Hi! My name is June, short for Juniper, and this is where I will be uploading any & all fics I write, reblogging ones I like, and/or where I reblog art & such related to any fandoms I'm a part of.
I will be writing for:
Baldur's Gate 3
The Lord of The Rings
Dragon Age series (2 and onwards)
The Last of Us series
What you'll likely find reblogged:
The 4 mentioned above
Supernatural
Markiplier
Resident Evil
The Walking Dead
The Grishaverse (books)
Arcane (Netflix Show)
I will do my best to create a masterlist once I start writing, but I will likely not begin to write until late April due to uni.
Fanfic rec masterlist linked here
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The purpose of this survey is to determine how people 'usually' play Baldur's Gate 3. This means lots of the questions will refer to every p
If you've played Baldur's Gate 3, please fill in this poll! It's just trying to work out how people 'usually' play the game. I might make a youtube video based off it if it gets enough responses!
summary : What is it like to discover the taste of fear? Or the feeling of attraction for someone who sees the truth you hide in harmless cups of wine?
pairing legolas x fem!vampire!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : blood, mentions of blood, cannibalism (blood drinking), talks of pregnancy, mentions of complicated pregnancy, mentions of wine consumption, killing, for global content warning see bloodborne’s masterlist
author's note : it has taken me a month to update this, sue me omg (yes you can tell this has freaky undertones every now and then, what about it?)
➢ nini’s masterlist
➢ bloodborne’s masterlist
The corridor you cross with hurried steps that make no sound is cold and eerie. Even deep in the dark maze of these corridors you know by heart, your perfect hearing allows you to distinguish the background noise of the feast coming from behind you. People laugh and chat, they sip on sweet elvish wine that cost a little fortune, blissfully unaware.
Ignorance is bliss, you are remembered of it every passing second. All those guests seem so carefree, disinhibited by good company, good food and good drinks, they forget to see what’s right in front of their nose. You believe if all those conditions weren’t united to create a perfect haze over the party, things would be far different. Imbeciles would still be blind, but clever ones would quickly spot the inconsistencies in the Ball. Why is the wine in some glasses a slightly different colour? Why do some guests never seem to age? Why is the number of people drastically lower after a few days, and why is it always those which nobody knew that vanish?
So much questions they do not ask, yet could save their lives.
However, it is not only the merry cacophony of the feast that you hear. Further away, deeper in the shadows, there is a low strangled sound — like a lamb trying to bleat — and echoing footsteps. The footsteps are heavy, not concealed like yours, though you can tell they try to be discreet. It fails miserably, and you are sure whoever is at the end of the corridor can hear them coming. You hope it is not too late for them to hear, and if so you better hope it is not too later either for you to do something about it.
Your dress glides upon the floor smoothly, without the smallest noise on the cobblestones, and you pick up the pace when a moan echos distinctly, even for the human ear. In front of you, a feminine silhouette appears. In the dark, your eyes better pick up the wavelengths of light others cannot see, like a bat’s, but you do not need to see her to know it is a woman you’re chasing. Her steps fall with less of a thud than men’s, the heels of her shoes clasp high-pitched, and the air carries the remnant of the perfume she carefully applied hours ago. You often like women’s scent better: it’s less aggressive to your sensible nostrils than men’s.
When your next step lands loud on purpose, her steps falter and she turns around, unaware she was being followed. It is so easy to get them alone once they’re drunk, in a secluded corner where nobody will come look for them. Obviously, she had a little too much wine. The woman’s cheeks are red with alcohol and effort, while she pants to recover from the small race she just went through. She squints at you in the dark to better see, she does not notice you do not have to do the same to take her in perfectly.
Short brown hair falling in a somewhat feminine bob cut, a few inches past her ears, tousled from hurrying around like she did; big brown eyes that resembled a lost doe’s; and a smooth, pale neck in which you could see a vein throb; she looked exactly like the type of girl someone you knew very well would wrap around his finger and deceive. Honestly, could you blame him? Probably; but it wasn’t like you didn’t feel the same bloodthirsty want to sink your fangs into that protuberant purple vein and find out what she tasted like. Her dress didn’t help at all: it was clear she was not high society, nobody would even look twice if the suddenly vanished.
She looked so lost, so panicked, and so tasteful.
Fear tastes weird on the tongue, like power one does not deserve, and it is why you make a point in keeping all guests at bay from such a feeling. All other vampires do too, it is a pre-established rule your kind works with since a long, long time. It keeps you from growing feelings powerful beings shouldn’t have, feelings rooted deep inside you like instinct but locked away. You ignore it when primal impulses tell you to have your cake and eat it; nobody is here, nobody will know, and you know who sucks on sweet blood too without a shadow of guilt at the corridor’s turn.
But you can’t. You’re not like him, rules are what they are for a reason and even if everything raw in you screams the opposite, you will not feed on a scared animal. Not a doe, not a lamb, not a bunny. However, the doe is going to walk on a most unfortunate scene if you do not stop her soon, and then you will have no choice. Already, you see her head turn slowly towards the whiny croaks, traits wrinkled in curiosity and nerves though she does not look away from you. She can’t tear her eyes from you as you walk her way. You know it because it’s on purpose. The human mind is easily played with when it is already agitated. Of course, you have no power of your own over her mind, but you do not need it, it’ll always lean towards you first. It is a most human quality to like the uncanny, the odd things that cannot be placed yet are filling the air; it’s exactly what she sees in your eyes when they gleam crimson for a nanosecond she doesn’t catch.
“Lost your way?“ you smile at her with bright white teeth; casual.
