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@wifeyreid
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This page is 18+ due to the nature of the content I reblog. Please be respectful of this!
I'm Katie, I'm 23 years old from Ireland.
My current interests are The Fantasic Four, Criminal Minds, Stranger things, Star Wars and The Pitt
I've finished University recently and hope to (while I figure out what to do with my life) start writing fanfiction again! Stay tuned for that!
Masterlist under the cut!
Spencer Reid:
Yes Ma'am
College meet / cute
Solitaire with Spencer
Imagine the level of whimsy I could reach if I just had $5M in my bank account rn
pretty in pink
pairing: eddie munson x shy! reader
w/c: 9.6k+
summary: you finally left your house to have a girls day. shopping, food, friendship- the works. robin and nancy always had your back but eddie- he was your best friend. hes the one who knew you inside and out. but is that all you wanted him to be? maybe a fashion show will change things.
warnings/tags: best friends to lovers, shy reader, typical eddie bullshit, fluff, comfort, alternating POV, smut (oral f receiving, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, eddie trying not to nut in 30 seconds, squirting)
masterlist // join the taglist
You were three stores deep into the kind of afternoon that only happened when Robin got bored and Nancy decided retail therapy was a legitimate coping mechanism.
Your phone buzzed in the back pocket of your jeans just as Nancy was holding up a soft gray sweater against you, head tilted in that critical way of hers. It's not your style but you like to appease her.
Eddie:
bored.
come over.
i have leftover chinese and a new playlist that will either heal your soul or destroy it. your pick.
You smiled at the screen before you could stop yourself. Robin noticed immediately.
“That’s the Eddie face,” she said, already leaning in. “What’s he want?”
“He wants me to come over.”
Nancy raised an eyebrow. “And you’re going to say no because…?”
You typed back while Robin peered over your shoulder.
You:
can’t. already at the mall with robin and nancy. not being a hermit for once.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Eddie:
the mall.
you’re at the mall???
and no one thought to invite me?
i’m hurt. actually offended.
also tbh you’re gonna get overwhelmed and start doing that weird thing you always do
i’m coming.
You stared at the message.
You:
eddie you don’t have to come
Eddie:
already in the van.
tell robin to stop making that face. i can feel it through the phone.
Robin was, in fact, making that face.
Twenty-seven minutes later you were standing near the big fountain on the lower level, arms full of bags. You'd dragged the two of them into Hot Topic and Spencers. Nancy had somehow convinced you that you needed new jeans— so you bought some black ones. Robin had dragged you into a candle store “just to smell things.” And then, because the universe had a sense of humor, the three of you had ended up in Victoria’s Secret.
You were still a little pink about that one.
The pink-and-black bag swung from your wrist every time you shifted your grip. It felt louder than the rest of them somehow. Like it was announcing itself.
Robin was mid-rant about this hot girl who keeps coming into her job when a familiar voice cut through the mall noise.
“Well, well, well. Look at this delinquent little shopping squad.”
You turned.
Eddie Munson was walking toward you like he owned the entire second floor, black jeans with the knees blown out, a faded Dio shirt under an open sleeveless flannel, rings catching the harsh mall lights. His hair was a little messier than usual, like he’d driven with the windows down the whole way. He had that grin on—the one that said he’d already decided this was going to be fun for him and mildly embarrassing for you.
Robin lit up. “Munson! You actually showed.”
“Had to make sure no one was bullying my favorite introvert into buying things she’ll never wear.” His eyes flicked to you, soft for half a second before the performance kicked back in. “Speaking of which… Jesus Christ, look at you.”
He stopped a couple feet away, taking in the armful of bags. His gaze snagged on the Victoria’s Secret one and stayed there just long enough for heat to crawl up the back of your neck.
“Wow,” he said, voice dropping into something almost reverent. “You actually went shopping. I’m proud. Also mildly concerned.”
Nancy smirked. “She needed jeans. And then Robin got involved. And she dragged us into her own stores. And then the lingerie section happened.”
Eddie made a wounded little sound, hand over his heart. “You took her into the den of sin without me?”
You shifted the bags, trying to hide the pink one behind the others. “It’s not that dramatic.”
“It’s a little dramatic,” he said, stepping closer. Close enough that you could smell the faint mix of cigarettes and that cheap cologne he always wore even though he claimed he didn’t. “You okay? You’ve got that look.”
You opened your mouth to say you were fine.
He just raised an eyebrow.
“…I’m a little overstimulated,” you admitted, quieter.
Eddie’s whole posture softened. He reached out without asking and carefully took two of the heavier bags from your arms, including the Victoria’s Secret one. He didn’t comment on it this time. Just hooked the handles over his wrist like it was nothing.
“C’mon,” he said. “We’re doing one more lap so Nancy can finish buying a new pantsuit or whatever, then I’m extracting you. Chinese food’s getting cold and my couch misses your weight on it.”
Robin grinned. “He’s so soft for you it’s disgusting.”
Eddie didn’t deny it. He just looked at you over the top of the bags, eyes warm and knowing in that way that always made the rest of the mall feel a little farther away.
“Yeah, well,” he said, voice low enough that only you caught the full weight of it. “Somebody’s gotta make sure she doesn’t disappear into the void.”
He bumped his shoulder lightly against yours.
“Lead the way, shopping gremlin. I’m your official bag mule for the next twenty minutes. Use me wisely.”
By the time you’d made it halfway through the next stretch of stores, the worst of the overstimulation had started to loosen its grip.
It was Eddie. It was always Eddie.
He walked half a step behind you, still carrying the bulk of the bags like it was the most natural thing in the world, occasionally bumping his shoulder into yours just hard enough to make you stumble and then catch yourself with a laugh. Nancy and Robin had drifted a few feet ahead, deep in a debate about whether a particular pair of boots were too much for the upcoming summer and who wears boots in summer anyway? That left the two of you in your own little orbit, the mall noise fading into background static.
“You’re quieter when you're with them,” Eddie said, voice low enough that it stayed between you. “Not in a bad way. Just… smaller. Like you’re trying to take up less space.”
You glanced at him. “And with you I’m suddenly loud?”
“With me you’re you.” He said it simply, like it was the most obvious fact in the world. “The version that likes to talk shit and snorts when she laughs. I like that version. Miss her when she’s gone.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real heat in it. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m correct.” He shifted the bags so he could free one hand and reach over, gently tugging the sleeve of your hoodie. “Look at you. Five minutes ago you were about to jump into the void. Now you’re about to roast me. Progress.”
“I wasn’t going to roast you.”
“Liar.” His grin was slow and crooked. “You were definitely going to say something about the way I’m carrying these bags like a peasant. Go on. I can take it.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. “You look like a Victorian servant who got lost on the way to a metal show.”
Eddie gasped, hand flying to his chest hard enough that the Victoria’s Secret bag swung wildly. “How dare you. I’ll have you know this is high fashion. Wore my favorite rings just for you.”
“Your rings make you look like you stuck your hand in an antique store display and just bought whatever stuck.”
“Rude.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping into that teasing register he only ever used with you. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mean. Otherwise I’d leave you here with all these bags and go find people who appreciate my good looks.”
You bumped him with your hip. “You wouldn’t.”
“I might.”
“You wouldn’t.”
"Try me."
"There's some mall rats over by Hot Topic. Bet they'd love you."
Eddie looked at you for a second too long, something softer flickering behind the performance. The kind of look that made your stomach do a slow, traitorous flip. He always looked at you like that when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile, or the way your eyes crinkled when you were actually relaxed. Like you were the only thing in the entire building worth staring at.
You felt it. You always felt it. And you looked back at him the same way, even if neither of you ever said it out loud.
Robin’s voice cut through from up ahead. “Are you two flirting or fighting? Because from back here it sounds like both and I hope she wins.”
Eddie didn’t break eye contact with you as he called back, “We’re engaged in battle, Buckley. Mind your business.”
“Sure,” Robin said, entirely unconvinced. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Munson.”
He finally looked away, but the corner of his mouth stayed curved. He shifted the bags again and, without asking, reached over to take the last one from your hand so you were completely free.
“There,” he said, quieter. “Now you can actually exist without any extra weight in your hands. You’re welcome.”
You flexed your fingers, still warm from where the plastic handles had dug in. “You’re being weirdly nice today.”
“I’m always nice to you.” He said it like a fact, not a defense. Then, softer, almost under his breath: “Especially when you look like you’re about two seconds from disappearing into your own head again.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just walked beside him, the space between your arms brushing every few steps. Nancy and Robin had stopped in front of another window display, giving the two of you another pocket of privacy.
Eddie glanced sideways at you, rings catching the light as he adjusted his grip on the bags.
“For the record,” he said, voice low and almost careful, “I like when you let yourself be loud with me. Even when you're being a butt head. Cause I know you're only like that with me. Makes me feel special."
You looked at him. Really looked.
And for a second the rest of the mall—Robin’s laughter, the distant music, the fluorescent lights—dropped away.
“Yeah,” you said, just as quiet. “I like it too.”
Eddie’s smile this time was smaller. Softer. The kind he only ever gave you when the banter peeled back and something truer sat underneath.
He didn’t say anything else.
The drive back was easy in the way things always were with him.
Eddie had the windows cracked just enough to let the warm spring air in, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift like he was half-tempted to reach over and take yours. He didn’t. He just talked the whole way—about how Robin’s taste in shoes was a crime against humanity, about how Nancy had looked at a seventy-dollar candle like she could actually afford it. You laughed more than you had all day.
His apartment was on the second floor of a tired brick building two towns over from Hawkins. The kind of place with a sticky front door and a hallway that always smelled faintly of someone else’s cooking. He’d worked doubles and sold half his vinyl collection to make the deposit after graduation. It showed in the way he talked about it sometimes—quiet pride mixed with the usual self-deprecation.
“Home sweet dump,” he announced as he kicked the door open with his boot, still carrying most of your bags. “Couch has been waiting for you milady.”
It was exactly as lived-in as always. Band posters peeling at the corners. A thrifted couch that had seen better decades. A kitchen table covered in sheet music and empty coffee mugs. The faint smell of the dragons blood incense he always used because you once said you liked it.
He dropped the bags by the couch with a dramatic groan and flopped down, immediately stretching his legs out and patting the cushion beside him.
“Sit. Argue with me. I’ve been waiting all day to be wrong about something.”
You sat. The couch dipped under your combined weight the way it always did.
It started with Iron Man versus Batman, because of course it did.
“I’m just saying,” you said, turning to face him fully, “Tony Stark would fold Bruce Wayne like a lawn chair. The man has an entire AI, flight, repulsors—”
Eddie held up a finger, rings glinting. “Batman has prep time. Prep. Time. That’s his whole thing. He would study every single one of Stark’s weaknesses, build a suit specifically designed to counter the arc reactor, and then—”
“And then Iron Man would still vaporize him from the air before Batman even finished monologuing.”
“You’re underestimating the power of pure spite and a utility belt.”
“You’re underestimating the power of literally being able to fly and shoot lasers.”
Eddie threw his head back against the couch with a wounded sound. “I can’t believe I’m friends with someone this wrong.”
You poked his knee with your socked foot. “You’re just mad because you know I’m right.”
“I’m mad because you’re smug about it.” But he was smiling, soft around the edges, the argument already losing steam in favor of watching the way your face lit up when you got competitive. He loved that version of you. The one that forgot to be quiet.
After another minute of half-hearted defense of Batman’s honor, Eddie finally held up both hands in surrender.
“Fine. Iron Man wins. Happy? You destroyed my entire worldview. I hope you’re proud.”
You grinned. “Extremely.”
He huffed a laugh, then his eyes drifted toward the pile of bags near the arm of the couch.
“Alright,” he said, voice shifting into something lighter, curious. “Show and tell. What’d you actually buy, shopping gremlin? Besides the jeans Nancy forced on you and whatever candles Robin convinced you to buy.”
You felt the heat climb up your neck almost immediately.
Eddie noticed. Of course he did. His expression gentled, the teasing dialing back just enough.
“Hey. No pressure. You don’t have to—”
“Can I…” You hesitated, fingers twisting in the hem of your hoodie. The shyness was back, but different this time. Softer. Safe, because it was him. “Can I give you a fashion show?”
Eddie went still for half a second.
Then the slowest, softest smile spread across his face. The kind that made his eyes crinkle and his voice drop into something almost reverent.
“Yeah?” he said, quiet. “You wanna model for me?”
You nodded, small.
He sat up a little straighter, like he was preparing for something important. “Hell yeah you can. Go on. I’ll be the most supportive, least judgmental audience you’ve ever had.”
He gestured toward the short hallway that led to his bedroom. “Use my room. Mirror’s clean for once. Take your time.”
You stood, gathering the bags with slightly shaky hands. Eddie watched you the whole way, that same look from the mall settled deep in his eyes—like he was trying not to hope too hard, and failing.
Just before you disappeared around the corner, he called after you, voice warm and a little rough around the edges.
“And for the record… whatever you got in that pink bag? I’m already a fan.”
You didn’t answer.
But the door to his bedroom clicked shut behind you with a soft, anticipatory sound, and he leaned back against the couch, his heart doing something stupid and hopeful in his chest while he waited.
Eddie barely had time to scrub a hand over his face and pretend he wasn’t already halfway gone before the bedroom door creaked open.
You stepped out in the black jeans first—ones that actually fit like they were made for you instead of the baggy shit you usually hid in—and a soft, flowy crop top that kept flashing a strip of skin every time you moved. You did a little half-turn, arms sort of awkwardly out like you weren’t sure what to do with them yet.
“Okay,” you said, voice still quiet. “First one. Jeans and… this. It’s kind of floaty. I don’t know.”
Eddie swallowed. His brain helpfully supplied approximately forty different compliments and zero of them felt safe enough to say out loud.
“Floaty’s good,” he managed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees so he had something to do with his hands. “Floaty’s very good. You look… hippie. Very Stevie Nicks. Ten out of ten. No notes. Except maybe do the turn again so I can fully appreciate the jeans.”
You huffed a tiny laugh and spun slower this time. The confidence was still shy around the edges, but it was there. He could see it.
God, he wanted to bottle that sound.
You disappeared again. He let his head drop back against the couch and stared at the ceiling like it might offer him strength. It did not. All it offered was a water stain shaped vaguely like a middle finger.
The door opened a second time.
Black mini skirt. Tight black velvet crop top, cut to look like a bat. The kind of top that looked like it had been designed specifically to ruin his entire life.
Eddie forgot how to breathe for a full three seconds.
“Shopping for summer, you know?” you said, a little stronger this time, doing a small sway that made the skirt flip against your thighs. “Figured I should own at least one thing that isn’t a hoodie.”
“Summer,” he repeated, voice coming out rougher than he meant it to. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Summer. Very… seasonal. The bat is a nice touch. Extremely on-brand for hanging out with me. I’m choosing to take that as a personal compliment.”
You smiled—actually smiled—and did a full turn this time. The skirt flared just enough. The velvet caught the low light of his shitty lamp. Something in his chest went tight and warm and stupid.
Look at you. Look at you getting braver every single time you walk out here. Like you’re remembering you’re allowed to take up space. Like maybe you trust me enough to let me see it.
“You’re staring,” you said, but there was no real accusation in it. Just a little spark of something playful.
“I’m observing,” Eddie corrected immediately. “Very different. Scientific, even. For example… observation one— the skirt makes your legs look criminal. Observation two— I’m going to have dreams about that velvet bat. Observation three— you’re getting less shy about the spins and I am thriving.”
You laughed, bright and real, and the sound did something catastrophic to his heart rate.
Third time.
You kept the mini skirt. Swapped the velvet for a ridiculous shirt from Spencer’s—a bunch of dachshunds with the phrase "Everyone loves wieners" and it's so perfectly you that Eddie felt his face do that soft, helpless thing he could never quite hide around you. You struck a little pose in the doorway this time, one hand on your hip, the other up in the air like you had no idea what to do with it. You probably didn't.
“Behold,” you declared, voice full of mock grandeur. “The intellectual peak of my shopping trip.”
Eddie clapped. Actually clapped, slow and dramatic.
“Masterpiece,” he said solemnly. “I feel smarter just looking at it. The skirt and the wiener dog shirt combination is inspired. You’re a visionary. I’m obsessed. I hope you wear this exact combination to your next outing.”
You were grinning now. Fully. The shy little glances had turned into actual eye contact, like each outfit had peeled another layer of hesitation off you and left something brighter underneath. He watched it happen in real time and felt like the luckiest bastard alive for getting front-row seats.
You walked closer this time, stopping a few feet in front of the couch, doing a slow turn without him even asking. The skirt flared up, giving him the slightest glimpse of the supple curve of your ass underneath. Eddie’s hands flexed against his knees.
