you the logistics of his life unprompted, taking your hand in the condiments aisle for no reason, calling you after physical therapy simply because his physical therapist – sam – had touched his arms during the lesson and – like he’d been pavlov’d, some conditioned little bell going off in his head that only you were allowed to touch him – jack felt an immediate pressing need to hear your voice.
he knew that he was only feeding into it, selfishly craving more of your teeth in his shoulder and your fingers wrapped around his forearms in public even if your positioning hardly ever allowed for it.
it was getting out of hand. on a night off, when he’d come in with swat during the day and stayed until the end of day shift, robby and dana asked him to come to the bar and get a drink.
“yeah – let me just ask her if she can come, too.” he immediately said, already pulling out the phone to ask you.
except you were on shift till nine p.m., and you’d said so – go!!! have fun!!! tell dana i said hi!!! – when he texted you. jack made a small noise in his mouth.
“i can’t,” he’d said.
“she’s not letting you go?” robby asked curiously.
no, you’d in fact told him the opposite of that. but he didn’t want to say that, quite liking the idea of you having that hold on him. so, he’d say, “somethin’ like that,” hoisting his bag over his shoulders. “i’m gonna sit in her bar till she gets off. you’re welcome to grab a drink there.”
“so we can all watch your girlfriend make drinks?”
dana would simply chuckle, shaking her head, already knowing that jack would somehow manage to convince half the staff clocking out to come watch you work.
he’d never felt as doted on and claimed as you made him feel. you’d swapped out the ancient bar of soap in his shower for something that smelled like you. there were bobby pins in every crevice of his car now. you’d somehow become his emergency contact, too, leaving robby a little stunned.
you’d spend all night leaving small marks on his body (the crescent of your nails at his shoulder, your teeth marks just below his collarbone that would be evident with one wrong movement under his scrubs) and he loved finding each of it randomly while getting ready.
this is also why he’s so confused when dana brings up your jealousy and how a little bit of couples counseling could help. nothing feels wrong about the relationship at all!
he’d go through all the questions he assumed a therapist would ask.
was he unhappy? not at all. he was actually stupidly happy. he’d started humming in the car and coming home early.
was he worried? about what – that you’d give him the silent treatment for twenty minutes and then hold onto his bicep for hours just to make up for it? that you’d get a bit vicious about someone and then fall asleep on his chest like an overheated animal?
that you sat tucked him in the corner in restaurant booths so you could see the whole room and he could only see you? jack hardly thought there was anything worth looking at besides you anyway.
“even the healthiest couples do it,” dana would say.
“what would it do?” jack would ask curiously, indulging her.
“well.” dana would settle in, elbows on the desk, warmly concerned. “it’ll help with her being less possessive, for starters.”
jack would just look at her, head tilted, genuinely lost. then he’d rub his thumb along his jaw, feeling eerily unsettled by the words. “it’d make her stop?”
“ideally, yeah. that’s the idea.”
oh, he hated that thought. he knew your possessiveness didn’t come out of you being insecure. he knew that it was easy to assume some poor anxious girl white-knuckling her way through the relationship, checking his phone, counting the women, but that wasn’t it.
it came out of you picking him up and putting him in your pocket. you’d simply decided that jack abbot was yours, and so what if you got a little feral when the world got too near him?
“nah,” he’d say, shaking his head as he pressed his lips together. “we’re alright.”
“you may be fine with it. but, she’d have healthier relationships in case – ”
jack’s eyes would widen, and dana would look a little caught off-guard, realizing what she’d said.
“no.” he’d make a small sound, shaking his head again. “we don’t need that, then.”
“jack –”
“she’s not goin’ anywhere.” he’d knock the desk twice. “neither am i.”
“you know what,” dana would say, blowing out a breath. “i believe that.”
later that afternoon, he’d settle on the couch beside you, mind still reeling from the idea of there being an after him for you. his arms would go around your shoulders, pulling you in impossibly close. one hand would fit around the back of your neck, thumb under your jaw, tipping your face up until you had nowhere to look but at him.
“never gonna leave me, right?” he’d ask.
your brows would pull in together, the corners of your lips curving downwards.
“why?” you’d drawl. “planning on doing something bad?”
“nope,” he’d say. “just askin’”
your jaw would tighten as you tried to gauge his expression. “then stop. nobody’s leaving anybody.” you fixed him with a pointed look. “you’re not going anywhere.”
“damn right i’m not,” he’d say. his hands would slide up your neck and into your hair, fingers spreading wide. “say it again.”
you’d laugh shortly. “you’re not going anywhere.”
“mm.” his thumb would drag along the column of your neck as he felt you go pliant under his hold. “again.”
“jack – ”
“humor me, angel,” he’d say, the words coming out in a barely-hidden plea.
“you’re not going anywhere,” you’d say, humoring him, half breathless and the other exasperated. he’d kiss you on the last word, catching it in his mouth before it finished.
the other hand would come down at your lower back and haul you across to settle on his lap.
both your knees would land on either side of him, and his hands would immediately settle on your hips.
“you’re being so strange today,” you’d say, chin tilting up as his mouth dragged down your neck.