The woman stares at you as you take your last steps to her, but her bust is still halfway turned to the now dying sounds ahead of you and she doesn’t answer.
“Those corridors are a bit of a maze when one is not accustomed to them, I confess.“
You try to giggle your way into her trust by being amiable, like you know how to. Those interactions are always rehearsed, it’s like you could’ve pictured them in advance.
“I should see you back to the ballroom,“ you offer.
When preparing for the Ball this year, you had had the underlying feeling that things were going to be a bit different. Not necessarily bad, but different; harder to manage. Now you’re starting to see why. The woman has not even fully opened her mouth to speak and finally agree with you, that someone steps behind her from the corridor’s turn, and the scraping of their shoes on the cobblestones takes the words away from her mouth.
She turns around suddenly, attention having completely departed from you, just to end up face to face with the one man you did not want to see. You had figured already, but Izcasus stands here in front of you two. And his sole presence is not even the worse of it. You can feel the sheer anxiety emanating from the woman’s aura as she takes him in: disheveled like he just went through some kind of effort, red stains of thick fluid still coating the corners of his mouth and pearly teeth. Most of all, you see her eyes slowly lowering to long blond hair pooling on the ground from where he came from. She seems to recognise them, for she instantly gets more agitated.
Izcasus doesn’t say anything, and it makes it worse. He just looks at her with that carnivorous smile you’ve come to be wary of, and when she turns to you she finds no comfort in your face. This is bad. This is really bad. You’ve tried to keep it from happening, to drive her away from what you knew right away to be sounds of one of your kind feeding: because you felt it in the air, and because you saw Izcasus leave with that blond girl and being followed.
You failed. Now this girl knows something is utterly wrong and she is afraid. You smell it in the air, just like you smell Izcasus’ remaining hunger. It only fuels yours: this thirst. But you can’t, the girl is afraid. She smells of fear like a prey you would have toyed with, and it is dangerous.
Yet you do not have a choice. Izcasus looks at you with eyes of a predator, fitting for the monster he is. They are full of dark irony, and his lips pull in a smile that showcase his canines. If you do not do it, he’ll have his way with her. Something more dangerous than letting this girl go with what she saw would be to give Izcasus the opportunity to feel powerful. He is already too proud and confident for your own good, what would it be if he was suddenly encouraged to feed from a prey conscious of its fate? Power is already a danger to you when you seek only of the better good, to Izcasus it would turn into dominion.
He has been staying put thus far, not pushing boundaries, not teetering over the line, you cannot give him a reason to throw it all away. You have to do it, it’s the safest way.
He knows it because he looks at you expectantly, and the look turns into curiosity the moment you reach in front of you to grab the girl’s wrist and pull her towards you. From the corner of your eyes, you see him lean against the wall, watching some kind of twisted entertainment. How you hate him for it.
But you hate even more that sinking your canines into her neck is like drinking after days in the desert; like light after a full month night; like being touched after years of solitary existence. You resent the feeling it brings you, the pure joy, yet you lick the wound of your hunger and feed for what feels like an eternity.
Your nose flares against her skin, takes in the scent of her sweat and blood mingling: metallic. It’s not blood that smells akin to metal, it’s the fear that comes from bleeding. Bloodletting when properly done smells like hot food, meat worth drooling on; this smells of carnage.
Your grip on the poor girl’s abused skin tightens, afraid to let go, and the pulsing of your skin quickens. You cannot hear the small squealing sounds she makes as her body stiffens. The more you drink, the more the blood filled a hole you did not know you had in your belly. An hunger you were born with, yet was always ignored; as if you could live an eternity looking past the need for control that was your kind’s. As if you could all. As if the rules made any difference.
“Calm down, nightingale. You’re going to suck the marrow out of her bones at that rate,“ Izcasus’ voice calls you back to reality after a while.
You open your eyes, still in her neck, and notice the skin here is practically torn apart. Not the quick, clean kills you are used to — no. Something switches inside you, an uncalled satisfaction, but you drown it a second later. Still, it’s a second too much.
The limp body of your victim falls heavily on the ground as you let go of her, distressed. Izcasus’ gaze lazily goes from her to your bloodied mouth, and a smirk you hate with a passion blooms on his own.
“Ah, yes, I know that look,“ he taunts. “It is the one that says you thought you were so great you couldn’t fall for the human trap, and now that you did you feel afraid too. Is it not fascinating, what fear does?“
“I am not afraid.“
“Of course you’re not, but it is starting to sprout somewhere behind those eyes.“
You hate that he is trying to decrypt you, but most of all you hate that he is right. You felt it, that ounce of control growing on you like a disease.
“You are aware you would be more to my taste if only you accepted the true nature of what you are?“
Now his eyes have grown darker, and the comment falls heavy in the space between you. He is not the boy you were once friends with anymore, yet he acts like he’s got you figured. Your true nature is nothing like his. You’ll fight it everyday if you have to.
In the cleavage of your dress, you reach for a white tissue you wipe your mouth with, before tucking it back in the corset, unbothered by the blood stains.
“You clean this mess, this is your doing,“ your voice carries a semblance of authority Izcasus does not challenge for once. He only smiles wider.
“It is your perception of things. I am only doing what my instinct calls for, and it calls for a lot of refreshments.“
You do not let him finish his sentence that you are already spinning on your heels and walking the other way around, away from him and his ideas, hoping they are not becoming common amongst your kind. This time your shoes clasp against the ground the same way your heart would thump in your chest had it not been black and atrophied. You take the long way back to the party, borrowing a little time to breathe; the ecstasy having not fully worn off.