You’re going to kill me. You’re going to stand there getting more confident by the second and I’m going to sit here and fall harder every time you laugh at your own joke. And you’re never going to know, because I’m a coward who would rather keep you forever as my best friend than risk saying the quiet part out loud.
You stopped spinning and looked at him, cheeks a little pink but eyes bright.
“Okay,” you said, softer again, but steady. “Are you ready for the finale?”
Eddie felt his entire soul short-circuit.
He sat up straighter, tried to play it cool, failed miserably, and ended up just staring at you with his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and a little wrecked. “I’m ready. Show me.”
The bedroom door opened again and Eddie’s brain helpfully decided it was obsolete.
You stepped out wrapped in the fluffiest pink bathrobe he’d ever seen in his life. It looked like someone had murdered a cloud and dyed it the color of cotton candy. Your hands were buried in the pockets, shoulders a little hunched, that familiar shy tilt to your head that always made him want to gather you up and hide you from the entire world.
“Okay,” you said, voice small. “Finale. Don’t laugh.”
“I would never,” Eddie answered immediately, and he meant it. His voice came out softer than he intended. “C’mon. Show me.”
You hesitated for half a second longer, then slowly tugged the belt loose.
The robe slipped open.
Eddie’s entire nervous system short-circuited so hard he was pretty sure he blacked out for a full second.
Hot pink. Barely-there hot pink lingerie that looked like it had been designed specifically to end him. A tiny bralette that clung to the soft curve of your chest, delicate straps, and matching bottoms that sat high on your hips and left almost nothing to the imagination. The kind of set that made every inch of bare skin look deliberate. Completely fucking lethal.
You didn’t even seem to notice the way his soul left his body. You just stood there in the middle of his living room like this was normal. Like best friends did this shit all the time. Like you weren’t currently rewriting every single one of his brain cells.
Jesus Christ.
He grabbed the nearest throw pillow and shoved it into his lap so hard. His jeans were already getting tight in a way that was going to be extremely obvious if he didn’t hide it. He tried to look casual. He failed.
“Holy shit,” he managed, voice cracking just enough that he had to clear his throat. “Okay. Wow. That’s… yeah. That’s the finale alright.”
You gave a tiny, embarrassed little smile and did a slow twirl.
The bathrobe slipped further down your arms, hanging loose around your elbows like a soft pink frame. The movement made the tiny scraps of hot pink shift against your skin. And then the smell hit him—your perfume, the same floral kind you've worn since the day you met him, the one that always lingered on his hoodie for days whenever you borrowed it. It wrapped around him like a second heartbeat.
Eddie dug his fingers into the pillow hard enough that his nails pressed little crescent shapes into the fabric.
You’re actually going to kill me. You’re standing there in the middle of my shitty apartment in the tiniest fucking lingerie set I’ve ever seen and you think this is just friend stuff. You have no idea. You have no idea that I’m two seconds from dropping to my knees and begging. That I’ve wanted to put my mouth on every single inch of you for months. That the only reason I’m still sitting here like a functional human is because I refuse to ruin the best thing in my life by being a horny idiot.
You finished the turn and looked at him, cheeks pink, completely unaware that he was actively dying.
“Is it too much?” you asked, tugging self-consciously at one of the straps. “I almost didn’t get it. Robin said the color was cute though.”
Eddie let out a sound that was half laugh, half wounded animal.
“Too much?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d just asked if the sun was a little bright today. “Baby— I mean. No. It’s not too much. It’s… fuck. You look unreal. Like someone drew you. The pink is doing something illegal to my brain chemistry. I’m serious. I might need medical attention.”
You laughed, soft and shy, and the sound went straight through him.
He adjusted the pillow again, very carefully, and tried to remember how to breathe like a person who wasn’t currently imagining peeling those tiny pink scraps off you with his teeth.
“C’mere,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. He patted the cushion beside him even though he was pretty sure sitting next to you right now was going to finish him off. “Let me look at you properly. Without you doing the nervous shuffle from six feet away.”
You stepped closer.
The perfume got stronger.
Eddie was so completely, utterly fucked.
The shyness came flooding back like a switch had flipped the moment you stood in front of him.
Eddie watched it happen in real time—the way your shoulders curled inward just a little, the way your fingers twisted in the loose sleeves of the bathrobe still hanging off your arms, the way you suddenly couldn’t quite meet his eyes even though you were standing close enough that he could see each mark on your body. Close enough that the heat of your skin felt like it was already touching him.
He swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice steady.
“Hey,” he said softly, tilting his head to catch your gaze. “None of that. You’re allowed to stand here looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had and still get a little shy. I can handle both.” He let his eyes flick down for half a second before forcing them back up. “You look… soft. And dangerous. And like I should probably be on my knees right now saying thank you, but I’m trying really hard to be a gentleman instead of a complete disaster.”
You let out a tiny, nervous huff of laughter. The sound went straight to his dick.
Eddie kept talking, walking that razor-thin line between honest and too much. “The pink is killing me, by the way. Like actually ending my life. And the way it sits on you—fuck—it’s not fair. You’re standing in my living room looking like that and I’m supposed to just… what? Act normal? Impossible. You’re making it impossible.”
You shifted your weight. The movement was small.
The left strap of the bralette slipped.
It slid down the curve of your shoulder in slow motion, delicate and pink and devastating, and Eddie’s brain broke in half so hard a low, wrecked moan tore out of his throat before he could stop it.
The sound hung in the air between you.
You both froze.
Eddie’s eyes went wide. The pillow was still crushed in his lap. His pulse was hammering so loud he was pretty sure you could hear it. Heat flooded his face so fast it felt like a fever.
You stared at him, lips parted, the slipped strap still resting halfway down your arm.
“…Did you really just do that?” you asked, voice quiet and a little disbelieving. A tiny, dangerous spark of something flirty flickered underneath the shock.
Eddie let out a strangled laugh that was half embarrassment, half pure desperation. “Yeah. Yeah, I really just did that. In my defense, the strap moved and— Completely involuntary. I’m a victim here.”
Your mouth twitched. “A victim.”
“Exactly.” He gestured helplessly at the strap still hanging off your shoulder. “Look at it. It’s torturing me. It’s doing it on purpose. You’re doing it on purpose.”
“I’m not doing anything,” you said, but your voice had gone softer, warmer. You didn’t fix the strap. You just stood there looking at him like you were suddenly seeing something new.
Eddie couldn’t take it anymore.
The careful distance he’d been clinging to for years—the jokes, the looks he thought you never noticed, the way he always stopped himself right at the edge—snapped clean in half.
He surged up off the couch, pillow tumbling to the floor, and closed the space between you. One hand came up to cradle the side of your face, rings cool against your cheek, the other settling at your waist like he’d been dying to put it there for years.
“Fuck it,” he whispered, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t soft. It was years of wanting poured into one desperate, open-mouthed press of lips. He kissed you like he’d been starving. Like the taste of you might actually save him. His fingers slid back into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen it, and a low, broken sound rumbled in his chest when you made a tiny noise against his mouth.
The slipped strap was still hanging off your shoulder.
Eddie didn’t fix it.
You broke the kiss with a soft, shaky inhale, lips still brushing his as you pulled back just far enough to see his face.
Eddie’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, mouth kiss-bitten and a little shiny. His hand was still cradling your cheek like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
“How long?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “How long have you been thinking about doing that?”
His thumb stroked once along your cheekbone. He didn’t look away.
“Don’t lie to me.”
Eddie let out a breath that was almost a laugh, low and rough. “Jesus. Okay. No lying.” He swallowed. “Months. Longer than months. Since before I even had this apartment. Since you started doing that thing where you’d steal my hoodies and really all my clothes. I’ve wanted to kiss you every single fucking time you walked into a room since the moment I met you.”
Your heart did something violent behind your ribs.
You didn’t think. You just lifted your hand and gave his chest a playful little smack, right over the faded print of his shirt.
Eddie jerked back half an inch, eyes wide with pure betrayal. “What— why? What was that for?”
“Because I’ve liked you too, you absolute idiot,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess them. Heat flooded your face but you didn’t look away. “I’ve been sitting here in this dumb pink robe thinking this was just normal best-friend fashion-show territory while you’ve been dying over there with a pillow on your lap. We’ve both been ridiculous.”
For a second Eddie just stared at you.
Then a helpless, disbelieving grin broke across his face, soft and a little wrecked.
“We’re both idiots,” he said, voice thick with something that sounded a lot like relief. “Complete, hopeless idiots.”
And then he was kissing you again.
This time there was no hesitation. One of his hands slid down to your waist, the other still tangled in your hair, and he pulled you with him as he dropped back onto the couch. You went willingly, knees bracketing his hips, the fluffy robe slipping further down your arms as he settled you fully into his lap. The tiny scraps of hot pink lace were the only things between you now, and Eddie made a low, punched-out sound against your mouth the second your weight settled over him.
His hands found your bare thighs, rings cool against overheated skin, and he kissed you like he’d never get the chance again—deep and open and a little desperate, like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real and in his lap and kissing him back just as hard.
You sank down harder into his lap and the kiss turned messy, open, wet. Eddie’s hands slid higher up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just beneath the edge of the hot-pink lace. Every time you shifted, the thin material of the bottoms dragged against him, and the second it slipped to the side you both felt it—heat against denim, almost nothing left between you.
Eddie broke the kiss with a ragged sound, forehead dropping against yours.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you. So pretty. Always so god damn pretty.” His voice was low, reverent, already half-ruined. “I’ve wanted to worship you for so long it makes me feel stupid. Wanted to get my mouth on every soft inch of you and take my time. Make you feel how gone I am. Hope you're okay with that or I'm about to look like the biggest jackass in the world.”
You rolled your hips once, slow, and watched his eyes flutter.
The unspoken rule sat between you both like a ghost. You never talked about anyone else. Neither did he. No stories, no casual mentions, nothing. You’d always told yourself it was just boundaries. Now, with his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear, you understood. It had never been about boundaries. It had been about not having to picture each other with anyone else. About protecting something neither of you had been brave enough to name.
Eddie seemed to realize it at the same time. His expression went soft and a little pained.
“We never talked about it,” he murmured, thumb stroking along the waistband of the lace. “Not once. I used to think it was because you didn’t… you know. Because you never brought it up. I thought maybe you hadn’t… done much. And I didn’t want to push.” His laugh was quiet, self-deprecating. “Turns out we were both just trying not to break our own hearts.”
"Think you're right about that."
"I'm always right sweetheart."
You ground down again, deliberately this time— partially to shut him up and also because it felt so damn good. The lace shifted fully out of the way. The friction dragged a broken noise out of both of you. Eddie’s head tipped back against the couch, throat working.
“Jesus Christ—”
His hands slid up your back, fingers finding the clasp of the bralette with surprising care. He unhooked it slowly, like he was unwrapping something sacred, and the hot-pink scrap loosened. You shrugged it off the rest of the way. The second it hit the floor Eddie went completely still.
He stared.
No jokes. No dramatic commentary. Just pure, speechless hunger as his eyes dragged over you—bare chest, flushed skin, the way the remaining lace sat low on your hips and did nothing to hide how wet you already were.
“Holy shit,” he finally whispered, voice cracking. “You’re… fuck. You’re perfect. Look at these.” One hand came up to cup the soft weight of your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple like he was testing whether you were real. “Soft and pretty and already so fucking responsive for me. I’ve been dying to see you like this. Dying to get my hands and mouth all over you and make you fall apart.”
He leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the center of your chest, then lower, dragging his lips over the curve of one breast while his other hand squeezed gently at your hip, encouraging you to keep moving against him.
“Keep grinding on me like that,” he murmured against your skin, filthy and soft at the same time. “Use me. Wanna feel how wet you are through these tiny little things. Wanna make a mess of both of us before I even get my mouth between your legs.”
"What if I want you now Munson? What then?"
Your voice was wrecked. And the way he looked up at you—like you were something holy and filthy all at once—made it very clear that Eddie Munson planned to take his time worshipping every single inch of you.
Eddie moved like a man possessed.
He broke away from your chest just long enough to yank his shirt over his head and throw it somewhere behind the couch. His jeans were next—belt undone with clumsy, impatient fingers, zipper dragged down, fabric shoved past his hips until he could kick them off. He left the black boxers on— the hard line of his cock already tenting the front obscenely.
You reached between you without thinking, palm sliding down the plane of his stomach until your fingers wrapped around him. The second you pulled him free of the last bit of fabric, your breath caught.
He was thick. Heavy in your hand. Bigger than you’d let yourself imagine in all those late-night thoughts you never admitted to.
Eddie watched your face and let out a low, breathless laugh that was pure nerves and ego all at once.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “I get that look a lot. Don’t worry, sweetheart—I’ll go slow. I’m not trying to ruin my favorite person on the first night I finally get to touch her.”
You stroked him once, just to feel the weight of him, and his hips jerked up into your fist with a punched-out little sound.
But he didn’t let you keep control for long.
Eddie gently caught your wrist and guided your hand away, eyes dark and focused. “My turn first. Been dying to get my mouth on you. Need to get you nice and open for me before I even think about putting that in you.”
He moved with surprising care for how wrecked he looked—hands on your waist, guiding you down until your back hit the couch cushions. One of your legs was carefully lifted and draped over the back of the couch; the other he guided down so your foot rested on the floor. The position left you completely spread for him, the tiny scrap of hot-pink lace still clinging to the side of your cunt.
Eddie knelt between your thighs on the floor and just stared for a long second, hands resting on the insides of your knees like he needed the anchor.
“Holy fuck,” he whispered, almost to himself. “You’re really here. In my apartment. In that tiny pink shit. Legs open for me like this. I can’t— Jesus Christ, I can’t believe this is happening.”
Then he leaned in.
The first drag of his tongue over your clit was slow and filthy, broad and wet. He moaned against you like the taste alone was enough to ruin him. One hand stayed splayed on your lower stomach to keep you still while the other stroked up the inside of your thigh, fingers teasing along the soaked edge of the lace.
“So wet already,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick. “All for me. Gonna take my time opening you up, okay? Want you dripping before I even try to fit.”
He licked another slow stripe through your folds, then sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked gently while one long finger pressed inside. The stretch was easy—you were already so ready—but he still worked it carefully, curling and stroking until your hips twitched. A second finger joined the first sooner than you expected, scissoring gently, stretching you while his tongue kept up that steady, filthy rhythm on your clit.
“That’s it,” he breathed, glancing up the length of your body. “Look at you taking two already. So fucking pretty like this. Can you give me one more? Want you nice and ready for me.”
The third finger pressed in slow, the burn sweet and deep. Eddie groaned like he was the one being stretched, forehead dropping against your hip for a second as he felt you clench around him.
“Fuck— there you go. Three. God, you’re perfect. So tight and hot around my fingers. Keep breathing for me, baby. Gonna keep working you open just like this 'til you’re shaking.”
He curled all three fingers and rubbed firmly against that spot inside you while his tongue flicked faster over your clit, wet sounds filling the quiet apartment. His free hand gripped your thigh hard enough to bruise, holding you spread wide open while he worshipped you with his mouth and hand like he’d been starving for it.
You were already shaking, thighs trembling on either side of his head, when the need finally spilled out of you in broken little pieces.
“Eddie— please— I need— fuck, I need you, I can’t— please just—”
He lifted his head immediately, mouth shiny, three fingers still buried deep inside you. His eyes were almost black.
“Yeah?” His voice was wrecked. “You need me right now, baby? Need my cock instead of my fingers?”
You nodded frantically, hips twitching down against his hand. “Please. Now. I need you inside me—”
Eddie didn’t need to be told twice.
He pulled his fingers free with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then surged up over you. One hand shoved his boxers the rest of the way down while the other stayed braced on the inside of your thigh, keeping you spread exactly the way he wanted.
He knew you had an IUD—he’d driven you to the appointment months ago, sat in the waiting room with his knee bouncing, bought you a milkshake afterward like it was the most normal thing in the world. So no condom. Nothing between you.
He wrapped a hand around himself and dragged the thick head of his cock through your soaked folds once, twice, coating himself in how wet you’d gotten for him. Then he lined up, the blunt pressure of him settling right against your entrance while your legs stayed open—one hooked over the back of the couch, the other dangling toward the floor.
“Breathe for me,” he whispered, voice low and shaking with restraint. “Gonna go slow. You’re so fucking tight and I’m not exactly small. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He pushed in.
The stretch was immediate, deep, almost overwhelming. Eddie’s mouth fell open on a broken sound as the head of him sank inside you, and he kept going—inch by thick inch—while a steady stream of praise spilled out of him like he couldn’t stop it.