“yeah.” he’d smile against your skin. “gonna hold it against me?”
you’d laugh, surprised at the dramatics. and he would smile so hard and spend the entire day proving to you he would never. which mostly meant he let you do whatever you wanted for eleven straight hours.
you’d put a face mask on him. he’d sit there on the couch, a decorated combat medic, and let you take four photos he’d only found out you’d posted when javadi and santos looked at him funnily during handover. he’d let you try different colors of polish on his nails, and then paint yours with the one you liked best.
he’d watch you scroll on your laptop through different clothes, pointing out things he liked, which you’d taught him to do while being visibly delighted the one time he’d said “this one’s nice.” now he did it constantly, never quite holding himself back from voicing his opinions (it was often, he thought everything would look great on you).
jack is exactly where he wants to be! and people would just have to grow used to your claws and your terrible manners spawning out of nowhere, because the man they came out for had no intention of asking you to put them away.
what if simon was nasty and had a job | miniseries
18+. mdni.
blue collar simon x gender-neutral reader au
he's dozing on the couch when you come downstairs from your guest room-turned-office. his burly legs are stretched wide out on the coffee table. you're pissed already seeing his nasty work boots still on. how many times do you have to tell him to take his fucking boots off at the door?
his head's tipped back against the couch, arms crossed on his chest like even in sleep, he has things to handle.
an eye slides open slowly as you take the other side of the couch. "alrigh?"
you rest your head on the couch sideways, looking at him. position yourself so your toes are tucked under his thighs, safe, held down by something. with a shrug and scratching at your cheek, "i dunno. typical client stuff. 'hurry up. now wait. now hurry up. wait. why aren't you done yet?' back-to-back meetings. i'm exhausted."
a hand curls around the top of your foot. squeezes a little. the slow blink of his eyes is the warning. "so tired from usin' that brain all day. usin' that mouth." his voice is sandpaper, the rough mockery rubbing your nerves.
"fuck off," you say without heat.
"maybe that mouth just wants to be filled, huh. so exhausted. maybe just let me do all the work like usual." he palms himself under his dirty work pants, slow and deliberate, tugging himself hard when he sees you shift at his words. "tough day. nobody wants to listen to you. c'mere."
the belt unbuckling is a sting of heat through you. the zipper pulling down has you breathless. he lays your head, a big rough hand curled around your cheekbone and ear, fingertips grazing your crown, on his thick thigh, looking at him. he hasn't showered yet, emerging from the bathroom with skin scrubbed clean. you can tell he smoked today, at least more than his daily limit of two. sweat's built up in layers from the early morning to now, settled on his skin, in his hair.
"too tired to take me out?"
he pulls himself out. a little bit of pearling cum at his slit. you bring a hand up and idly remove the long hair of yours you can see that got wrapped loosely around his cock at some point today, probably getting dressed in the early morning. your fingertips glancing off him has him reaching down to grip around his base. his fingers automatically come down to drag a little over his sac, breaking up the tightness held there.
the angle's not good for any real blowjob, but he just wants to play at you. grasping his root, fingers splayed across the shaft, letting the weight of himself fall and slap at your closed lips. he grunts a little when he sees the sheen of his pre-cum smear over you. he rubs himself up and down the seam of your lips, watching the head pearl up some more in anticipation. "c'mon. open up."
your mouth opens, tongue sliding out to lick your lips in preparation. his eyes are heavy-lidded, gone slack with need. "more." when you listen, he angles his hips and then the head of his cock is laying fat in the shallows of your mouth.
he tastes exactly like himself, only sweatier. musky, baked in earth and sweat, trapped in canvas pants. it only makes you hungrier, pushed into your mouth, the flattened look on his face. reduces you under his cock, his need, his hunger to an open mouth. not a person who spent all day trying to mitigate client expectations or a person who will have to stand up soon and think about supper or a person who will have to remember to update your credit card expiry date on all of your auto-billing payments.
"you need it, eh."
you moan around the head of him as he feeds his cock in deeper. he experiments, pulsing himself in in small increments, the spit line on his cock a clear demarcation of how far he's pushed in.
"jus' close your eyes, lovie."
eyes flutter closed, letting his cock be the only sensory input. a slow drag in, out, grazing your canines, pushing against your tongue. he doesn't want a blowjob. he just wants to fuck this hole. his fingers grip the exposed part of his shaft and shuttle it, the head bouncing on your tongue, and he lets out a soft hiss. won't take him much. he's tired, wants a shower and supper and to sprawl out on the bed with the tv on.
when he starts tensing up, you can't help it and your right arm snakes up to grab onto the meat of his waist, need to feel more of him as he begins to narrow down to his orgasm. you avoid the spot where he's ticklish, and tighten your fingers to avoid the softness that gets him squirming. he jags his cock back and forth into your mouth, his grunts and low long moans scorching you.
his orgasm is silent, words trapped behind his teeth, but his cum flooding your mouth angrily while he tugs fast and short to drain the rest of himself in you says it all. you swallow prettily, dutifully; it's been a few days and it's thick, viscous down your throat.
when your eyes finally open, his are closed. boneless, tension melted off for now. a hand lightly sweeping over your ear and hair.