You wish you could feel regret, but you don’t. It would have been worse if Izcasus had taken your place. You did what needed to be done.
At the end of the corridor, you see the light of day filtering through the darkness you come from. The sole view of it makes your head hurt and your skin scratch. Your hand fishes for something in the pocket of your dress; you pull it out and uncork the small phial, before bringing it to your mouth and swallowing the greenish mixture in contains. The strong taste of oil and thyme makes you scrunch your nose in a scowl. You cough once at the remedy’s assaulting taste, and finally, the light of day is not a shame anymore when you reach it.
✧. ┊
Outside, it is a gloomy night full of mist blocking the moonlight; it makes the air cooler and humidity stick to the stone walls of the manor. However, none of that can be felt in the warmth of the ballroom. The assembly of people warm it up, makes it merry unlike the weather. You have not met Izcasus since this morning, but the ruthlessness that always seems to hang around him lingers. The guilt has not left you, it had little occasions to do so, for you had been by yourself all day. Guests had been left to the side while you busied yourself with organising tonight’s dinner.
The first official one since the Ball begun two days ago; guests had been presented buffets to feed in the meantime. The Great Meal, as many liked to call it, was no less of a statement than the lavishness of the Ball itself. It was the moment that sealed the real beginning of the Ball, and also how well it was going to turn out for you.
Your father always told you dinner was the most important meal of any refined society: it gathered people in a silence they could only fill with small talks, cleared disinhibited minds with food, served to show rank clearly. It was also a risk, if you didn’t set it up right. People are more aware of their surroundings when they eat, a survival instinct against the vulnerability eating puts one through. Things are noticed at dinner, oddities discussed; but it is a risk worth taking if nobody sees anything, because then people feel safe and let all their guards down.
Your family has become a master at grand dinners going smoothly. Hiding things, concealing them to make it look like everything is normal, has been your kind’s most useful skill for centuries now. You have had many tries at the Great Meal, all ending flawless, tonight was going to be one of them too.
Wandering through the crowd, you cast the thoughts aside and focused on the moment. Your eyes landed on people chatting, others sending you polite smiles, but never on the one person you wished to see. Two days ago, prince Legolas had left a curious impression on you. One that called to see him again and hear more of that which he had to say, yet he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. You figured the elf stayed in the company of the king of Gondor, but his Highness was absent from your sight too.
You knew very well where this attraction to the prince came from, and you did not wish for it to go away. You couldn’t do anything about it after all, it was just the way things were between vampires and elves. Although such a strong liking was perhaps a trait you inherited from your mother. You closed your eyes briefly and shook the thought away, still painful.
Life had a way of toying with you and make you pay for your atrocities, it seemed.
As you opened them again, your gaze landed on a small group at the other end of the room. Gathered in a half circle, you recognised people you’ve known all your life: families almost as ancient as yours. The looks they sent you from where they stood were not to be considered friendly, they pierced you like cold needles, yet you made your way towards them anyway. Greeting people you despised also was part of your duty as host of the Great Ball, though it was one you were most unwilling to complete.
The more your steps took you their way, the more their sneers turned into haughty smiles. Pretending is an art it seems they master little; or were you just used to their phoney honey-voiced compliments?
You ignore their obvious disdain when you speak. “What an evening! Excuse me, I’m running everywhere and had no time to greet you,“ you say.
“What an evening indeed,“ a redheaded woman speaks and her party hardly stifle their giggles.
They all look like they did not pass their glowing thirties and never will, dolled up in their most perfect attires. Shades of smooth silk and satin taunt you, make the corset of your dress strangely too tight all of a sudden. You smile at them politely, giggling too to pretend the joke doesn’t affect you. It doesn’t really, but the day has been stressful and it is one to many pair of unsolicited eyes on you.
“You are too tight on rules, my dear,“ the woman continues.
“Yes, you would have more fun if you let loose on them once in a while,“ another chimes in.
“You know what the rules are here for. I do not take them lightly for a reason.“
Your come back causes the majority of them to roll their eyes, and the other half to eye each other like you are the worst fun breaker of all time. That is exactly why you despise the lot of them: they sound just like Izcasus. It’s been a few years now that you feel a light tendency grows amongst your peers. A tendency to forget what should not be forgotten, to consider rules can be passed upon because they’ve been ingrained in the system so long some take them for granted.
It is a tendency that scares you, because you remember what life was like when you did not have those rules. You remember was it took to set them. What it took from you.
“The Red Days are over, there is nothing wrong with having a little fun. I reckon most of those humans would not even notice it, they are so easily played with,“ a man on your right says.
“I remember your father had lots a fun back then,“ another one. But this one lands wrong, very wrong.
It seems they all feel it, because silence washes harshly all of a sudden and the crimson in your eyes gleams harder, less hidden. The practiced smile you wore withers, your brows pull and you feel the blood in your veins loop, gain a newfound vigour. Everyone now looks at the fool who said that. Even if they dislike you, people know some things are not to be mentioned with you. Especially not your father.
“Then you also remember my father died so you could still have your fun,“ the words fill the quiet, no one snickers anymore. “Enjoy your evening.“
You turn around to leave, and the undisturbed noise of the crowd behind you hits back, as if muted before.
Enough talking, a butler gives you a sign from a corner of the room and you nod once. You make your way to the dinning room and stand alone next to your chair at the far end of the banquet table, waiting for guests to be invited by the butlers to take their seats as well.
It takes just a few seconds before bewildered men and women enter the dinning room, neck craned to the ceiling where a crystal chandelier hangs. The pressure washes off little by little when you hear amazed gasps all about the room as people find their rightful place around the victuals-filled table. You greet them, thank them when they give you compliments, and respectfully wait for everyone.