“Holy shit— look at that. Look at you taking me. So fucking pretty stretched around my cock already. That’s it, baby, just like that. You’re doing so good. S' good for me.”
His hands gripped your thighs harder, rings pressing into soft skin as he sank deeper. Another inch. Another. His stomach was trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Fuck, you’re s' warm inside. Sucking me in so perfect. Knew you’d feel like this. Dreamed about it. God, you’re taking every inch like you were made for me— almost there, almost— there. That’s all of me. Feel that? Feel how deep I am?”
He bottomed out with a punched-out groan, hips flush against yours, and stayed completely still so you could adjust. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your neck.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice cracking with pure awe. “You’re perfect. So tight and wet and mine. Just stay right here and let me feel you for a second. Let me feel how you grip me when you’re full.”
He kissed the side of your throat, soft and reverent even while his cock throbbed deep inside you, and kept murmuring filthy, worshipful praise against your skin like he never planned to stop.
Your cunt clenched around him—tight, wet, perfect—and Eddie’s brain short-circuited all over again.
“Move,” you whispered, voice wrecked and needy. “Please, Eddie, move.”
He lifted his head, eyes searching your face even as his hips twitched with the desperate urge to thrust. “How do you want it?” he asked, voice low and rough. One hand stroked up your side, grounding both of you. “Tell me. I’ll give you whatever you need.”
“Soft,” you breathed. “Start soft. Then… rough when I’m close. When I’m about to come.”
Eddie nodded like you’d just handed him sacred instructions.
“Soft first. Got it. I can do soft.”
He pulled out slow—dragged every thick inch of himself almost all the way free until just the head stayed tucked inside you—then pushed back in just as carefully. The wet heat of you swallowed him again and a broken sound punched out of his chest. He did it again. And again. Deep, rolling strokes that kept him buried to the hilt for a long second each time, letting you feel every ridge and pulse of him.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your mouth, kissing you between words. “I could die happy here. So fucking soft and warm inside. Look at you. Perfect. You’re fuckin' perfect.”
He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in the same lazy rhythm as his hips. One hand stayed braced on the back of the couch near your knee, keeping that leg hooked high; the other cupped your breast, thumb stroking over your nipple in time with every slow thrust.
Internally, Eddie was losing his entire mind.
Holy shit. Holy shit, this is real. You’re under me on my shitty couch in that tiny pink lingerie, stretched around my cock, telling me exactly how you want it. I’ve jerked off to this exact fantasy so many times it’s embarrassing and now you’re actually here, actually clenching around me, actually letting me have this. Don’t you dare fuck this up, Munson. Go slow. Make it good. Make it so good she never wants anyone else. God, the way she feels— dripping down my balls already. I’m not gonna survive this. I’m going to come embarrassingly fast if I keep thinking about how long I’ve wanted to be right here.
He kept the pace steady and deep, every thrust deliberate, every kiss lingering.
“You feel unreal,” he whispered against your lips, voice shaking with restraint. “So tight every time I push back in. Think your body’s trying to keep me. Fuck— I love that. Love how wet you are for me. I'll give you anything you ever need baby.”
He rolled his hips again, grinding against you at the end of the stroke so the base of his cock rubbed your clit, and another filthy, worshipful groan spilled out of him.
Don’t rush. Don’t you dare rush. She’s trusting you. She’s asking for soft first. Give it to her. Worship her. Make her come so hard she forgets anyone else ever touched her. God, I still can’t believe she’s mine right now. Even if it’s just for tonight. Even if—
He kissed you harder to shut his own spiraling thoughts up, and kept moving—slow, deep, devoted—exactly the way you’d asked.
Eddie's hand under the thigh that was still draped over the back of the couch lifted you up and pushed it higher, folding you open even more. The new angle let him sink impossibly deeper on the next slow thrust, and he groaned into the side of your neck.
He leaned in fully, chest pressed to yours, and put his mouth on your throat.
Soft kisses first—open and wet along the column of your neck—then the careful scrape of teeth. He found a spot just under your jaw and sucked hard enough to leave a mark, then another lower, closer to your pulse, worrying the skin between his lips until he knew it would bloom purple later. Every time he bottomed out he did it again, marking you like he needed proof this was real.
“Fuck, you taste good,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough. “Gonna leave these all over you. Want everyone to know I had you like this. Want you to look in the mirror tomorrow and remember how deep I was.”
Your hand slipped between your bodies.
Eddie felt the moment your fingers found your clit—felt the way your cunt fluttered hard around him in response—and his hips stuttered.
“That’s it,” he breathed, lifting his head just enough to watch. “Take what you need angel. Let me feel it. Wanna feel every bit of you.”
She’s getting close. Fuck, she’s getting close and I’m still inside her and she’s touching herself and I can feel every single clench. Don’t come. Do not come yet, you absolute fucking idiot. She asked for soft until she’s about to finish. Give her that. Hold it together. Think about literally anything else— guitar tabs, the broken latch on the van, the way Robin would mock you forever if you finished in thirty seconds flat— anything except how perfect and hot and wet she is around you.
Eddie pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, still rocking into you in those same controlled, deep thrusts even as his thighs started to shake.
“You’re tightening up on me,” he whispered, almost in awe. “I can feel it. You’re getting close, aren’t you? Keep rubbing that pretty clit. Wanna feel you come on my cock. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby. Just let it build.”
He kissed you again, messy and open, and kept moving exactly the way you’d asked—holding that leg high, marking your neck, fighting every instinct that screamed at him to snap his hips and chase his own release—while your cunt kept clenching tighter and tighter around him.
“Harder,” you breathed against his mouth, fingers still working between your bodies. “Eddie— harder, please—”
The magic words.
Eddie pulled almost all the way out and then snapped his hips forward, the slow, worshipful pace shattering as he gave you exactly what you wanted. He kept the build gradual at first—each thrust a little faster, a little deeper—until he was driving into you with real force, the hard wet slap of skin on skin filling the apartment. The new rhythm forced him against your cervix on every stroke; he felt the firm resistance and the faint, unmistakable nudge of your IUD against the head of his cock and he did not give a single shit.
Not when you were taking him like this.
“Fuck— there it is,” he groaned, voice wrecked as he held your leg higher and leaned into every thrust. “Feel that? That’s as deep as I can get. Taking every fucking inch like you were built for it. God, you’re perfect— so perfect—”
Your cunt clenched down around him so hard it punched the air from his lungs.
Then you gushed.
Hot, sudden wetness flooded around his cock, squirting in pulsing waves that soaked his stomach, his thighs, the couch cushion beneath you. The sound was filthy and unmistakable. Eddie’s eyes went wide, a broken, awed noise tearing out of his throat as he watched and felt you come apart under him.
“Oh my god— you’re— fuck, you’re squirting on me—”
That was all it took.
The tight, rhythmic pulse of your cunt milking him while you kept spurting around his cock ripped his orgasm out of him with zero warning. Eddie buried himself to the hilt and came hard, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you in thick, pulsing waves. He kept thrusting through it—short, messy strokes that forced his cum deeper while you were still gushing around him—mouth open against your neck, one hand locked under your thigh, the other braced on the couch like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.
“Shit— shit, baby, I- fuck— feel that? Feel me filling you up while you’re still making a mess of me? Fuck, you’re incredible— so wet and tight and perfect—”
He stayed inside you through the aftershocks, cock twitching as the last of your squirting eased into trembling little pulses. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath coming in ragged, disbelieving gasps, every muscle in his body still shaking from how hard he’d finished.
The couch was ruined.
He couldn’t bring himself to care.
Eddie stayed exactly where he was—chest to chest, cock softening in the wet heat he’d just filled. His breath was still coming a little uneven against the side of your neck. One hand stayed hooked under your thigh like he wasn’t ready to let you close your legs yet.
He lifted his head after a long moment, eyes dark and a little dazed, and looked down at you.
“…Did you know you could do that?”
His voice was rough, still wrecked around the edges, but there was pure curiosity underneath it. And a little bit of awe he wasn’t even trying to hide.
You blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, and gave a small nod. “Yeah.”
Eddie stared.
“Yeah?” He let out a short, disbelieving laugh that made his softening cock twitch inside you. “You’ve been walking around knowing you can do that and you just… never mentioned it? Not once? We’ve talked about every stupid thing under the sun and you never thought to bring up the fact that you can soak a couch?”
You shrugged as much as you could with him still on top of you. “I didn’t know it was gonna happen with you.”
Eddie opened his mouth. Closed it. Then dropped his forehead back to your shoulder with a dramatic groan.
“Oh my god. You’re serious. You actually didn’t know.” He sounded personally offended and deeply smug at the same time. “So what you’re telling me is that I did that. Me. Eddie Munson. Made you squirt. On my couch. And how often does that happen?”
"By myself? A lot. With other people? Not as much."
"So you're saying I'm a sex god?"
"I'm not not saying that."
He lifted his head again, grinning now—soft and a little filthy, hair a mess, lips still kiss-bitten.
“I’m never recovering from this. You’re never living this down. I’m going to be so insufferable about it. Just warning you now.”
He shifted his hips the tiniest bit, still half-hard and sliding through the mess of both of you, and made a low, content sound at the feeling.
“Also,” he added, voice dropping into something warmer, “for the record? That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. You just— just… gushing all over me while I was coming? Jesus Christ. I thought I was going to black out. You ruined me. Completely.”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, lazy and fond, and didn’t pull out.
“We’re gonna need to burn this cushion,” he murmured against your lips, clearly not sorry at all. “And probably the whole couch. Worth it. So fucking worth it.”
Eddie cleaned you up with a care that made your chest ache.
He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute and came back with a warm washcloth, still bare and soft-eyed, and wiped between your legs with slow, gentle strokes like you were something precious. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee when he was done, then another to your hip, and helped you stand on slightly unsteady legs.
“C’mon,” he murmured, voice still rough. “Bed. Couch is a crime scene and I’m not making you sit in it.”
His bedroom was dim and lived-in—unmade sheets, a pile of band tees on the chair, the faint smell of his cologne and laundry detergent. He dug through a drawer and tossed you a soft black shirt that was definitely his and a pair of boxers that hung low on your hips. You pulled both on while he watched, something warm and possessive flickering across his face when the shirt settled over you and the boxers disappeared under the hem.
Then he tugged you down into the bed with him.
You ended up half on top of him, head on his chest, one of his arms wrapped solidly around your back while the other worked the remote. Some random late-night show played at low volume, the light from the screen flickering across the ceiling. His fingers traced idle patterns along your spine under the shirt. Every so often he pressed a lazy kiss to the top of your head like he couldn’t help it.
The quiet stretched long enough to feel safe.
You traced a fingertip over one of the tattoos on his chest and finally asked, voice soft, “What are we now?”
Eddie let out a short, incredulous laugh that rumbled under your ear.
“Are you serious?” He shifted just enough to look down at you, dark eyes soft and completely certain. “You’re asking me that while you’re in my clothes, in my bed, still smelling like me and sex? Baby. I’m not letting go of you now. Not after that. Not after years of wanting you and finally getting to have you.” His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking behind your ear. “You’re my girl. That’s what we are. Official. Permanent. Whatever word makes it sink in. You’re mine.”
He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then your mouth—slow and sweet.
When he pulled back there was a familiar crooked grin tugging at his lips.
“Also,” he added, “I’m keeping those ruined little pink panties. They’re mine now. Evidence. Trophy. Whatever. I’ll buy you a new set. Hell, I’ll buy you ten new sets if it means I get to ruin them the same way. Fair trade.”
He settled back against the pillows, tugging you more firmly against his chest, and turned the volume on the TV up just a little.
“Now quit overthinking and watch the show with me,” he murmured into your hair, already sounding half-asleep and completely content. “My girl needs rest. I’ve got you.”
taglist: @gem-writes @hamilhansen @5lutforeddie @beasbrain @julxsxx @shecleansup @jinxispunk @s1mp-4-ga11y @a-villain-vying-for-attention @sweetstatic @qardasngan @arcticmazecrystal @my-fabulousness-has-arrived @wolfqueenxxx @doodeesstuff
Y'all for real please do these. Even if you're certain your posture doesn't suck. One day you will wake up with impinged shoulder pain like I did and let me tell you it fucking HURTS. Do these exercises even just once a week and it will make such a difference. Especially my fellow creatives out there, stop shrimping over your work and go do these right now. RIGHT NOW.
Also, if you’re even a little concerned about getting a hump or having trouble standing fully upright in your old age, this is how you prevent that. If you want to be up and about when you’re old you have to start when you’re younger. And keep in mind there is no bad time to start and it’s never too late. Starting today is way better than never starting at all.
HEAR ME OUTS
summary: You and your fellow professor explain what a 'hear me out' is to Spencer Reid. When asked who would be on his list, he demonstrates a surprising understanding of the assignment. contents: 2k words, FLUFF, prof!reader with glasses, no use of y/n, hear me out cake shennanigans, Carrie Myers diva, Spencer Reid and prof!reader monsterfuckers!?!, they're both fuckass nerds I love them so much a/n: Not my best work I'm worried I've lost all my writing skills lol, and not part of the event, but my bookclub did this recently and I could not stop laughing at the idea of Spencer learning about this. Technically happens after Hard Launch.
You have recently come to discover that Spencer Reid has a tendency to show up to places unannounced. He shows up to the obvious places—your college library, waiting outside your lecture rooms—but even at the more unknown spots, like the benches by the faculty parking lot. He'd usually find you there, poised and reading a book, waiting for Carrie Myers to finish her smoke break two meters away.
It's like he's a video game character, and he's made you his personal spawning point. Anywhere you are, he'd somehow show up. Usually with coffee. Sometimes three, held precariously in his large hands, because he realized at some point that you spend a lot of time with Carrie, and Spencer is nothing if not infuriatingly thoughtful.
He shows up so much you've stopped being surprised.
So much that you start anticipating his presence.
So much that you feel a sense of relief when he walks into the faculty social space—administration's initiative from three years ago that was meant to address the burn out and stress by providing a vending machine and a ping pong table rather than doing something more palpable like raising wages—and finds you at one of the tables, sorting through small cardboard cutouts with Carrie.
"Your professor charming alert." Carrie sing-songs. She's been taking every single chance at playful teasing ever since you and Spencer 'officially' hard launched your 'relationship'. You can tell she's gloating; Carrie seemed to have the notion—a childish one, in your opinion—that your initial annoyance at Spencer was borne out of attraction.
Now she feels vindicated, and you can't set the record straight without ruining your arrangement with Spencer.
"Behave." you murmur, just as Spencer approaches. He's windswept and smiling, as if unburdened by his workload. You can only assume that teaching and academia is a welcome reprieve after his high-pressure job at the FBI. You welcome him with a smile, and it feels natural, "Hi Spencer."
"Afternoon, ladies." He pulls up a chair and sits next to you, knees brushing against yours under the table. His gaze sweeps over the spread of pictures on the table, and a crease forms between his brows in confusion. "What's all this?"
"A fun little activity for my graduate students." Carrie replies, "The hear me out cake. Well, no more cake and just hear me outs now."
"Oh, you mentioned this a few weeks ago!" Spencer looks pleased when it registers, beaming at Carrie, "You said it helps keep your students motivated after the midterms."
"Yep. Free cake, they get to gush about hot characters and engage with our readings in a low stakes, almost casual way. Win-win." Carrie says with flourish.
You lift a cutout of Mufasa from The Lion King. "Whoever put this on that cake is brave and deserves the highest marks."
Carrie laughs. "Oh, I love that student. She's so outspoken and funny."
Spencer's frown deepens at the picture. He reaches over, gently taking it from your hands. "I'm afraid I don't understand. I thought the purpose of this activity was to share which Shakespearean character you find attractive."
"The Lion King is a Hamlet adaptation." you say, ready to defend the student.
"Yes, but with lions." he deadpans.
"Arguably attractive ones."
Spencer blinks, and turns to Carrie for explanation.
"It's an ongoing trend online, it's meant to be for characters who are more… unconventional." Carrie explains, holding up a Simba picture this time, "Hence, prefacing the whole thing with hear me out."
Spencer looks equal parts intrigued and concerned.
"When it's more broadly applied, it isn't always animals," you add, giggling at the utter bewilderment at Spencer's face, "Sometimes it's characters people normally wouldn't find attractive… like Beetlejuice."
"Or horror figures, like Ghostface or Pennywise from IT."
Spencer's brows are furrowed differently now, less in confusion and more focused, the way they always get when he begins contemplating. He doesn't laugh or seem horrified, now that it's been more clearly explained.
"You're right, though," Carrie adds, "I did specify only Shakespearean characters for my class, only because I had to connect this activity to the course subject. But it's much more lenient when it's just being done between friends."
"Interesting. So it's almost a showcase of someone's deeper desires." he murmurs, eyes skating over the variety of Shakespearean characters on the table—some quite tame, like Timothée Chalamet as Henry V; others funnier, like Bill Murray as Polonius. "Participating in it means opening up about your attraction to what other people would consider taboo."
"Yeah. It's a great bonding activity." you nod, smiling at how earnestly he's taking the entire thing, processing it through a scholar's lens. Without mockery or judgment, simply with the desire to understand.
"I see." he nods, watching Carrie sort the characters together.
She's trying to see if there's a common character that everyone secretly pines over. Last year, there was an overwhelming amount of Falstaff entries; this year, it seems to be Simba/Hamlet. You're busy helping her, when suddenly:
"Who are yours?" Spencer asks, twisting in his seat so his body is angled towards you, open and curious.
Carrie bursts out laughing. "Oh god, she has some crazy ones."
"No, I don't." you grumble.
"Yeah, you do." Carrie turns to Spencer, lips stretched in a massive grin, "You're about to learn some very fascinating things about your girlfriend, professor."
Spencer returns her smile, and you're struck with the desire to conk their heads together. They'd deserve it, matching grins and all.
"No." you shake your head.
"Why not?"
"I don't want you to judge me."
"I won't!"
"Or psychoanalyze me."
"I…" he pauses, "I'll try not to."
Carrie laughs. You glare at both of them, betrayed.
"He'll find out sooner or later," Carrie says, shrugging innocently, as if that would absolve her of her betrayal, "Honestly, I'm surprised it hasn't come up yet, with the amount of time you guys seems to spend together."
The teasing implication is clear. You feel your face burn, annoyed that you can't even refute it. Fake relationship or not, you had been spending a lot of time with Spencer.
Beside you, he chuckles, looking sheepish and caught, ears turning rosy. "Guilty. And now that it's been thoroughly explained to me, I'm very curious."
You groan, burying your face in your hands. "I hate you both."
"Come on, I'll start." Carrie compromises with a giggle, "One of mine is Waluigi."
"From… from the Mario Brothers?" you can hear the amusement coloring Spencer's voice.
"Yep." Carrie says, proudly popping the 'p'. "Another one is Shrek. I love a grump. My husband's a grump. And quite rotund. He gives great hugs."
Spencer laughs, "Shrek is a very well developed character, I think I understand the appeal."
"Thank you!" Carrie's foot makes contact with yours under the table, a gentle prod. "See, he doesn't judge. Your turn."
You don't lift your head from your hands, muffling the sound of your voice when you answer. "Loki."
"The Norse trickster god?" Spencer clarifies.
"Sure, but specifically the Marvel version."
"Oh, you can do better than that, Tom Hiddleston is objectively very attractive. That defeats the purpose of a hear me out." Carrie protests, nudging your foot again, this time more insistently. This woman thrives when it's time to tease you, a fact that you normally enjoy and encourage—what's friendship without some healthy ribbing?—but right now it feels like a curse.
You groan, regretting ever divulging your list to her. There's no point in lying, when you've had this conversation a million times prior, and Carrie knows you have quite an… eclectic taste.
"Ugh, fine. The balrog."
Carrie snorts in satisfaction. Spencer shifts beside you, and you suddenly feel he's much too close for comfort. His thigh presses against yours, and you can feel his warmth despite the layers of clothing.
"From Lord of the Rings?" Spencer asks.
You lower your hands and slump in your seat, braving his reaction. Despite your indignation, your response comes out weak.
"Yes."
"The one that Gandalf fights in Moria?"
"Yes. Fiery demon with muscles and a whip, come on, I don't think I have to explain myself here." you huff, directing your sheepish gaze at the spread of pictures on the table. "And for the record, they end the fight in Zirakzigil, not Moria."
He chuckles, scratching his jaw as he considers. "But that's not even really a human."
"So? Carrie wants to fuck an ogre and her students want a lion."
Across the table, Carrie throws her head back and guffaws.
"So this goes beyond… physical compatibility."
"Yeah," Carrie manages through her laughter, "Sometimes, people want non sentient things too. Or full on monsters, like, I dunno, the Kraken."
"Or demons, like the balrog." Spencer turns to you.
Your fingers slide under your glasses and rub at your eyes. "You promised not to make fun."
"I'm not, I'm just realizing that I'm so far out of your type." Spencer says.
You stop what you're doing and risk a glance at him. A dimpled smile greets you, so impish and sweet you have no choice but to return it.
"You could get a whip." you mumble.
His smile turns devious. Devastating. Everything in your stomach turns molten, and, with nowhere to go, simply spreads inside out. You wouldn't be surprised if you've miraculously turned lobster red. You want the ground to swallow you whole.
You wish he'll keep looking at you like that, with that exact smile, welcome the utter void it creates in your normally overactive mind.
Thankfully, you're saved from responding when Carrie interrupts. She raps on the table, chuckling.
"Okay lovebirds, save the dirty talk for when I'm not here."
"I swear to god, Carrie." you kick her under the table, hard, which only elicits a laugh from her.
And, because her ability to tease apparently extends to your current 'boyfriend,' she turns to Spencer, shoulders still shaking. She manages to silence her laughter just enough to ask:
"Now that you know about it, Doctor Reid, who would be your hear me outs?"
You perk up, turning to him.
Who would be his hear me outs? What sort of character or creature would entice Spencer Reid that way? You try to predict one, but he seems like an anomaly. He's the kind of person whose choices could range from something relatively tame like Morticia Addams, to something utterly wild and out of left field.
Honestly, you half expect him to say Cthulhu.
"I don't think I can beat the balrog." he laughs, running a hand through his already messy curls.
"You don't have to beat it." you reassure him with a smile, though you do want to add you can try though.
"Yeah, sorry this is kind of on the spot. Just give us one off the top of your head." Carrie says. Both of you stare at him curiously, but he doesn't seem to mind the attention. He's deep in thought, fingers trailing over some of the cutouts on the table.
"I've always enjoyed reading about the Sphinx," he mutters finally, the crease between his brows deepening into a valley the more he concentrates, "Depending on which culture you read from, the symbolism will differ, but one thread seems to connect all of them—sphinxes are guardians. I think I quite like how it goes in Greek mythology, where she's ruthless and unbending. Takes a clever man to get through to her. Certain versions show her to give Oedipus the answer, hoping he'd fall in love with her, showing us that she yearns for something human too."
You blink, staring at him. At this point, it really shouldn't come as a surprise to you, how much thought he gives into everything. But it does. Especially when it's something as silly as this, an online trend that got explained to him five minutes ago, but he's answering with careful consideration.
It's touching. And, you have to admit, however begrudgingly, quite endearing.
"You both said the game encompasses anything, right?" he says, when he realizes the silence has stretched, glancing between you and Carrie. "Or did I do this wrong?"
"You did it perfectly." the words leave your lips too fast. You smile anyway, encouraging him.
Carrie nods, lips stretched in a smirk. "Yeah, I think that answer ties with the balrog, at the very least. God, you two are a match made in freak-heaven."
Spencer laughs, cheeks turning pink. "I think I'm just attracted to strong, feminine figures."
"Oh, sure. But that doesn't negate what I said." Carrie points out, winking at you.
This time, you don't bother kicking her under the table. Not when Spencer's smile is once again directed at you, victorious and sincere.
Thank you deeply for reading, please reblog if you enjoyed!
more prof spencer x prof!reader fics here!
I don’t wanna get involved in the drama I just wanna know 103% of the information on what happened
I don’t wanna get involved in the drama I just wanna know 103% of the information on what happened
nothing proves to me just how young the pitt fandom is than how some of you characterize baran. a lot of you think she’s ancient when she’s literally only 40?? that’s not old? she’s literally a millennial. she’s actually closer to garcia and langdon in age than she is to robby/abbott/dana. she’s YOUNGER than mckay??
i promise you she knows how to use emojis properly and fully understands what a meme is. she probably doomscrolls on social media from time to time. please stop lumping her in the same category as robby and abbott just because she’s an attending and a mom, im begging. yall are stripping her of her whimsy 😭
job interviewer: would you be willing to destroy and betray yourself for nothing?
get ai OUT of fandom spaces and use your brain NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW
The Doctor's Abbot
summary: as a fourth year resident in the Obstetrics department at PTMC, and the wife of jack abbot, calls down to the ER almost always brighten your day. certified wife guy jack abbot loves to see his girl in action.
content warnings: MDNI! graphic descriptions of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, a lil angst, husband jack abbot banter and fluff with his favorite person, you ;)
word count: 3.3k
authors note: just a little something that popped into my mind rewatching that season 2 case. pretty medical heavy but drop a comment if you enjoyed :)
“Hey, Dr. Abbot,” Medic Nguyen says, pulling out the heavily pregnant woman on the gurney from the back of the rig, “this is Judith Lastrade, 36 weeks pregnant with two days of headache, now a 10 out of 10 with blurred vision. BP 174/120, heart rate 92. No relief with fentanyl.”
“Judith, I'm Dr. Abbot,” Jack says calmly, “any weakness in your arms or legs?”
“No, no. Is this a stroke?” She says, resting her hand on her stomach.
“We need to check for everything,” Jack says, pushing her gurney into the ER with Robby and the medics.
“Where are you doing your prenatal care?” Robby asks.
“Nowhere.” Judith says, firm and defensive. “It's a wild pregnancy. I want a free birth.”
“Uh, ok,” Jack says, exchanging a charged glance with Robby as they push her into trauma two. “Mateo, Nazely, Henderson, with me. Lena, call up to OB, ask for-”
“I know who to ask for,” Lena says, smiling, phone already to her ear.
“CTG is on,” Mateo says, adjusting the strap on Judith's belly.
“CTG?” Judith says, looking up at him.
“Cardiotocography. Measures the baby's heart rate and checks for contractions.” Jack says, crouching forward, reading the stats on the machine, “fetal heart rate 128. Normal range, Nazely?”
“110 to 160,” Nazley says.
“So the baby's OK?” Judith says.
“Right now, yes.” Henderson says, “128 is reassuring,”
“Your next move, Crus?” Jack asks.
“20 of labetalol, IV push over two minutes,” Crus says, pulling the meds from the nearby drawer.
“Uh, what's happening?” Judith asks, the monitors beeping rhythmically in the background.
“You have a condition called preeclampsia,” Nazley offers gently.
“And how did it happen?” Judith says, voice laced with worry.
“Uh, nobody really knows, actually,” Jack says, looking out the glass doors towards the hub, wondering where you are, “it affects about 10% of the pregnancies. High blood pressure, headaches, protein in the urine, and swollen ankles.”
“Ok, well, it's a wild pregnancy, so that means no medical care,” Judith says,
“Then why are you here?” Robby says, no concern in his voice.
“I just need to get rid of this headache,” she says, tears starting to well in her eyes,
“Well, if we don't lower your blood pressure and treat with magnesium, there can be problems.” Abbot says gentler, trying to correct Robby’s harsh tone.
“Like what?” Judith sniffs.
“Seizures, bleeding, even death, for you and the baby,” Crus says.
“Oh, my God,” Judith cries.
“Robby,” Dana says, poking her head in the room, “need you in trauma one,”
“OK,” Robby says, following Dana out of the room, “you good?”
“Yeah, I'm good. I got it. With my eyes closed. But I won't. Maybe one eye.” Jack clicks his tongue as he winks at Judith.
“Jesus, Jack, she’s already pregnant,” you say, a cheeky smile on your face as you push through the back door of the trauma room. His whole face lights up as you walk into the room, your jade green scrubs hugging your hips just the way he likes. He shoves his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out to you and squeezing your waist.
“She’s the other Dr. Abbot?” Nazley says under her breath to Crus, “she’s so much younger than him,”
“Yeah,” Crus murmurs back but you and Jack don’t hear them, the two of you in your own world for a moment, “they kinda don’t give a fuck,”
“Hey,” Jack says, his voice dropping to something much softer. He’s in awe of how beautiful you look under the harsh fluorescences of the ER.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile, shaking your head, rubbing in the purell on your hands. The little group of nurses and doctors gather around you. You nod hello to Crus and Mateo, pausing on Nazely, “I don’t think we’ve gotten to work together yet,” you hold out your hand to her introducing yourself.
“Nazley Toomarian, intern,” she says, “I- I just started tonight,”
“Jesus and they put you on the night shift?” You turn to Jack, “free her.”
“I didn’t assign her to the night shift,” Jack holds his hands up in self defense.
“Well, it’s really nice to meet you Dr. Toomarian,” you say, “you’ve got a good teacher here,” you wink at Jack.
“You’re not biased or anything,” Jack smiles.
“Not at all,” you roll your eyes playfully, “whaddya got for me?”
“This is Judith. G1, P0 with no prenatal care. Preeclampsia with severe hypertension,” Nazley says, standing up a little straighter as she speaks to you, before turning back to Judith, “How's the headache?”
“Still a 10,” Judith moans.
“More fentanyl?” Crus asks.
“Yep,” Abbot says, trying to suppress the smile that wants to form on his face now that you’re in the room. He leans into you and murmurs under his breath, “missed you,”
“Jack, you saw me two hours ago,” you smile, "remember? We carpooled from our house?”
“BP's good,” Crus says, eyes on the monitor, “another fifty,”
Your eyes linger on Jack as he beams at you while you walk over to the patient's bedside.
“Hi Judith,” you say softly, “I’m Dr. Abbot from OB,”
“I thought he was Dr. Abbot,” Judith looks towards Jack.
“He is. I- uh- am too,” you smile at her, “we’re married,”
“Oh,” Judith sighs, “that’s nice. That you get to work together I mean. Do you have kids?”
“No,” you say, and you don’t have to turn your head to see that Jack has walked up next to you, to feel the tension radiating off Jack at her question. Thankfully Crus intervenes before Jack boils over.
“Some jelly on the belly. Gonna take a quick look with ultrasound.” Crus says, handing you the wand and gel.
“No, no, no.” Judith wraps her arms around her stomach, “ultrasound can harm the baby.”
“Not true.” Jack says curtly.
“I understand that you feel scared but not doing the ultrasound can end up harming you and the baby,” you say gently, “I want to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Ok,” Judith huffs, dropping her arm, “just do it as fast as you can,”
“Why no prenatal care, Judith?” You say, no judgment in your voice, squirting the gel on her stomach.
“I wanted a free birth,” she says defensively, “no doctors, no hospital, no medicine.”
“Mm,” Jack says from beside you, “you have a midwife? A birth doula?”
“No, I don't need one,” Judith says, as you drag the wand over her belly, “women have been having children on their own for thousands of years.”
“Yeah,” Jack says, clearly getting irritated, “with an infant mortality rate of 30% for most of those thousands of years,”
“You know Judith,” you say, cutting off your husband, speaking softly while keeping your eyes on the screen, “for a lot of those years birthing was a community event. Women relied on midwives and the other women in their lives to help them during childbirth.”
“What is this good cop bad cop?” Judith moans.
“I know this isn’t how you envisioned it,” you say, turning to her, “but there are a lot of people here who are more than happy to help you, if you’d let us.”
“Dr. Abbot is the best doctor in this hospital,” Jack says, feeling his heart swell at the patience and care you’re offering such a difficult patient, “I’d listen to her if I were you,”
“Femur length seven centimeters,” you say to Jack, “37 weeks. I’d induce.”
“What?” Judith says, panicked, “no, no, no. Absolutely not.”
“At 37 weeks, the cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby,” Jack says firmly, but with a little less bite, “we need to get you upstairs so Dr. Abbot can induce labor to save you and your baby.”
“No.” Judith sits up, shaking her head. “No, no, no.”
You stand, exchanging a knowing look with Jack before walking over to the phone and calling up to the OB department for a room.
“Labs are coming back.” Nazley says, pulling the labs up on the computer, “Hemoglobin 7.5, platelets 40. LFTs are sky high.”
“HELLP syndrome,” Jack shakes his head, looking at the results.
“Hemolytic anemia, elevated liver enzymes, and low platelets,” Crus explains to Nazley.
“They're cleaning a room,” you say, hanging up the phone, “I can bring her up in ten minutes.”
“How you doing, Judith?” Jack says, walking back to her bedside.
“I- I-” Judith’s eyes roll back, her body starts to spasm.
“Oh, she's seizing,” Nazely says.
“Oh, shit,” you say, moving next to Jack, “10 of IV diazepam. Have another 10 ready,”
“With all the movement, we can't get a fetal heartbeat,” Mateo says, checking the CTG.