Gaze fixed to the entrance, there is one particular guest you wait for. You know he will sit too far away from you for your liking, but already you’re planning on changing that. If someone can make this evening take a better turn, it is undoubtedly the handsome elf you fail to get out of your mind. And it seems your wishes are heard, because the moment those blue eyes walk in the room, they catch yours like he knew you would be here.
Legolas stills for a second, only waiting for Aragorn who takes in the luxury of it all and the amount of delicious looking food on the table, before heading your way. The two men walk together up to a certain point where they part; Aragorn being king of Gondor has the right to sit closer to you, but Legolas is only a prince and there are people with higher of a rank whom are granted the seats near you.
The Dunedain nods to his friend and pats his shoulder affectionally before coming to sit right in front of you. You smile at him something that does not resemble the fake ones you give others.
“King Aragorn,“ he nods in greeting. “Why don’t you ask the prince to come sit closer to us? I would hate to have you eat away from your own party,“ you suggest.
The king opens surprised eyes and shakes his head, dismissing the offer with a wave of the hand.
“I do not wish to confuse the order of the table, my Lady. Legolas and I are capable of socialising with people we do not know, though I have to admit it is a skill wood-elves do not master as well as their archery,“ he jests, and you cannot help but chuckle back.
“Nonsense!“ you can already tell it would be a much merrier evening with Legolas by your side. At least he does not irritate you, quite the opposite. You wonder if it is elven magic that soothes you so every time he is around or simply your own fondness of him.
“Prince Legolas,“ you call. “Come sit closer to us, I beg you. To me.“
Legolas would have politely refused if you did not specify it was a wish of your own, but now he feels it is impossible for him to not give you anything you would ask for. Some people look at him, confused, but he ignores them as you gesture towards the sit next to Aragorn’s. Not right next to you because it would be improper, but close enough to satisfy you.
A few seats away, you do not notice the suspicious look Izcasus gives to the interaction, nor the whispering he hushes to the woman next to him. Whatever it is, it makes her stifle a mocking laugh that dies instantly when Legolas’s ice cold eyes catch hers. Like a child caught red-handed, she looks away at once and Legolas take his sit where you instructed him to.
Now that the movement of people has stopped, Legolas takes a time to observe his surroundings. Everything is so nice, to the point where it feels odd. The prince knows it, lavishness often hides secrets: his father is a fond user of this technique. The food looks great, the bottles of wine are the same he can find in his Halls’ cellar, but the lights are too low to enable perfect view of the elements about the room.
When you stand up, the chatters lower to a hum before dying, and Legolas is left to watch you like everyone else; like a fool. There is still about you that same youth that he noticed two days ago, almost surreal. Out of time.
“Dear guests,“ you begin with practiced ease, like talking to a hundred people is a casualty. “Once again, I am delighted to be your host this year. It is a pleasure to have you all here, gathered in, dare I say, the most pleasant society of all Middle-Earth. Every four years the Great Ball is held, every four years it is a success; let us hope this year will live up to the tradition,“ people nod, they hum in agreement. “No more boring speeches from my part, you must all be very hungry and I am keeping you from this delectable food!“ laughters in the assembly, your smile brightens with confidence. “I wish you a pleasant Great Meal, and the very best Great Ball.“
You lift your cup in the air, full of wine, and people follow. Except theirs are empty. So is Legolas’s.
The prince looks around at the people toasting, all holding empty glasses, with a few exceptions. He does not know why this strikes him, or why does this particular quirk seems odd, but the only people who hold up a full glass strangely resemble you. Not in looks, but in attitude. They all radiate of something the elf-prince cannot place, yet stands out. They are all young, and if there wasn’t so many people in the room, Legolas would have felt there was a kind of ambiguous power around them. Something heavy, something between night and day: eerie but not to him. A danger he was not subject to.
When he puts down his cup and guests begin to pour wine into their own empty ones, it seems the colour is slightly different for yours. Not from a whole shade, neither from a tone, more like shadows swimming in your cup. And a thickness that coats the crystalline borders and lingers; unlike the kind of elvish wine he tasted all his life.
In the same fashion, your plate is also full before his. The meat there resembles any other kind of meat, and it is elvish instinct only that tells him it would taste different if he was to eat it.
Legolas looks up at you, and you are already observing him. There is a small smirk at the corner of your lips, as if you know what he is looking for and it doesn’t scare you. Deep down, Legolas knows he should fear this secrecy. It should scare him that something is happening behind closed doors, that you are almost daring him to find out. Yet it does not. The very real intuition that what you are is unlike anything he can think about only fuels his curiosity.
The prince has eyes everywhere you should not want them, and it amuses you. It should not, because Legolas is not bound to the same deal his father is. Thranduil vowed that if the elves had nothing to fear from you, then you had nothing to fear from them; but the character of his son you do not know and it might reveal to be very different. To let Legolas get away with noticing so much about your schemes was reckless, yet all your opinions on secrecy ended with the face of a beautiful elf. You almost wanted him to uncover your truth, to see the ugliness naked for what it really was just so you could see if it repelled him, or if the prince was as twisted as you are.
He smiles at you above the rim of his glass he brings to his mouth, and you think you already know the answer. You really were just like your mother.
You break the intimacy of the moment when you address Aragorn.