“Putting on 15 liters by mask. Should we intubate?” Crus asks.
“Hold intubation. Let's try to break this. We don't want to mask seizures with paralysis unless we have to,” you say to Nazley, explaining your rationale.
“Nazely, what's the diagnosis?” Jack asks.
“Um, with the seizure, now it's eclampsia,” Nazely says.
“Fetal heart rate is about 90,” you shake your head, “way too low,”
“Mom's sats are going down,” Mateo says, his eyes on the monitor.
“Time to tube her?” Crus asks, looking between you and Jack. The two of you stare at each other, seeming to telepathically communicate.
“Set up for it, but wait,” you speak for the pair of you, “another 10 of diazepam. Push 4 grams of Keppra.”
“Pulse ox is 88,” Mateo says, shaking his head.
“Dr. Abbot?” Crus says, looking at Jack, “Intubate?”
But Jack looks at you.
“Let’s do it,” you say.
“Nazely, what do you suggest for rapid sequence induction?” Jack says.
“Etomidate and roc,” Nazely offers her best guess.
“Mm, not quite, Dr. Toomarian,” you say, snapping on a pair of gloves, “120 of propofol, 60 of succinylcholine.”
“Why is that, Crus?” Jack says, pulling on his own pair of gloves.
“Propofol for the anti-seizure effect, sux to avoid prolonged paralysis so we can check her neuro exam.” Crus says.
“Exactly,” Jack nods.
“Pushing the propofol,” Mateo injects the medication into Judith’s IV.
“Once she's flat for intubation we need to displace the uterus to the left,” you say across the table to Jack.
“Nazely, that's you. Big hug, both arms. Get the baby off the vena cava.” Jack mimes the movement, guiding her.
“What's she had so far?” Shen says, walking in the room.
“30 of diazepam, a full load of mag, Keppra, and propofol,” Jack says, eyes on the monitor.
“Damn.” Ellis’ eyes follow Jack's, “What's your next step?”
“Any ideas?” Jack asks the room, “Nazely?”
“Dilantin? Valproate?” Nazely offers.
“Infusion is too long. Push 100 of ketamine. That's had results with refractory status,” you say, nodding at Nazely. She injects the ketamine into the IV and immediately the heart rate picks up, but not as much as you’d like, “little better.”
“Yeah. She should be upstairs with the rest of OB,” Shen shakes his head.
“Best of OB is down here with us,” Jack says, looking at you with adoration. You smile and shake your head at his compliment. The phone in the room rings and Ellis moves to pick it up.
“Ok, got it.” she says, “OB says send her and Dr. Abbot up. They have an OR ready.”
“This one looks like it took a turn for the worse,” Robby says walking into the room, and as if he spoke it into existence, Judith’s heart starts to fail, “fuck. V-fib”!
“Chest compressions, Dr. Toomarian, Charge to 200,” you say, commanding the room, “Prep the belly. Get a baby warmer. Call the NICU. Start a timer.”
“Charged. Clear.” Mateo says. Everyone raises their hands off Judith and steps back. A shock jolts her body but her heart doesn’t pick up again on its own, “continue compressions!”
“Gown up, baby, it's you and me.” Abbot looks across the table at you and you give your head a little shake at the pet name in this dire circumstance.
“Dr. Toomarian, do you know the four-minute rule?” You ask as Mateo helps you slip on a gown.
“Uh, not sure.” Nazely says, tying Jack’s gown for him.
“Pregnant patient with a viable fetus, you have four minutes after cardiac arrest to save the baby.” You say, sliding your goggles up your nose.
“And the mom,” Jack adds, “we don't call it a postmortem C-section anymore. It's a resuscitative hysterotomy to try to save them both.”
“But she doesn't want any medical intervention.” Nazley says tepidly.
“Doesn't matter. Mom and baby are both dead if we do nothing.” You say. “OK, charge to 200. One more rhythm check and then Jack and I are gonna cut. Ellis, you and Crus on Mom resuscitation. Shen, you and Nazely take the baby. OK, hold compressions.”
Everyone steps back, raising their hands off Judith’s limp body.
“Still V-fib.” Crus shakes his head.
“We need to get this baby out right now,” Jack says to you, and you nod, “let’s have eyes on Dr. Abbot, this is a priceless demonstration we’re about to get,”
“Ok, ten blade,” you say, holding out your hand, grateful you’re masked up so the trauma room can’t see you blush. Mateo places the scalpel in your hand.
“First incision is from the xiphoid to the pubic symphysis through the skin to the linea alba.” You say, dragging the blade down her belly.
“Second incision goes through the peritoneum, exposing the uterus,” you’re laser focused, making an identical incision on the deeper layer of skin.
“Ellis, gentle traction,” Jack says, pulling back his retractor and she mirrors his movements.
“Ok, making a small vertical incision through the lower uterus so as not to cut the baby,” you say, taking the scissors from Mateo, “using scissors to extend superiorly.”
“Ellis, hand retract the uterus with me.” Jack says, knowing what you need before you have to ask.
“Amniotic fluid looks good,” you say, as it spills out, “give me some fundal pressure.”
“Breech position,” Jack says, as you reach into her uterus.
“Baby's out. It's a girl!” You say, and Jack can hear the smile in your voice. He knows that this is your favorite part, usually much more joyful and with the mother conscious.
“Ok, blue and flaccid. We got mommy, you take baby,” You say to Shen. Everyone works in frantic precision. You pull out the placenta in a smooth motion, getting it all out in one go.
“Hold compressions.” Jack says.
“I got a weak carotid.” Mateo says, and you breathe out in relief.
“No seizure activity on the EEG.” Crus says, eyes on the monitor.
“Ah!” Shen calls from across the room, “Baby girl just scored the winning point! APGAR of 8 is pretty normal.”
“Holy shit,” Dr. Pettyfer, your OB colleague pushes in the room, “what did I miss?
“Eclampsia with status, HELLP syndrome, cardiac arrest, resuscitative hysterotomy.” Jack says, resting his hands on his hips.
“I was in the OR with a septic twin C-section,” Pettyfer says, looking between you and Jack, “got your text 12 minutes ago.”
“Shit happens fast down here,” Jack shrugs.
“Dr. Abbot did a resuscitative hysterotomy in 36 seconds.” Crus says, awe in his voice.
“Impressive,” Pettyfer crosses his arm, looking down at Judith.
“You’re not gonna ask which one?” Jack says, crossing his arms.
“I don’t have to,” Pettyfer smirks.
“NICU's sending a team down,” Mateo says, hanging up the phone.
“Alright well I can take mom along with my star resident,” Pettyfer nods at you before turning to the ER crew, “you guys are rock stars,”
“We like to be referred to as crawlers of the night,” Jack says, a playful lilt in his voice.
“My god,” you roll your eyes at him, before turning back to Pettyfer, “can I meet you up there in five? I wanna wait for NICU to come get the baby,”
“Yeah, no problem,” Pettyfer says as Crus and Ellis help him roll Judith out of the room, the rest of the ER staff clearing out leaving you and Jack alone. You lock eyes and let out a long, deep breath.
“You were amazing,” Jack says, walking towards you, the tip of his boot bumping against your sneaker.
“I fucking hate anti-vaxx, make america healthy again bullshit people,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your head on his shoulder.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Jack teases as he moves his arms around your body, holding you against him. You pinch his side and he yells out a little yelp.
“She was scared,” you say, breathing in his smell, “idiots can be scared too, Jack,”
“So true, baby,” he says, rubbing his hand up and down your back, “you were good with her,”
“I was,” you sigh.
“I didn’t like it when she asked if we had kids,” Jack says into your hair.
“She was just scared, looking for a little connection,” you say, pulling back so you can look your husband in the eye, “it’s ok that we’re doing things our own way. We’re allowed to not want kids.”
“I love you so much,” he says, squeezing your hip.
“I love you so much,” you echo.
“Fuck kids,” Jack says.
“Fuck kids,” you say so enthusiastically Jack can’t help but laugh, “...for us though. For other people it’s super important to my livelihood.”
“Right,” Jack nods in mock seriousness. You smile at him, running your hands up his arms, locking your fingers behind his neck.
“I want you all to myself,” you whisper, leaning up, quickly biting his ear lobe. Jack grips down on your waist and lets out a small, soft groan.
“You got me,” he rasps.
“I know,” you smile, placing a kiss on his cheek. “I gotta get back upstairs my love,”
“Ok,” he says, trying not to be so disappointed, especially after getting to spend a little extra time with you.
Jack shoves his hands in his pockets as the pair of you walk towards the elevators, knowing he’d be too tempted to take your hand if he didn’t.
“If I give you constructive feedback will you still love me?” You say, as the pair of you move slowly through the pitt.
“I’ll love you no matter what,” Jack hums.
“You should try to call Nazley Dr. Toomarian,” you say, clasping your hands behind your back, “she just became a doctor. And I know you have your whole fun-attending-night-crawlers thing but… she worked hard to get here and I think it could mean a lot. Especially because the night shift down here is kind of a boys club,”
“We have Ellis!” Jack says.
“Jack…” you stop in front of the elevator giving him a somewhat incredulous look,“Ellis is the head of boys club,”
“Point taken,” he laughs, pausing, letting his eyes run over your face. “Ok. I’ll work on that. Can I give you some constructive feedback?” He pushes the elevator button for you.
“Of course,” you smile. Jack leans towards you, letting his finger brush against the back of your palm, against your wedding band.
“Your ass… looks amazing in those scrubs,” he whispers.
“Jack!” You laugh, as the elevator dings open, starting to walk through the doors.
“Hey,” Jack says in almost a whine, grasping your hand in his.
“What?” You smile.
“No kiss?” He says, his eyes wide and puppy-like.
“We are at work,” you smile, squeezing his hand and he gives you this look like he knows you want to kiss him just as badly. You sigh, “fine. A little one,”
“Just a little one,” Jack says, crinkling his nose, leaning towards you, placing a soft kiss on your lips. You giggle against his mouth, turning your head away.
“That’s all you get,” you smile, pulling away, backing into the elevator.
“I’ll see you later,” Jack says, the tips of his ears red, burying his hands in his pockets.
“Bye, Dr. Abbot,” you say, drawing out his name with a flirty twang.
“Bye Dr. Abbot,” he nods at you with that smoldering look you love so much. You blow him a little kiss before the elevator doors slide shut. He catches it and presses it against his heart. It’s gonna be a long shift.
It's fun being queer and weird and unconventional until you remember you live in a society
As a society, we need to go back to understanding that strangers on the internet are, you know, strangers. I feel lately that I'm seeing a rise in 'An author I love blocked me because they took my comment the wrong way' posts on the ao3 subreddit, and then the comment is them calling the author a fucking bitch or something like that.
Don't do this. Tone doesn't translate well in text, and if you don't have a rapport with that author, they are not going to interpret, 'You're a fucking bitch' as, 'Author I hate you for being so talented and making me feel so keenly.' They're going to interpret it as you being an asshole. You can shit talk with your friends because you have an established relationship with them and can distinguish between playful banter and genuine anger. You do not have this with a stranger, no matter how much you like their fics. You will have a much more pleasant time in fandom and not get cockblocked from interacting with your favorite writers if you remember this.
are we too late? are we too far? // jack abbot pt. 2
At nineteen, you told Jack Abbot that you’d marry him someday. He laughed it off and disappeared from your life for eleven years. Now, you’re months away from marrying a safe, stable man. Until you lock eyes with Jack across a bar, and your perfectly curated life completely shatters.
genre: dad's ex-best friend!jack x reader, age gap, forbidden romance, mutual pining, smut nsfw mdni
word count: 12k+ (holy shit i'm sorry lmao)
(a/n: ahhh thank yall so much for waiting. i've been working so hard on this one. and honestly i feel like it's my weakest, but i'm proud of this little story. i really hope you enjoy it. also totally forgot last time i was going to explain the title lol. it's a line from the song Death & Romance by Magdalena Bay. A banger and I thought about Jack whilst listening to it, so naturally I wrote an almost 15k fic. so it goes. anywhoooo thank yall again. i hope you like it. plz let me know. )
part 1
Jack decided the universe was run by an absolute sadist.
When he’d left years ago, you had been just a girl he couldn’t save. No matter how much he had wanted to. Beautiful, sure, but dangerous. You had looked at him like he held the keys to the kingdom, completely oblivious to the fact that he was barely holding his own life together.
I’m going to marry you.
He hadn't corrected you back then. Not explicitly. He’d just gently steered you away from the edge of that particular cliff.
Driving home that night, he had tucked your confession away in the darkest drawer of his mind as an impossible fiction.
But the person standing across from him now was entirely different.
And, frustratingly, exactly the same.
Adolescence had turned into something elegant, but the defensive way you crossed your arms over your chest and the stubborn tilt of your chin was identical to when you were nineteen.
The familiarity hit him in the chest. Nostalgia making a wave over him. He’d cry right now if he wasn’t so emotionally constipated.
His eyes tracked your hand as you reached for your glass and that's when the light caught it.
Everything inside him ground to a halt.
Slowly, he pointed the drink and the hand that held it toward your hand. "What's that?"
The color drained from your face so fast it made his stomach drop. You pulled your hand back, tucking it close to your body. "Oh. I'm getting married."
Well, fuck.
Jack made sure to keep his features normal. Even though some part of himself (stupid and utterly selfish as it is) feels like something has just been taken away from him.
He just let out a breath, an only slightly tortured smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh yeah? Thought that slot was reserved for me."
You tore your gaze away, looking at anything but his face as heat crept up your neck.
He didn't look away. He couldn't. He just stared, tracing the line of your face, waiting out the silence until you finally forced yourself to look back. "Yeah, well." you muttered, your voice tight. "That's the kind of shit you say when you're nineteen and stupid."
"Stupid?" Jack countered, leaning an inch closer. "You wound me."
"Oh, don't act like you actually believed me back then."
He tilted his head, locking his eyes onto yours. "Well..you are here at this bar with me right now. After years of never seeing each other. If I didn't know any better, I'd say the universe is incapable of keeping us apart."
Instead of answering, you flagged down the bartender, your knuckles rapping against the sticky wood of the counter as you ordered another drink, completely shutting him out.
Jack watched you take a sip.
He needed to stop. He needed to be the adult in the room, to play the role of the supportive, well meaning ghost from your past.
"So," he said smoothly, "who's the lucky guy?"
The name David slipped past your lips, followed by a laundry list of details. His job, how you met, the stable life you’d built. Jack nodded in all the right places, but truth be told, he wasn't processing a single syllable.
Fuck that guy.
Fuck David and his immaculate timing. Fuck David for being the one who got to see you grow into this version of yourself, and fuck David for having the absolute privilege of taking care of you.
But as he watched the animated way your expression softened when you spoke, a bitter ache settled deep in Jack’s stomach.
By the time the bartender did last call, the room had thinned out to a handful of stragglers.
You stood up, sliding your purse over your shoulder and Jack was up a second later, tossing a stack of crumpled bills onto the counter without looking at them. "It's late. I’m walking you home."
You blinked up at him, shifting your weight. "Jack, I'm fine. I live right around the block. It’s a four minute walk."
He didn't say anything back. He just snagged his jacket, throwing it over one shoulder with a lazy shake of his head. "Don't fight me on this, sweetheart."
The walk was quiet at first, the pavement damp from an earlier rain, but Jack had never been excellent at staying quiet around you. He kept his pace slow, matching yours perfectly, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Your shoulders brushed with every third step.
Gradually, the conversation slipped back into its old rhythm, as if the lost years never existed. He looked down at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, and for a fleeting moment, he felt completely unmoored.
God, you were sharp. You were quick, funny, delivering lines with this effortless charm that made him want to pull you into the nearest shadowed doorway and never let you go.
Before he could entirely lose his mind, you stopped in front of a brick building with a heavy iron awning. "This is me." you said, turning to face him on the steps.
Jack braced his weight on one foot, looking up at you. The easy bravado finally dropped from his shoulders, replaced by something more exposed. "Can I have your number?" He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. Jesus, now who was the one acting like a nervous teenager? "I, uh..I texted your old one a few times. Over the years. But I think you had it changed."
Your expression softened, a flicker of something complicated crossing your eyes. "Yeah, I changed it once I got to college. So my dad couldn't reach me."
The mention of your father made Jack’s jaw tighten, a protective anger flaring in his chest. He just nodded, pulling his phone from his pocket.
...
Against your better judgment, you took it. Your fingers brushed his with a brief shock of heat, as you typed in your new digits and handed it back.
"There." you whispered. "Goodbye, Jack."
You turned, key already in hand, reaching for the glass door of your building. You took one step into the warm lobby, but you turned back, looking through the open doorway at him.
He hadn't moved an inch.
He was still standing exactly where you left him.
"I missed seeing you, Jack." you said, the confession slipping out before you could think better of it.
And before he could answer, before you could see exactly what those words did to him, you turned and walked inside, letting the door click shut between you.
…
"There was nothing wrong with any of them." you said, stepping onto the sidewalk as the boutique door clicked shut. You stared blankly at a crack in the pavement. "They were beautiful dresses, Meg. They just didn’t feel right."
Meg sighed, throwing an arm around your shoulder as you both started down the block. "You’re just overwhelmed. Wedding dress shopping is less about the fabric and more about the reality of the fact that you're actually doing this. It's a lot to process." She checked her watch, her face twisting into a grimace. "Crap. Speaking of reality, I have to run. If I don't meet the florist in fifteen minutes, she's going to take several liberties that I definitely will not approve of.”
"Go, go." you urged, waving her off with a weak smile. "I'll be fine."
"Are you going straight home? Do you want me to call you later?"
"No, don't worry about it." you said, gesturing toward the diner across the street. "I think I'm just going to go sit in a corner, get a slice of pie, and read my book for a bit. Decompress."
"Good. Unplug your brain." Meg said, giving your arm a quick squeeze before jogging toward the subway.
The diner was louder than usual, packed with the early dinner rush escaping the incoming rain. The bell above the door chimed as you walked inside, and a quick scan confirmed your worst nightmare. Every single private booth was taken. The long counter was packed shoulder to shoulder.
The only available spot in the entire place was a tiny two person table near the back window, and it was currently occupied by a very large man with a leather jacket draped over the back of his chair. His head was turned toward the window, watching the starting drops of rain streak against the glass.
Curls.
Familiar curls, is all you saw first. And you should be embarrassed how much your body reacts to them. Even after all these years, he’s got your heart beating into your throat. The only thing that has changed is that he grew out of the red and exchanged it for grey.
To your disastrous conclusion, it only made him more handsome. More something. Magnetic? Maybe, but you’d always been drawn to Jack.
You should turn around. You should walk back out into the rain, go to your apartment, and eat whatever stale crackers were left in your pantry. Seeing him once at a bar was a fluke. Seeing him twice felt dangerous.
But your feet didn't move toward the door. Instead, driven by that same pull, you navigated the tight maze of tables until you were standing right at the edge of his space.
"Hey." you said softly.
Jack’s head turned immediately. The distant, checked out expression on his face instantly vanished, his eyes expanding as they locked onto yours. He took you in all at once. Your windblown hair, the slight line of stress between your eyebrows, the book clutched tightly against your chest.
A smirk slowly tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained entirely intense. He leaned back in his chair, gesturing casually with his chin toward the empty seat across from him.
You swallowed the ridiculous spike of nerves in your throat, sliding into the chair.
Jack caught the eye of a passing waitress and raised two fingers. He looked back at you, eyes tracking the way you clutched your book like a shield. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice low.
You had spent the last twenty minutes dreaming about a thick slice of cherry pie, but suddenly, the thought of him buying it for you made your stomach do things you didn’t like. It felt too intimate. It felt wrong, like you were allowing him to fill a need he no longer had the right to.
"Oh, I'm just reading." you lied smoothly, offering a dismissive wave. "No food."
He didn't say a word, but he leveled a look at you. His eyebrows pulling down just a fraction in that knowing way he used to when he caught you in a bluff. An ache of longing bloomed in your chest. You had missed the way he had looked at you.
You missed when someone knew you so completely that you didn’t even have to say a word.
"Really?" Jack murmured, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. "So was cherry pie just a phase, or is that still happening?"
A smile broke across your face before you could stop it, your shoulders dropping their defensive posture. Jack caught the change instantly. "We'll take a slice of the cherry. Two forks. And a black coffee."
When it arrived, you didn't fight him on it. Instead, a comfortable silence settled over the table. The only sound was the clinking of forks against the ceramic plate as you shared the slice, both of you staring out at the rain turning the streetlights blurry.
It was nice.
It was terrifyingly easy.
"So," Jack said, breaking the quiet as he pushed the last bite of crust toward your side of the plate. "What did you do today?"
The lingering warmth from the pie evaporated, replaced by white satin and tulle. You let out a defeated sigh, leaning your chin into your hand. "Wedding dress shopping." you admitted, your voice miserable. "With Meg. It went horribly."
You expected a retort. Or for him to make a joke about you looking like a cloud or to tease you about being difficult. But when you didn't hear a reply, you looked up.
Jack wasn't smiling. He was watching you, his eyes focused on the sadness radiating from you. "I'm sorry, sweetheart." he said softly.
Your eyes screwed shut instantly, a shock running straight down your spine at the cadence of his voice. You forced them open, aggressively pointing your pie covered fork directly at his chest. "Don't call me that."
That smirk slowly worked its way back onto his face as he watched your cheeks flood with color. "Why?" he challenged, leaning an inch closer. "You like it too much?"
You tore your gaze away from him, turning your head toward the window and grumbling something under your breath just to avoid the smug, insufferable certainty in his eyes.
Then your phone buzzed against the table. “Oh, I have to take this. I'm sorry."
…
Inside, Jack was working double overtime just to keep his features flat. His jaw clenched so hard his molars ached.
God, he needed to see his therapist.
This was stupid. It was childish. It was entirely unhinged for him to feel this surge of possessiveness over a woman who wasn't even his. He had no claim over you. None at all. He was the one who had walked away eleven years ago.
But logic didn't do a damn thing to stop the way his chest constricted when you brought the phone to your ear.
Then came the blow, delivered in the sweetest tone. "Okay. Love you too."
Jack bristled. The words hit him with white hot jealousy.
You hung up, sliding the phone back into your pocket with an apologetic sigh. "Gotta go. David needs some help with something at the apartment."
You stood up, immediately reaching for your purse and unzipping it to hunt for cash. "Let me just grab some money for the pie."
Jack reached across the small distance, his hand came down over yours, his fingers completely covering your knuckles and pinning your hand to the fabric of your purse, stopping you instantly.
He would think about it later. Hours from now, lying awake in his bed, he would analyze the exact feel of your skin, the way his palm seemed to memorize the curve of your knuckles, and the buzzing that went straight up his forearm.
But right now, he just needed to keep you from drawing another boundary between you.
"Don't even think about it." Jack said, leaving no room for debate. He didn't let go of your hand right away, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of your wrist. "You don't pay for anything when you're with me."
You blinked down at his hand, then up at his face. You couldn't help the little smile that broke across your lips. "Oh, I see. Got that doctor money now and suddenly you're a big deal, huh?"
Jack laughed, his fingers reluctantly sliding off yours as he leaned back into his chair. "Are you kidding? I've always been a big deal."
You snorted, and to Jack, it was easily the best thing he had ever heard in his life. It was a sound he wanted to bottle up and keep. "Bye, Jack." you said softly, your smile lingering.
You hesitated for a fraction of a second, standing by his seat. And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you reached out. Your hand closed briefly over his shoulder, a firm squeeze that pressed through the fabric of his shirt.
Then you turned and walked away.
He sat completely frozen, slowly bringing his left hand up to press over the exact spot on his shoulder where your fingers had just been, trying to trap the lingering warmth against his skin.
…
It had been a week since you sat across from Jack in that diner, and your brain had spent the last several days thinking of absolutely nothing else.
Even now, with the late evening sun filtering through the trees of the park near your apartment, you were miles away. You were walking hand in hand with David. The gravel of the path was crunching beneath your sneakers, and his voice was steady beside you.
You weren't listening to a single syllable.
Instead, your mind was drifting back to a particular night a lifetime ago. You remembered the feeling when Jack had pulled his truck up to your house, the shouting of your dad’s latest explosive fit still echoing through the thin walls behind you.
Jack had taken one look at your face, grabbed your wrist, and thrown you into his passenger seat.
He’d driven straight to the nearest Olive Garden and the two of you had proceeded to eat an ungodly amount of breadsticks.
Looking back, you had probably been falling in love with Jack Abbot since the very first moment he’d ever shown up at your house, but watching him sit across from you under those tacky restaurant lights, making terrible faces just to make you forget the dark world you lived in, that was the exact moment your heart had stubbornly decided it wanted him.
But you had David now. Safe, stable, predictable David. Whose hand was currently wrapped around yours. He stopped walking, tilting his head down to look at you. "Hey. Did you hear me?"
You blinked, the memory dissipating as you forced yourself back into the present. "Hmm? No, sorry. I got completely lost in thought. What did you say?"
David didn't get annoyed. He just let out a patient laugh and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. "I was asking about our first dance song. I was thinking about it on the drive over. What do you think about Kiss Me?"
You couldn’t stop it then. Another memory slotting its way into your mind. You sitting shotgun flying down winding back roads with the windows cracked wide open. The radio blasting that exact song, the wind whipping your hair across your face while you and Jack screamed the lyrics at the top of your lungs, completely off key.
"Maybe." you forced out, the word catching uncomfortably in your throat. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your expression from cracking.
"Ah, that's okay." David said smoothly, entirely oblivious. "Don't stress. I'll make a running list of options tonight and we can go through them later..oh, shit!"
David’s foot caught on a deep lip of concrete where the park path intersected with a dirt trail. His ankle rolled inward with a crack. He pitched forward, his grip ripping away from your hand as he went down hard on his side in the grass.
"David!" You dropped to your knees beside him instantly. "Are you okay?"
He was pale, his jaw clenched tight as he clutched at his left leg, a groan escaping his teeth. "My ankle." he gasped out, his forehead breaking into a sweat. "I think I just broke the damn thing."
…
You hadn't thought anything of the location when the driver pulled up to the emergency room. It was simply the closest trauma center. Your only focus had been helping David limp through triage until they finally rolled him back into an exam room.
David was lying on the gurney, his face tight with pain as he stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the doctor on staff to see him. You stood by the edge of the bed, your hand holding his.
"Alright, let's see what we're dealing with here." The fabric of the curtain was pulled back and your eyes flew upward. Standing in the entryway, a chart clutched in his hand and a stethoscope slung casually over his shoulders, was Jack.
Of course.
Jack’s eyes were locked onto the chart as he stepped into the room, his pen clicking once, and then he stopped. He raised his head and his gaze swept over the gurney, over David, and landed right on you.
"Sorry." David panted from the gurney, his knuckles white as he gripped the metal rail. He forced a strained smile. "Didn't mean to crowd your ER today, Doc. I think I completely destroyed my ankle on a rogue piece of park pavement."
"Let's take a look." Jack said. His voice was lower than usual. You could feel it rattle all the way down to your toes. He deliberately kept his eyes on David as he rolled a stool over, snapping on a pair of gloves.
As he knelt by the foot of the bed, his shoulder brushed right against your arm. It was a fleeting contact, but it sent a jolt straight up your spine. "So,” Jack said, his large fingers gently probing the swollen, purple bruising on David’s ankle. "How exactly did it happen? Lose your footing?"
"Yeah." David groaned, flinching slightly as Jack manipulated the joint. "I was totally distracted. We were just walking, talking about our wedding, and I didn't see the drop off."
Jack’s hands stayed perfectly still on David’s leg, but slowly, his head tilted up. His eyes locked dead onto yours, carrying a challenging spark that trapped your breath in your throat.
"Right." Jack said softly, his mouth curving into an almost smirk that was entirely meant for you. "Distractions will get you. Sometimes you think you're on solid ground, and then the universe completely shifts right out from under you. Isn't that right?"
You gripped the strap of your purse so hard your fingers turned numb. "I...yeah. I guess so."
David let out a painful laugh, completely oblivious to the suffocating layers of subtext heavy in the room. "Man, you can say that again. One minute you're picking out a first dance song, the next you're in a gown."
"A first dance song?" Jack repeated. He stood up, ripping off the gloves, his gaze still pinned to your face. He stepped closer, forcing you to slightly tilt your chin up to maintain eye contact. "What was the contender?"
"Oh, I was thinking Kiss Me." David called out from the pillow, letting his head fall back with a tired sigh. "You know that old nineties track? I think it's romantic. y/n was a little unsure, though."
A wicked gleam flashed in Jack’s eyes. A look of insufferable amusement mapping itself across his handsome face. He knew exactly what that song meant to you. "Unsure? That’s surprising. Not a big fan of long drives and loud music?"
You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper, glaring at him in a stare. "It’s a bit cliché." you managed to squeeze out, your voice tight.
Jack’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back to David, his professional demeanor slotting back into place like it was nothing. "Well, David, the good news is I don't think it's a fracture, but the bad news is we definitely need X-rays to check for a hairline break or ligament tears. I'm going to order them and have the tech come grab you."
"Awesome. Thank you, seriously." David said. He looked up at Jack like the man had just personally parted the sea. "Man, honey aren't we lucky? This guy is fantastic. I gotta say, Doc, your bedside manner is incredible. Super attentive."
Jack laughed and stepped back toward the door and gave a polite nod. "Don't mention it." Just before he left, he cut his eyes back to you, leveling you with one last look. "I always make sure to take extra special care of things that are important."
…
You kept running into Jack.
Not on purpose, but for a few weeks after that night at the diner, the universe just seemed entirely incapable of keeping you separate.
You were roaming through your favorite bookstore, losing yourself in the new releases, when you turned a corner into the biography aisle.
He was leaning against the wood paneling, casually flipping through a massive hardcover on the French Revolution. Typical, honestly. It made you want to roll your eyes, but before you could look away, he raised his head.
Did you proceed to sit at the tiny coffee shop inside the bookstore and talk for two straight hours? Yes. But it didn't mean anything.
Then there was the afternoon you got caught in a downpour. You stood on the sidewalk, cursing under your breath as you shoved at your umbrella, which yeah was completely broken.
A familiar truck pulled up to the curb, the passenger window sliding down smoothly. Jack leaned across the console, eyeing the way the rain was already plastering your hair to your forehead.
“Get in.” he called out over the thunder.
When you started to refuse, shaking your head and gesturing toward the short walk home, Jack didn’t argue. He just killed the engine, threw his door open, and stepped straight out into the rain.
He just reached out, his hand wrapping gently around your elbow, and guided you toward his passenger side. He practically hovered over you, using his own body to protect you from the worst of the sheets of water while he got absolutely, completely soaked.
Did you sit up until three that night thinking about the way his hair looked all messy and plastered to his forehead? Did you think about the way his shirt had been completely soaked through, clinging to his shoulders? Yes. But it didn't mean anything.
All of this was pure coincidence. A series of flukes. Not on purpose at all.
Until it wasn't.
…
David was away at a work conference in Boston. You were pulling books off your overflowing bookshelves, doing some late night reorganizing, when the banging on the front door started.
It was pounding that rattled the wood in its frame and sent panic right through you.
"I know you're in there, baby girl! Getting married without telling your old man!!"
The words through the door were slurred, thick with alcohol and malice. You froze on the spot, a book slipping from your numb fingers. How had he found you?
You frantically dialed David’s number, your hands shaking so much you almost dropped the phone. When he finally answered, you poured out the words in a breathless rush, begging him to come home, begging him to fix it.
But David was three hundred miles away, and he simply didn't realize the severity of the situation. He didn’t know the history, not all of it, so he didn’t know the monster on the other side of that door.
"Call the police." David said through the line, his voice calm and practical. "I can't leave right now."
He meant well. He really did. He just didn't know.
You hung up, the slurred shouting outside your door growing louder, followed by another heavy kick against the door.
Without thinking, you dialed Jack and he answered on the very first ring.
"My dad's here." you whispered. You didn't even say hello. Your voice fractured on the last word, and you were sure Jack could hear the muffled yelling through the background.
It took Jack no time to speak. "Stay right there. I'm coming."
David had retreated when you most needed him, hiding behind work responsibilities and distance. But Jack Abbot?
He would walk right into the fire.
…
Jack broke every speed limit getting there. He took the stairs two at a time, his feet pounding against the concrete, and when he rounded the corner into the hallway, he saw him.
Your father was swaying on his feet, one fist raised against your door, his knuckles already split and bleeding from the force of his own pounding. The smell of cheap whiskey hit Jack before he even got close.
"Hey!" Jack's voice cracked down the hallway. "Get away from that door."
Your father turned, bleary eyes struggling to focus. He blinked hard, swaying backward on unsteady feet as he took in the man closing the distance between them. "Who the hell are you?" he slurred, his words mashing together at the edges.
Jack stopped a few feet away, close enough to block him from the door, his jaw tight, hands curled into fists at his sides. There had been a time this man had known his face well. A time Jack had sat at his kitchen table, had shaken his hand, had been introduced as his friend from AA.