“It saddens me the queen could not come, I would have loved to meet her.“
“Yes,“ the king gives you an apologising look. “She sends her regards and humbly asks that you forgive her. You see, I wanted to stay with her too, but she practically pushed me out of Minas Tirith. The elves stubbornness…“
You chuckle at his feigned annoyance; Aragorn could never really dislike any part of Arwen’s character. The comment on elves makes you look back to Legolas, who doesn’t seem to have averted his gaze from you since the beginning.
“Really? Is your kind of a stubborn nature, prince Legolas?“
“I wouldn’t know, I… I believe so, yes, for my part.“
You smile at that. An elf with a flaw, have you ever heard of such a thing? And yet it is one Legolas confesses to have; one you cannot blame him for, for you are probably as equally stubborn. The fact increases your interest. You catch yourself wanting to know all the ways in which his stubbornness shows, the bad and the ugly you cannot quite discern yet but long for —to which extent is he like you? his light-driven nature corrupt by whatever unguarded pride the gods allowed the elves to have —.
“Wood-elves are known to be less wise than their peers, my friend,“ Aragorn adds.
“My father would be an example, yes.“
“Either way, trust me madam, it is worse when said elf is with child! I cannot force upon Arwen a single thing that she does not want to do, even when it regards her health or the baby’s.“
Again, you laugh at his obvious nervousness. “Women are often more skilled than men at finding out the needs of the life that grows in their belly, king Aragorn,“ and the king huffs a laugh.
“Elves especially,“ a small silence where you turn your attention to the prince sets. “My mother used to tell me she knew at what age I was going to sing my first songs and exactly which tree was to be my favourite before I was even out of the womb.“
Legolas’s eyes have grown distant, reminiscing an old past that stings a bittersweet pain. You know exactly the feelings, as well as you know the extent of the small smile pulling at his lips. You wonder if your mother knew such things about you as her belly swelled with growing life. Did she envision the kind of monster you were already? Did she hope you would escape the fate she foresaw? You never asked, she never told.
“Did she got it right?“ your own voice comes out softer, with a tender smile on your lips that turns something new in the prince’s stomach. It makes the grief more bearable.
“All of it.“
If you were to have a child, would you know its softness or its malevolence beforehand? You imagine what it would feel like to have life grow in your belly, to see it swell with it. It is a known fact that vampires’ pregnancies are harder than humans’, or elves’. Elves need more time to fully create such beings of lightness, and it makes sense, for infants of their race usually grow faster than human babies. In their first years, you can hardly distinguish them from a human, but time passes inevitably and it is painfully obvious that a six year-old elf is much more independent and skilled than its human peer. It is the case until early adulthood, then the similarities linger again: only their aura, beauty and ears give away an elf on the outside. And eventually time catches up again and as humans wither and grow old, elves stay beautiful and timeless.
For vampires, on the other hand, the differences are not so visible. They stay akin to elves all their life, but more discreet. It is only in the womb that a mother can know whether she is nurturing light or shadows — an in-between. You are well aware of it: a vampiric pregnancy is painful, lethal almost. It prefigures the kind of creature it will birth, for the foetus in the womb is like a wild animal already. It tries to suck the life out of its mother: ungrateful unborn child. It kicks and tears at the flesh to escape, or at least that is what your mother told you; you were never fit for a cage.
You think about growing a monster of your own, sentencing it with unescapable hell only because it is your belly it grew in. A vampire’s womb is like the source of a disease: keeping it here constantly, infectious.
Unconsciously, your hand comes to rest on your lower stomach. The pressure is warm, it’s like you’re waiting to feel kicking beneath. You know there is no way for you to escape what you are with a baby, to mirror what you would want to be onto someone else at your image, only tinier.
Vampirism grows in the mother’s womb.
In blood it lives, and by blood it spreads. Nature has it that all female vampires experiment the same condition during pregnancy: a leak of their own blood from the placenta to the fluid the foetus floats in. Being a vampire is a curse, inherited while the foetus grows in contact with its mother’s blood. It is bloodborne, and never by blood undone.
Your baby would be like you, by your fault, and it is probably why the Valar made you yearn for the only race you cannot mate with. Perhaps it is a scheme to ensure you will ultimately disappear, perhaps it is only to make you suffer your sins.
You do not know, and you abandon the fantasy of a baby as well as the hand on your belly. You do not need the burden of a life that is not fully one filling the rot inside your stomach; because it’ll come out undead yet stillborn, with a heart atrophied and black like yours, and a thirst it will not control.
✧. ┊
Legolas is used to waiting. When one lives two thousand years in a world that turns to fit dying things better, waiting can be a curse. It is one especially when surrounded by mortals, when they all fall in deep slumber at night and he cannot. Legolas knows that if he was tired enough he would collapse in sleep’s embrace too, but it is not the case. He has been good with alcohol so far, and no tremendous physical effort has been imposed upon him, so wariness keeps far from him still.
And to make time pass by faster, what is best than contemplating? This too, is something elves are used to. They have been contemplating the world around them for millennia now, watching it wilt, change against their will. If Legolas could, he would like to keep things as they ever were, to stop change and growth and still time to a stolen moment. Maybe then could his mother still be with him.
Such a desire is fruitless, so the prince does not dwell on it further. Instead, he busies himself with walking around the manor’s domain. The night has engulfed it, everybody sleeps except for a few people he felt wandering in the corridors, but didn’t see. As always, it is nature that calls to him best, and Legolas finds himself strolling around the greenhouse on his own.
Illuminated by the moonlight shining above, the elf-prince scrutinises his surroundings: a glasshouse that opens on the scary shadows outside, yet protects him in a confined place where life thrives. There are many plants and flowers paving the way he takes, all of them he recognises. They are not exotic by any means — sage, rosemary, lavender, thyme, roses and lilies — but they do not all usually live in the same environment, and to Legolas who knows so much about nature, it is a small miracle that they can be all found here together.