None of it registered. Not a flicker of recognition. Just glassy, unfocused eyes trying to place a stranger.
"Doesn't matter who I am." Jack said evenly, though his pulse was pounding in his ears. "You need to leave. Now."
Your father squinted at him a moment longer, some drunken calculation happening behind his eyes, weighing whether this stranger was worth the fight. Whatever he decided, it wasn't in Jack's favor to test. He muttered something incoherent under his breath, waved a dismissive hand through the air, and turned, stumbling back down the hallway toward the stairwell and the door banged shut behind him.
Jack stood there another few seconds, listening until the sound of uneven footsteps faded completely. Only then did he let his shoulders drop, some of the adrenaline bleeding out of him. He turned and knocked twice, soft. "It's me."
The door opened and Jack’s heart twisted. You were pale, your hand trembling on the frame, eyes glassy with barely held tears.
Jack stepped inside without a word.
You shut the door behind him, the deadbolt sliding home and the second you turned around, whatever was holding you together gave out completely. You crossed the small distance and folded into him, your face pressing into his chest, your fists curling into the fabric of his shirt. A sob broke loose, shaking through your whole body.
Jack's arms came around you immediately, one hand splayed wide across your back, the other cradling the back of your head, holding you together at the seams. "I've got you, sweetheart. You're okay."
You just shook against him, gripping tighter. "He's gone." Jack said quietly, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "He's not coming back. I promise you that."
"I was so scared." you choked out, your voice muffled against his chest.
"I know." His hand moved in steady circles against your back. "I know, baby. But you're safe. You hear me? You're safe. I'm not going anywhere."
…
You didn't know how you'd ended up like this. Flat on your back on the couch, feet in Jack's lap, his hand wrapped loose around your ankle, thumb tracing slow circles against the bone there. His other hand rested just below your knee, warm, doing absolutely nothing except being there.
Somewhere in the deep, buried recesses of your mind, nineteen year old you was losing it.
Screaming, actually.
He hadn't said much. Just steered you gently toward the couch, dropped down at the end of it, and flipped on your favorite show without asking if that's what you wanted. You let the noise of it wash over you, let your heart rate go back down out of your throat, and for a while, neither of you said anything at all.
"I don't know how he found me." Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. "We're 3 hours from where he lives."
Jack turned his head to look at you, his hand stilling against your ankle.
"I honestly thought he was dead." You sat up then, pulling your feet out of his lap, curling your knees against your chest instead, wrapping your arms around them like a shield.
"A neighbor called a few years ago. Said he'd been evicted from the house. The city shut it down because he let it get too run down." You sighed, staring at the carpet. "And so I just thought to myself, that's it. I have to let him go now. For real. And it was over for me then. Even if he's still alive somewhere."
Jack was quiet for a moment, just watching you, something soft and aching behind his eyes. "You did what you had to do to survive him." he said finally. "That's not something to feel guilty about. You were trying to keep your head above water with somebody who should've been protecting you instead of drowning you." He shifted closer, his knee brushed yours. "Letting go of him wasn't you giving up. It was you finally choosing yourself. That takes more strength than most people ever have to find."
You didn't say anything, just picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.
"You're doing so well." he continued, quieter now. "Look at you. You built a whole life he doesn't get to touch. And tonight, when it got hard, you didn't fall apart. You're still standing." His mouth curved, just barely. "You're gonna be okay. I mean that."
You didn't fully believe it. Not yet. But something about the way he said it, like it was fact and not comfort, made it easier to breathe.
Before you could stop yourself, you sat up and threw your arms around him.
Jack didn't hesitate. His arms came around you instantly, pulling you in tight against his chest. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck and breathed in, deep, the way you used to when you were younger.
You'd thought you hid it well back then. Some guilty part of you had always known he'd caught on anyway.
When you pulled back, you just stared at him.
For one long moment, the apartment, the show still playing, your father somewhere out there in the dark, none of it existed. There was just his face close to yours.
You cleared your throat and looked away first, scooting back to the opposite end of the couch, eyes fixed on the TV.
…
You didn't remember falling asleep.
You did vaguely register the sound of the television clicking off. You felt strong arms slide beneath you, lifting you and cradling you against a solid chest as he carried you down the hall. He laid you down in your bed and pulled the blanket up over your shoulders. You reached out before he could straighten, catching his hand. "Please don't go." Your voice was thick with sleep, barely above a whisper. "Don't leave me."
Jack went still, but then his fingers curled around yours, and he crouched down beside the bed so you didn't have to strain to see him. "I'm here. I'll always be here."
…
Jack was up before you.
He'd wanted nothing more than to climb into that bed, pull you against his chest, and hold you until the sun came up. But he wasn't that guy. Not with you asleep and vulnerable and still shaking from the night before. So he'd taken the couch instead, folding his tall frame onto cushions clearly built for someone half his size, and told himself it was fine.
Your coffee machine looked like it belonged on the bridge of a spaceship. Jack stood in front of it at six in the morning, squinting at a control panel with more buttons than his car dashboard, trying to figure out which one didn't require a PhD to operate.
That's when he heard the key turn in the lock. David stepped through the door, travel bag still slung over one shoulder, and rounded the corner into the kitchen before he saw Jack standing there. He let out a yelp, jerking backward, one hand flying to his chest. "Fuck!"
He squinted, still catching his breath, confusion slowly replacing the alarm on his face. "Dr. Abbot? What are you doing here?"
Jack had a few answers loaded and ready.
Oh I don’t know, taking care of your fiancee.
Doing your job for you.
Petty, satisfying, and exactly the kind of thing he shouldn't say out loud to the man about to marry you.
"David?" Your voice came from the hallway. You crossed the room fast, wrapping your arms around him, and Jack watched David's shoulders sag with relief as he held you. "Thank god you're here." you said into his shoulder.
Jack kept his face carefully blank, ignoring the way that sentence sliced through him.
"I know, I'm sorry. I left as soon as I could." David pulled back, and you both turned to look at Jack, still standing there with an untouched mug in his hand.
"Oh! Right, David. This is Jack." you said. "I didn't get a chance to tell you when we were at the hospital, but we've known each other a long time. He was friends with my dad briefly. He got him to leave last night."
And held her while she cried and shook until she fell asleep, Jack thought.
David's whole face opened up. "Oh, wow. Small world!" He crossed the kitchen, hand extended. "Thank you, man. Seriously."
Jack took the handshake, grip firm, and let it go. "Don't mention it."
You excused yourself to the bathroom, leaving the two of them alone in the living room. Jack figured that was his cue. He set the mug down and grabbed his jacket off the arm of the couch.
But before he headed for the door, he stopped, and let some of the easy charm drop out of his voice. "Hey. David." He waited until he had the guy's full attention. "Last night, her father was pounding on that door drunk enough to put his fist through it."
David's expression faltered.
"I get that you didn't know the whole situation." Jack tried his best to keep his tone civil. To not let the way his blood was boiling come through. "But you need to understand what you're marrying into. That man is dangerous, and he's not going to stop just because he struck out once. If he shows up again, you don't wait it out on the phone. You call me first, because I know exactly what he looks like and what he's capable of. Then you call the police. And then you get home as fast as humanly possible. She should never be alone behind that door with him on the other side of it again."
David swallowed, nodding slowly, all the earlier warmth gone out of his face, replaced by something more sober. "Of course." he said. "Yeah. You're right. I..I didn't realize how bad it was."
"Now you do." Jack said simply.
He gave the guy one last look and let himself out the door.
…
You'd decided to try veils this time, some last ditch effort to actually picture yourself walking down the aisle. You stood in front of the three way mirror, tulle pinned into your hair, and felt absolutely nothing shift into place.
You weren't sure what possessed you to do it, but you pulled out your phone. The lighting in here was stupidly flattering, if nothing else. You angled the camera, snapped a picture, and before you could think too hard about who you were about to send it to, your thumb had already done it.
Too much?
The one person on the entire planet you probably shouldn't be sending bridal photos to.
"This isn't the one either." you called out to Meg, already reaching for the zipper.
You thought you heard her sigh from the other side of the curtain.
Twenty minutes later you were back in your jeans, walking to the coffee shop around the corner to debrief, like you always did. You ordered, sat down across from her, and Meg leveled you with a look before you'd even taken a sip. "You've tried on twenty dresses this month." she said. "In the grand scheme of things that's not that many. But you'd think by now you'd have some idea of what you actually want."
You shrugged, staring into your cup.
"What's going on?"
You looked up at her, and the excuse died in your throat. You couldn't lie to her. Not about this.
So you told her. All of it.
Meg's mouth had fallen fully open. "Okay, wait." she said, holding up a hand. "Jack. The Jack? From when you were a teenager? The one you used to talk about like he hung the moon?"
"That's the one."
"And he's been what, just reappearing in your life this whole time you've been dress shopping?"
"It's not like that." you said, too fast.
Meg just stared at you, unblinking, waiting.
"It's not." you said again, weaker this time.
"So you're not going to leave David?"
"What? No." The word came out of you immediately and it was unconvincing even to your own ears. You heard it yourself, the way it hung there in the air between you.
Meg didn't say anything. She didn't have to. She just reached across the table and squeezed your hand. "I'm not going to tell you what to do." she said finally. "But I've known you a long time, and I've never once seen you struggle like this. You need to actually sit with why nothing about this is feeling right.”
She gathered her bag, dropped a kiss on the top of your head, and left you sitting there. It was only once you were alone that you remembered your phone.
You'd almost forgotten you'd sent that picture at all.
Jack: You can't just send a man a photo like that with zero warning
Jack: I had to set my phone down and collect myself.
Jack: You look stunning, sweetheart. Take a picture in every single dress you try on if it looks anywhere close to that good.
You sat there staring at the screen, feeling something warm and inconvenient bloom in your chest, right where it absolutely had no business blooming at all.
…
Jack was still staring at the picture, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen, when John's voice came from directly behind him. "Ooh, who is that?"
Jack locked the phone so fast he nearly dropped it, shoving it deep into his scrub pocket. "Someone I can't have. That's who."
John just stood there, genuinely stunned into silence. Jack Abbot didn't talk about his personal life. Ever. The man was a vault. "I have so many follow up questions."
"And I'm not answering any of them." Jack clapped him on the shoulder as he passed and left him standing there, already halfway down the hall before John could get another word out.
He took the stairwell up instead of the elevator, needing the burn, needing something physical to focus on besides the picture still branded behind his eyes. The door to the roof access swung open onto cold air and the first thin streaks of orange bleeding up over the skyline, the city still mostly asleep below him.
He braced his forearms against the railing and just breathed.
You cannot have her.
He'd known that fact for years. Had built an entire life around avoiding the truth of it, had buried it under residency and fellowships and every double shift he could volunteer for, until the burying had just become who he was.
He was so fucked.
Because the truth was that he'd never stopped. Not for one day. Somewhere in the back of his mind, you'd always been the one. The girl who told him she was going to marry him when she was young and terrified and had no business making promises like that, and he'd been arrogant enough, or maybe just honest enough with himself, to believe her.
He scrubbed a hand down his face. You had a life. A good one, from what he could see. David was steady. David showed up, mostly, and when he didn't, well, that one was on David to figure out, not Jack.
Jack was the disruption. He was the thing crashing back into your orbit and tearing it apart at the seams, one diner pie and one rescued night at a time. He didn't have the right to do that to you. Not when you'd fought so hard to build something that didn't look anything like the wreckage you came from.
He thought about the way you'd grabbed his hand last night and asked him not to leave, and he hadn't wanted to.
God, he hadn't wanted to at all.
You were supposed to be mine.
Maybe you were. Maybe in some other version of this, some world where he hadn't left, where your father hadn't been the kind of man he was, where the timing had lined up right, maybe there was a version where it was his ring on your hand and his name you said into a phone with that same soft affection.
But this wasn't that world. In this one, you were engaged.
In this one, he had a job to walk you back to your life and hand you off in one piece, not to unravel it because he couldn't get over you.
He loved you too much to be the reason you didn't get your happy ending. Even if it wasn't with him.
Stop seeing her.
The thought was simple. Easy to think and impossible, apparently, to actually do. Not when you'd called him first last night, not when your name lighting up his phone did something to his pulse he couldn't explain away as friendship.
He had to be the one to put the distance back. You wouldn't. Not with the way this thing between you kept pulling you both back together like gravity, like the two of you were simply incapable of staying apart no matter how hard either of you tried.
So it had to be him.
He just wasn't sure if he actually had it in him to do it.
…
David had been quiet all through dinner, pushing his food around his plate more than actually eating it.
It wasn't until the dishes were cleared and you were curled up on opposite ends of the couch, the TV playing something neither of you were watching, that he finally spoke.
"Can I ask you something?"
You looked over at him. "Of course."
He was quiet for a second, turning something over in his head, and when he finally looked at you, there was none of his usual easy calm in his face. Just something tired. "When's the last time you were actually excited about the wedding?"
You sat up. "What?" you managed.
"I'm not trying to start a fight." he said gently. "I just..I've been watching you for months now. Every time we talk about the venue, or the flowers, or the song, you get this look on your face." He rubbed a hand over his jaw. "And I told myself it was stress. Wedding planning is stressful, everyone says that. But it's been going on so long now that I don't think that's it anymore."
You opened your mouth to argue, some defense already forming. But nothing came out. Because he wasn't wrong, and some exhausted part of you didn't want to keep lying about it anymore.
"David."
He shifted to face you fully. "I need you to be honest with me. Do you actually want this? Do you want to marry me? Or have you just been going along with it because I'm safe, and easy, and I never gave you a reason to say no?"
The tears came before you could stop them, blurring the outline of him sitting there so patiently, waiting for an answer you didn't know how to give without breaking something neither of you could put back together.
"I don't know." The words scraped out of you. "David, I don't know. I love you. I do. You've been so good to me. You've never once made me feel unsafe, or scared, or like I had to brace myself for anything, and after everything with my dad, that meant more than I think I ever told you." You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand. "But I don't know if that's the same thing as being in love with you. And I think some part of me has known that for a long time and just didn't want to look at it too closely, because looking at it meant I had to admit I was about to marry you for the wrong reasons."
David's face didn't crumple the way you thought it might. He just nodded slowly, like some quiet piece of him had already made peace with hearing this before you'd even said it.
"I think I've known too." he admitted. "I kept telling myself it was just cold feet. That everybody gets like this before a wedding." He let out a breath that shook slightly on the way out. "But cold feet doesn't usually last eight months, does it?"
You shook your head, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.
"Is there someone else?" he asked.
You thought about Jack's hands wrapped around your ankle on this exact couch. "I don't know what he is." you said honestly. "But there's someone from a long time ago who came back into my life a few months ago, and ever since he did, I haven't been able to feel the same about anything. Including this."
David nodded again, slower this time, and reached out to take your hand. "I'm not going to pretend that doesn't hurt." he said. "But I'd rather know now than stand up in front of everyone we love and marry someone who's not sure I'm the one she wants standing there." He squeezed your hand once. "You deserve to be with somebody you don't have to talk yourself into loving. And so do I."
You cried harder then, not because it was cruel, but because it wasn't. Because David, steady and safe and undeserving of any of the mess of the last few months, had just done the bravest, kindest thing anyone had done for you in a long time.
"Go figure out what you actually want." he said softly. "I hope it's good, whatever it is."
…
The evening sun was dipping below the tree line, painting the park in golds. You walked along the path, hands shoved into the pockets of your jacket.
It was beautiful out and for the first time in what felt like forever, life had been good.
It was a strange kind of good, but it was yours. You had a new apartment now, entirely of your own making, filled with half unpacked cardboard boxes. Meg had been over earlier that afternoon, helping you put everything in its place, handing you coffee, and keeping the silence from getting to be too much.
She had a stack of dinner plates balanced in her hands and looked at you with that no nonsense gaze of hers. "Are you going to tell Jack you aren't engaged anymore?" she had asked
You had only shaken your head, looking down at the bubble wrap in your hands.
How could you? He’d been radio silent for weeks now. Almost a month had passed since you sent him that photo of you in the wedding dress.
You had figured that he was deliberately putting space between the two of you. It only made sense. Why would he ever see you as anything more? He hadn't back then, when you were nineteen and stupid, so why now?
You exited the park, taking the familiar path back toward your apartment, still turning the thoughts over in your mind.
He had probably noticed you getting too attached to him. Jack, with his observant eyes, had likely seen the way you leaned into his touch, the way you clutched his shirt when your father showed up, and decided to remove that trouble from your life before you got hurt.
But the damage was already done.
Except, as you crossed the threshold of the park and stepped onto the concrete sidewalk, you realized it wasn’t really damage at all. It was more like clarity. A newfound, stubborn sense of self.