He pauses in his tracks, inspects the flowers closer and wonders at how you keep them alive. Again, his thoughts do not go to the moulded ceilings or the magnificent buffet, no, instead they go to you.
“So it is true that elves do not sleep.“
Your voice startles him, and Legolas turns around like he would on an enemy, only to fall face to face with your grinning features. Once again, it is a mystery to him the way you keep your footing so light that he does not hear it. Normally, nobody can sneak up on him, he always catches the intruding presence minutes before it reveals itself, but he did not catch yours. Startling an elf: here is something Legolas never heard of! Yet here you are with your teasing grin and a different gown than the ones you’ve worn up until then.
Legolas cannot help but dote on it for a second. The black fabric of the gown is less heavy, allows more liberty of movement, and its long sleeves cover your hands until your fingers. You look less intimidating, less of a host he should impress.
Your gaze follows the visible tension that leaves his shoulders, and the pink of his lips when he speaks.
“If I may be so bold, I would easily mistake you for one,“ he says it knowing you are aware of the features that make you stand out.
You smile and take a step closer, allowing yourself to enter his space.
“Believe me, it is too great of a compliment for me to deserve. I have trouble sleeping,“ you justify. Legolas frowns, and you cannot tell if he trusts you. If he doesn’t, he lets nothing be known of it and resumes his walk around the greenhouse, with you by his side.
“Are you enjoying the Ball?“ you ask.
“I am. Thank you for inviting me to sit with your party at dinner. I am not used to conversing outside of my own group, and the meal would have surely felt much longer without your and Aragorn’s company.“
“There is no need, I wanted you to sit closer. My enjoyment of the evening would have been different too, had you not both been here.“
Legolas does not pick up the conversation, and it falls in an awkward silence you had not prefigured. The kind of quiet you are usually not used to with people; heavy with something that resembles shyness. You keep on walking without a word, holding onto the fact that Legolas admitted he liked your company, and you recognised you seeked his too. You pass another patch of flowers and let your fingers reach to feel the petals. The prince watches the movement attentively, like he discovers you.
“Why do you keep so many plants growing? How do you do it?“
Your smile grows again, but your eyes stay focused on the flowers. “It is an old family secret.“
The prince’s eyes stay sharp and scrutinising, but he does not speak another word, does not push. He lets himself be guided amongst the plants, soothed by the sweet scent of herbs, until you start the conversation again when you deem it best.
Long minutes pass where you find yourself talking with the elf-prince of all things insignificant, and some others more important. You ask about what he likes best in his realm, and he has no time to ask something back that already you have another question for him. At length, the conversation drifts far away from the Great Ball, on purpose though Legolas is oblivious to it. He ends up wondering about your taste in mead or flower baths, and asking for the answers he wants. You give them to him as long as they are harmless: now he knows that you do not share his soft spot for honey, and would beg for a chamomile scented donkey milk bath. He can see you wallow in it, and there is a twisted thing in his stomach that tells him you would taste so, so sweet.
The more he knows about you, the more mysterious you grow, with questions you refuse to answer yet matter to him the most. But spending time with you also awakens an unrestrained kind of hunger he has, almost invisible at first; so much that he isn’t even aware himself he is imagining bitting the bridge between your shoulder and neck and soothing the pain with a lick that will taste of the chamomile he will have you bathing in.
No, Legolas does not know the sort of needy monster you will turn him into if he keeps on getting curious. And oh, how curious can the elf-prince be.
As surface level as the discussion is, none of you notice how fast time flies by, and for the first time Legolas forgets about waiting. Minutes slip through his fingers like grains of sand on the beach, and they only stop when you hear the first chirping of a bird outside. In a few hours, the sun will be up and you’ll have to handle yet another day of ball. Even if you do not need as much sleep as humans, you need rest, and the prince gives you the opposite: he keeps you on the edge of your seat.
“Do you often walk at night with your guests?“ the question is bolder than the ones before. You eye him to discern any kind of trick behind it, but can find none, only the raw blue of his eyes that searches for yours.
“Only those who interest me.“
A small silence lingers, it announces your departure before you can even voice it. Legolas feels the urge to beg you to stay, to borrow a little more time with you; as if it was ever going to run thin, yet he does nothing. His kin rarely acts on impulses, and no matter how different Legolas can be from his peers, this is something elven court has rooted in him. He wields his countenance like a weapon until it bends and breaks.
“I should go back,“ you say, stepping forward to break the proximity. “You should see yourself back to your room too, prince Legolas. The manor can be quite eerie at night.“
He looks at you and nods, but does not move to do as he is told.
“Goodnight,“ he whispers like a secret for you only, and it is enough to make you walk back to your quarters with the hope that it will push him to do so too.