Even if Jack wasn't going to be yours, you still had this new life. It was entirely yours. You had chosen yourself, just like he said you could.
You really shouldn't have been listening to music while walking along the busy street. The volume was up just high enough to drown out rush hour traffic. Because of it, you didn't hear the screech of tires peeling at the crosswalk.
You had the right of way. The pedestrian walk sign was white, glowing steadily, but someone wasn't paying attention.
You didn't really know what happened until the world tilted. There was a sickening impact of metal against bone, and then you were slammed down onto the pavement, hard.
Fuck, it hurt.
The breath was knocked completely out of your lungs, the cold asphalt pressing against your cheek as the music in your earbuds suddenly cut out. Your head felt dizzy, but you didn't think you’d hit it. But within seconds, shouting voices were closing in, and shadow after shadow fell over you as people rushed to your side.
"Don't move! Stay still, honey, don't try to get up!"
"Someone call 911!"
You tried to blink the blurriness from your eyes. Your right side felt like one throbbing bruise, but there was a wet warmth trickling down your shoulder. Dazed, you reached up with your left hand to touch it, your fingers brushing against the fabric of your collar.
When you pulled your hand back, your palm was bright, slick red.
The ambulance felt both like a split second and an entire lifetime. Paramedics were kneeling in the dirt beside you.
"I'm fine." you croaked, your voice sounding small and raspy even to your own ears. You tried to brace yourself on an elbow, pushing against the hands holding you down. "I can just..I can take myself to the ER. It's just my shoulder."
"Lie back." one of the medics said, his voice firm as he stabilized your neck. "We have to immobilize you. It's protocol."
You let out a defeated breath, the fight draining out of you as you nodded and let them carefully shift your body onto the rigid plastic of the stretcher.
The moment they lifted you, the shock finally caught up. Your vision began to gray out at the corners, the faces of the paramedics blurring into soft shapes. The pain in your shoulder and ribs began to fade into a dull numbness as your body finally decided to pass out, retreating into the dark.
As the darkness pulled you under, your mind clung to only one desperate thought.
I hope I'm going to see Jack.
…
Jack was standing at the nurses' station and John was going on about something dumb when he heard the incoming call being answered by Lena. When she hung up, she turned to the room. "Pedestrian was hit on the sidewalk by a car. Female. In and out of consciousness but vitals good. One minute out."
God, he had just clocked in and things were already ramping up.
"Here we go. I feel like it's going to be a spicy night." John said.
"Don't say that." Jack frowned. "You know every night is spicy when I'm here."
John just gave him a look of disgust as he sipped his coffee.
Jack snapped some gloves on right as the patient was being wheeled through the double doors. But he barely got the second glove on when his heart felt like it stopped.
You on the gurney, bleeding from your neck from a scrape, dripping down your shoulder. You, blinking slowly at John’s light that he was already flashing in your eyes.
Fucking hell, it was you.
It was all Jack could do not to grab you in his arms and yell for everyone else to get the fuck out of the room.
"Jack? Hello? You with me on this one?" John’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears.
Jack shook his head, physically forcing his brain to lock back into place. Gathering himself, he walked into the trauma bay alongside the gurney as the ambulance crew relayed their information. He didn't even realize he was doing it, but his hand found yours. He held onto it, tight, his thumb automatically brushing over the soft skin of your knuckles.
And while he was doing all this, John’s eyes darted from the monitor, to Jack’s white knuckled grip, and then back to Jack's face. The puzzle pieces were rapidly clicking together in his mind. "Uhh, is this the woman from the picture on your phone?" John asked quietly.
"Yes."
That was all Jack could say. Fuck whatever they thought about him and you. Fuck the hospital gossip, fuck the onlookers. He was staying with you.
You were slowly rousing, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks. The paramedics had said you hadn't passed out but the one time, but you were hurting, so you weren't saying much. Your fingers twitched weakly against his palm, and when your eyes finally found his, the quiet words that slipped past your lips almost broke Jack to pieces. "I hoped it was you."
Jack’s throat closed up. He grabbed your hand, lifting it to press it flat against his chest, right over his racing heart, needing you to feel him. "I'm here, sweetheart. I'll always be here."
John was watching you, his expression softening, well and fine with the moment, but he was already stepping toward the curtain, yelling for Parker to come in.
Jack's head snapped up, his eyes turning dark. "What?"
John shrugged. "You clearly know her, you can't work on her. Sorry, boss. Rules."
And fuck that.
Fuck that. Every protective instinct inside Jack screamed at him to push them all away and tend to your wounds himself. But the rational side of his brain knew John was right. If he stayed as your physician, his judgment would be clouded by the terror of losing you.
Jack swallowed the bitter pill, his grip on your hand never wavering. "Fine, but I'm staying."
John just held his hands up in surrender. "Not going to argue with you there."
…
When you woke, it was in a quiet room in the hospital. A warm light was coming from the lamp on the desk beside you.
Jack was sitting laid back on the chair near the wall. His eyes were closed, and he had his arms crossed over his chest. Was he sleeping sitting up?
You couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh at the sight.
His eyes opened, the sleep clearing from them quickly. The moment he saw you awake, the tension in his shoulders melted, and his eyes softened.
"Hi honey." he said.
Even in the bruised state you were in, that greeting caused your heart to feel like it was going berserk. Thank goodness you weren't actually hooked up to any heart monitors anymore, or else he would know exactly what it did to you when he called you that.
"Do you know what happened?" he asked, pushing himself up from the chair to come stand right by you.
"Yes, all of it unfortunately." you grimaced, trying to sit up.
Jack eased you back down against the pillows. "Keep laying down. They gave you pain meds, so that's why you've been out for a few hours."
"What time is it?" you asked, squinting toward the dark window.
"4 a.m." Jack said softly.
Your eyes widened. "Oh my god. I didn't mean to pull you from work. Please, go back on shift. I will be fine."
Jack just shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. "No way. I'm not leaving you. Shift or no shift, there is nowhere else in the world I'd rather be right now."
This time when you sat up, he didn't try to stop you. You reached out and grabbed his arm, tugging him down slightly so that he was close to you, your eyes locking onto his. "Thank you, Jack."
And he just smiled at you, covering your hand with his own for a brief second before gently squeezing. "I'm going to see about getting you discharged. Then we're going to my house. That sound okay?"
You didn't think you would have any words if you tried to speak, so you just nodded.
…
Jack tucked you into his bed and closed the door to let you sleep. You slept for a while, which he knew you would because of the pain meds. While the house was quiet, he’d called in a favor with Robby to help get coverage for his next two shifts.
He just wanted to be with you. He never wanted to leave your side, never again.
When you finally woke up, he was standing in his kitchen, making some tea. Your hair was a little mussed from sleep, but even then, you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. You'd always been.
"Can I have some?" you said, pointing toward the steaming kettle.
He pointed toward the two mugs already sitting on the counter. "Was already making you one too."
You smiled and walked toward him. Still sleep brained, you had to be, because that was the only reason you would have come right up to him and folded yourself into his chest.
Either way, Jack didn't care about the reason. He let his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, and he couldn't help the contented hum that came from his chest.
"My hero." you whispered against his shirt.
He laughed a little. "Hardly."
You leaned back, tilting your head up to look at him. And god, he wanted to kiss you. He’d wanted to kiss you for a while, but everything felt so intensely domestic right now, the way you were just holding each other in his kitchen. This felt like some sort of future that the two of you could actually have.
It wasn't until later, when the two of you were sitting at his kitchen table and you brought your mug up to your lips, tilting it back, when Jack noticed it.
The lack of a ring on your finger.
The rush of adrenaline made him almost choke on his own sip of tea. He set his mug down and reached out, completely unable to stop himself. He gently rubbed his thumb over the exact area where the ring used to be.
You set your tea down, your gaze dropping to the table. "David and I are no longer getting married." you said softly.
When Jack didn't say anything, too stunned, too frozen by the words, you started rambling, the nervous heat creeping up your neck. "Well, actually, we're no longer anything. We broke up."
…
The confession felt terrifying and freeing all at once. You swallowed hard, staring down at your bare knuckles because looking at his face right now felt like staring directly into the sun. "I broke it off with him."
Jack didn't blink. He sat perfectly still across from you, his eyes focused on your face, tracking the slight tremble of your lower lip. "Why?"
You met his gaze then. And all you could do was smile. "Because of you, Jack." you said softly. "It's always been you. The second you crashed back into my life, everything else just completely unraveled. I couldn't stand up there and marry a good man when my entire heart was somewhere else."
Taking a shaky breath, you kept going. "When you left, I tried to bury it, I really did, but seeing you again, having you in my life again, it just made me realize that I don't want a life that doesn’t have you in it. I want.."
Before you could even finish, Jack leaned in.
His large hand came up to cup the side of your face, his thumb catching the edge of your cheek to tilt your head up.
The kiss was a breaking of a dam that neither of you could have stopped if you tried.
Jack’s fingers tangled into your hair to hold you steady as he drank you in, making up for every single day he had forced himself to stay away. You melted into him, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt.
When you broke apart, he kept his forehead pressed against yours. "God, you have no idea," Jack breathed. He let out a small laugh, closing his eyes tightly for a moment before looking back at you. "I felt like such an asshole watching you with him. Sitting in that ER, listening to him talk about your wedding. I wanted to rip the walls down. I wanted to tell him to get his hands off what was mine."
He paused, a bitter smirk twisting the corner of his mouth. "I know I was a menace these past few weeks. I know I was pushing every single boundary you tried to set, but god, why wouldn't I be?" He leaned down, his lips brushing yours again, softer this time but no less desperate. "I love you so much. I've never stopped. Not for a single day."
…
True to his word, Jack took the whole weekend off to take care of you. He completely ignored your protests that you were totally fine and could go back to your own place to heal.
"Jack, I'm fine!" you said as he was walking out the door on Monday night to head back to the hospital for his shift.
He paused at the threshold, turning back to look at you. "I know. But stay here. Please?"
Looking up at him, you couldn't say no. You leaned in, and he caught your lips, kissing you again and leaving you breathless and wanting more.
To be honest, you had grown a little restless over the past two days. Even after everything that had been confessed, Jack still slept on the couch while he stubbornly insisted you take his bed. You were well enough after that first kiss to let thoughts start swirling in your head, keeping you wide awake in the dark.
You wondered if he was wide awake too those nights. You just kept getting woken up by visions of him, thoughts of him between your thighs, your hands tangled tightly in his curls. You wondered if he was eventually going to take that step with you, or if you’d have to be the one to make that leap first.
You didn't have to keep wondering for long.
When he finally got home in the morning you were already up. You were sitting in his living room, curled up in his comfy chair with a book in your lap.
You softly said hi, but the greeting completely died in your throat as he dropped his bag by the door without a word. His eyes were dark and fixed on you as he walked straight toward your chair.
Instead of pulling you up, he sank directly to the floor.
You parted your legs and allowed him to slot himself right in between them, he fit perfectly. "What are you reading?" he asked, his voice low.
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Nothing yet. I just started it."
"Ah." Jack murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth before locking back onto your eyes. "Can I interrupt?"
You closed the book and set it aside blindly. He slid his hands slowly up your thighs. The warmth of his palms seared through your clothes, and you couldn't help the way you sank down a little in the seat, tilting your hips to make it even easier for his hands to roam.
He reached up, his movements unhurried as his fingers hooked at the waistband of your shorts. He paused, holding your gaze. "This okay?" he asked.
You nodded so fervently it got him to laugh, his thumbs brushing against your skin.
He pulled your shorts down and tossed them carelessly over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving yours.
Then, he leaned down, and his mouth was on you. He started low, his lips pressing warm kisses up your thighs. He took his time, kissing a slow trail up your left side before shifting over to the right, his stubble scraping lightly against your skin and leaving a wake of shivers behind.
He moved inward, placing small hot kisses right over your underwear. His breath was hot through the thin fabric, sending a wave of anticipation straight down your spine.
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his chest heaving. "You're so beautiful." he breathed, his voice rough and undone. "Is this real?"
A breathless laugh escaped you. Instead of answering, you reached up, burying your hands deep into his hair and pulling him down to your mouth. When you finally pulled back for air, you reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head, tossing it aside.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you thought you’d be a bit more nervous for a moment like this, but you wanted him so bad the anxiety didn't even have time to grow.
Jack reached up, his hand cupping your breast, his thumb brushing slowly over your nipple as you leaned back into the chair again, letting out a soft sigh. His fingers trailed a path down your stomach, moving lower until they found the edge of your underwear, tracing a line right over the seam of you, before pulling them off.
He just sat there on the floor between your legs, drinking you in, his eyes mapping every single inch of your body. You felt an ache pool in your lower stomach, your hips involuntarily wanting to squirm under his undivided attention.
Having Jack Abbot look at you completely naked in the middle of his living room was somehow even more erotic than whatever was about to come next.
…
Jack’s hands reached up to frame the insides of your thighs, spreading you open for him. He leaned in close, his hot breath brushing over your sensitive skin before he pressed his tongue flat against your center.
His mouth worked over you with greedy focus. He took his time, sweeping his tongue up the length of you, sucking softly, his stubble scraping lightly against your thighs.
He gripped your hips to keep you still whenever you tried to squirm, humming low against your skin when you arched into him. You whimpered his name into the quiet living room as you came against his face.
When he finally pulled back, he stood up and pulled you up out of the chair. Without a word, you followed him down the hallway into his bedroom.
The moment the door swung shut behind you, Jack turned, but you didn't give him a chance to lead. You pushed him backward onto the edge of his mattress, your hands pressing against his chest until he sat back. You stepped between his legs and swung a leg over his lap, straddling him.
Jack groaned as you settled against his hips. He grabbed your waist, pulling you down into a desperate kiss. His hands roamed up your back, pulling you closer, his mouth open and hot against yours.
The taste of you was on his lips as you rocked your hips against him, feeling his cock pressing through his scrubs. You stood up then, and he shifted so that you could pull them down and off. Then he scooted back and you resumed your straddled position on him.
When he guided himself to your entrance, you paused for a second, looking down at him. You wanted to commit this to memory.
You sank down onto him in one slow push.
Jack threw his head back against the pillows. “Fuck, sweetheart.”
It was overwhelming and hot. Eleven years of ache and longing. You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his as you began to move.
"You feel so good." Jack said, rolling his hips up to meet your thrusts, taking you deeper. His hands slid up your spine, tangling in your hair to pull you down into another kiss.
…
You fell asleep with your head on his chest only to be woken a few hours later by his mouth pressing kisses down the slope of your neck.
By afternoon, you ended up in his shower, the steam filling the small bathroom as the hot water cascaded over both of you. Jack pressed you gently against the tile, his hands slick with soap as he washed you before pulling you back against him once more.
Every touch felt like finding solid ground after years of drifting.
…
One Year Later
Jack kept one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh in the passenger seat and he genuinely could not have told you where he was driving to. It didn't matter.
The window was down on your side and your hair was whipping across your face and you didn't even bother fixing it, just let it happen, eyes closed, singing along to whatever was playing on the radio. The sun caught the side of your face through the windshield and Jack thought, not for the first time, that he had no idea how he'd survived all these years without seeing this exact sight.
God, he loved you. It still hit him sometimes, stealing the breath right out of him completely.
You must have felt him looking, because you turned and the smile you gave him was so easy and happy that his hands nearly slipped on the wheel.
You leaned across the console then, one hand braced on his thigh and pressed your lips to his cheek. Your other hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers curling into the hair there the way you always did. You just couldn’t help it.
The small, cool press of metal against his skin from your finger thrilled him. He'd slid it onto your finger three weeks ago in his kitchen, badly rehearsed. You'd said yes before he'd even gotten the whole sentence out.
He hadn't been surprised, not really. After all, you'd always known. You'd told him so yourself, once, a long time ago, before he'd been ready to hear it.
He was the one playing catch up.
Your fingers were still tangled at the back of his neck, that ring cool against his skin, and outside the window the fields blurred in the last of the light and Jack thought that he could drive like this forever and never once feel like he was in a hurry to get anywhere else.
(taglist: @callmefatherr @proudlyvastlake @hotnhatosy @lunaleah @orodaeh @monsieurmorpheus @lovekk2plus @thehockeynerd30 @qpiiee @anna97almeida @textinwho @isuckcigbuds @holyhozierwp @jesskidding3 @oceansandstreams622
"i need to get soooo much done today" starter pack
my ducks? in a row. the elephant? addressed. my goose? cooked. my eggs? in several baskets. the bigger fish? fried.
Your monkeys ?
those aren’t mine.