Legolas is far too perceptive for your own good, and perhaps it should upset you more. Regardless, something tells you the elf-prince saw so much wrong and ugly in this world, there is a chance he might yearn for yours like one yearns to turn the evil they slew into a god, and worship its cruelty in a final act of devotion to convince themselves there is still some good to draw out of a sinner.
okay, i apologize for being late (i've been reading gideon the ninth [which i just finished last night]). anyways, ted talk time lol
nini, your writing will never cease to amaze me!! the diction, the tone, the setting — all of it is utterly perfect and you've completely nailed the gothic tone and feel!!! i always always look forward to reading this, and all your other fics, thanks to how well written they always are🫶🏻
one of my favourite quotes would definitely have to be:
Your grip on the poor girl’s abused skin tightens, afraid to let go, and the pulsing of your skin quickens. You cannot hear the small squealing sounds she makes as her body stiffens. The more you drink, the more the blood filled a hole you did not know you had in your belly. An hunger you were born with, yet was always ignored; as if you could live an eternity looking past the need for control that was your kind’s. As if you could all. As if the rules made any difference.
it feels so perfect, to the point that i can't put more words to describe it other than perfect💕
author’s note : this request was actually fun! veeery indulgent, i know, but it's fun writing things that demand less work sometimes
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My friends call me a loser
‘Cause I’m still hanging around
I’ve heard so many rumours
That I’m just girl that you bang on your couch
You have no real recollection of when exactly it started to happen, it seemed it just did out of nowhere. One day you were hanging out with Legolas like normal and the next you had his mouth all over your neck and the sense of belonging somewhere.
You had always been friends, not close like he could be with Tauriel but friends nonetheless. Except he kept on sending you knowing looks, on lingering his fingers in the small of your back when he crossed you, or fixing your stance with deft hands he knew where to place when you trained. Soon enough what was bound to happen happened.
You still remembered the first time you slept together. Legolas did not have to bat an eye for you to follow him eagerly through the maze of the Halls’ corridors, stealing kisses at each turn just to coax you into his room better. When you finally stood in front of the door with him, cheeks heated, it took a shift in the tension for it to snap and for the world around you to blur in a spinning haze. The walls seemed to move on the satin of the couch he laid you on, the colours to flash with his cold hands groping at your flesh, and the ceiling to fall upon your head when there was no pretending you weren’t rolling your hips to his as he dragged inside your core.
Maybe you were headless. Maybe you were a fool. But he kept on murmuring praises you could have sworn were made right in heaven, and you let yourself hope for a moment. Hope the prince was still your friend, hope he was not going to leave you here limp like a rag doll; all despite your friends’ warnings or the rumours in the guard that followed you like a second shadow. A heavy shadow, one filled with whispers that only calmed when Legolas entered the room and his stature silenced everything else.
The rumours became insignificant the moment he hefted you up on the couch and had you burn against him and grip at his shoulders for the tiniest bit of relief.
I thought you thought of me better
Someone you couldn’t lose
You said, “We’re not together.“
So now when we kiss I have anger issues
Often, rumours had a part of truth about them.
You understood it when you were lying in the warmth of the aftermath once, half on top of him, and went to chase for his lips lazily. Because his eyes had darkened and turned into a frown as he looked at you; as if he had caught something in your eyes he didn’t want to see here. You stopped halfway to his mouth and wrinkled too, your eyes searching for the cause of his rejection frantically.
“We’re not together“
That was the cause. He saw the flicker of growing love in your eyes and it panicked him. He thought it was clear from the start: this was nothing serious. This was casual. You weren’t supposed to read into it that much.
In the middle of the night, with the remnant of the ache he placed upon you between your thighs, still smelling like sweat and him, he had the audacity to tell you you were nothing. And the worst? You took it without a flinch.
You felt your heart tear in your chest, the blood flow everything inside, yet you showed nothing.
It was your fault for thinking you were ever enough for him to consider in this kind of light. It was your fault for not seeing that you were the one gripping at his back, murmuring sweet nothings in his neck when he dipped into you, kissing his name into his mouth with a fever when you came; not him.
You were not irreplaceable, nor the missing piece to his puzzle.
It didn’t matter, you could do with something casual. You could be casual if he wanted you to, you could be everything he asked and more: the dark side of the sun, the hidden face of the moon, the crack in the atmosphere, or the tamed dove on his shoulder.
It didn’t matter. Yet you leaned for a kiss after nodding like it was obvious you weren’t together, and you felt your fingers twitch with pent-up anger.
In your dreams, you bit him in the kiss; tore off his rosey lips and coated them with blood. You scratched at his perfect ivory skin until it turned an angry shade of red, slapped him across the face and tightened your pretty fingers around his pretty, pale throat.
In reality, you screamed his name with your back arched to the sky. The moans you made should have been proof of how impossible it was for you to keep this casual.
You said, “Baby, no attachment“
But we’re…
Knee deep in the passenger seat and your eating me out
Is it casual now?
Two weeks and your mom invites me to her house in long beach
Is it casual now?
No attachment is what you kept on repeating to yourself. He had said it that way and he meant it. You could do it if it meant you got to not lose his friendship. Or him.
Only, it did not feel like no attachment at all when he had you splayed on the royal throne in the throne room when his father was not here. It did not feel like nothing to be sat on a king’s throne, legs parted, with a prince mouthing at your skin between them hungrily. Perhaps the throne bore the marks of your nails digging into the armrests, still.
Legolas went down so willingly it was almost hard to believe he meant it when he said it was casual. How could someone who didn’t feel anything for you get so visibly happy when you whined under soft ministrations? How could their eyes shine with a barely concealed pride at the bare sight of you already worming on your sit in anticipation.
Yet he did. He worked the screams away with immortal perfection; earned the content sighs he made when you pulled at the roots of his hair, but stood up as soon as he was done, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Legolas took the time to dress you back up, to fix your wrecked appearance, before leaving you with a peck on your lips in which you could taste yourself: salty like tears.
It was getting harder everyday to brush it off as casual. You couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror without being imposed marks of the prince’s presence along your body. Like you belonged to him, like somehow he had any right on you. He had none, and so did you. But you couldn’t say seeing the other elves look so dejected after they spotted the hickeys in his neck, crawling the tiniest bit just past his collar, didn’t make you happy.
The worst for your delusion came after. When his father, king Thranduil, invited you to dine with them in the royal Halls. This couldn’t be casual: his father inviting you in their home for dinner. Surely, he was aware of something, and if he was aware maybe Legolas talked to him about it. Or he heard the rumours and wanted to address them himself.
You never knew; Thranduil never voiced his objective out loud. The dinner went out perfectly, he made no allusion at your relationship with his son and was less aloof than you would have thought him to be. He even asked a lot of questions. Perhaps it was the perfectly laid out plan of a king trying to better read you and your intentions, or perhaps it was genuine curiosity. Though you doubted the king would show anyone real curiosity, he already knew everything he needed to know.
Meeting parents was definitely not casual.
I know what you tell your friends
It’s casual, if it’s casual now
Then baby get me off again
If it’s casual, it’s casual now
Legolas drowns the thought that this is maybe more than he ever intended it to be every time it comes to him. He casts it away like the plague and justifies himself to the stars who will listen to him.
Sometimes, his friends listen to him too. Aragorn especially, when the ranger finds the time to travel to Mirkwood.
Aragorn knows you, he met you once or twice. Furthermore, Aragorn is a very perceptive man, Legolas cannot hide anything from him because they know each other so well. So when you pass them both talking in the corridors and bow in curtesy to the human before sending a warm smile to the elf, of course he notices. Not only does he notice your smile, which is quite evident, but also his friend’s response to it: the slight straightening of his back, the twitch of his jaw, the tension in his shoulder…
Aragorn sees all and he is quick to tease the prince about it. Who are you and what do you do to him to leave the mighty composed elf-prince so anguished merely by looking at you? What runs through Legolas’s mind?
The answer is simple: you on your back squirming under him, mouth agape for air and the begs you let out. That’s what he sees. And how you lace back your dress after with sharp focus, or how you smooth back the folds of your skirt to pretend you do not look like a mess right now.
But when Aragorn asks him, the only answer he can give is: “We are not courting. It’s just casual; I thought humans did this sort of things a lot?“.
If elves do not usually have that kind of relationships it is because they are more sensitive, closer to their feelings. It seems logical, yet both Legolas and you refuse to acknowledge it. The high is worth the pain, you think.
Dumb love, I love being stupid
Dream of us in a year
Maybe we’d have an apartment
And you’d show me off to your friends at the pier
After a little while, thoughts you shouldn’t have begin to impose themselves in your mind.
You allow yourself to dream of a future with the one man with whom you know nothing can happen. After all, you know nothing about Legolas. You know the way his body feels and the melody of his whines when his world hangs on the seem of your lips, but not his more intimate character. What is his favourite colour? Who is his best friend? Does he like to travel? How often does he think about his mother?
All those questions are a mystery you never uncover. There is not enough of him as a person that you can place, so all your dreams are inherently silly.
You are aware of it, but your brain refuses to separate it from reality. You think about living with him: sharing a room every night even if it’s only for sleeping, waking up to the smell of breakfast being cooked, and being blessed with the sight of a slightly disheveled prince, back turned to you without his shirt. Deep down, you wish for it with all your heart. Perhaps he could even present you to his friends, and be so clingy that they would joke for you two to get a room.
The dreams of having him all for yourself do not waver, especially not when he knocks on your door days later, looking on the edge of madness. Legolas’s eyes are glossy on your threshold, his legs buckle until he falls to his knees in front of you and buries his face in your belly, between the sheer folds of your nightgown.
You don’t know what happened. You never ask, only let him release it by eating you out right on the floor and then have you for as long as he needs it. You don’t pry, don’t ask questions; you comb through his hair when he sobs in your shoulder as he sinks to the hilt, and end up sobbing yourself in small hiccups because the pace he sets never relents.
In your haze, you hallucinate holy words:
“I love you, I love you, IloveyouIloveyouIIoveyou“ is what he babbles incoherently in the crook of your neck as he finishes and brings you to your own limit.
But he doesn’t. Legolas has his mouth closed the whole time, and your mind runs too freely for your own good.
I know “Baby no attachment“
But we’re…
Knee deep in the passenger seat and your eating me out
Is it casual now?
Two weeks and your mom invites me to her house in long beach
Is it casual now?
I know what you tell your friends
It’s casual, if it’s casual now
Then baby get me off again
If it’s casual
It’s hard being casual
When my favourite bra lives in your dresser
And it’s hard being casual
When I’m on the phone talking down your sister
You lay in the heavy aftermath of it on the floor after having taken it to his own room for a long while. None of you speak, you just let your gaze wander around.
Your clothes lay discarded on the floor, you do too. But Legolas reaches with a hand for the covers on his bed and he pulls them down to cover you, as if it would change anything. It does. Your heart flutters at the attention and the warmth encompasses you softly as he lays back his head on your chest. His hand rests on your naked stomach, it heaves up and down with the rhythm of your breathing —still a bit ragged, still panting.
What ruins your night is not the everlasting emptiness of your core when he is not here; it’s the bra you spot slightly hanging from his dresser.
It’s your favourite, and you know you left it here on purpose. It has not moved, as if it has a place here and he keeps it just in case you stay long enough to need it. A silent testimony of how much unrequited time you spend with a prince who messes with your feelings without ever endangering his.
There’s a jealousy that blooms in your stomach the day after. It’s green and ugly, you know you shouldn’t feel that way. You have no right. But it cannot be helped when you see him laughing with her from the corner of your eyes.
It’s not her you should be mad at, it’s him. Tauriel did nothing wrong, but it’s so obvious he is affectionate towards her it hurts. In public, above all things. Why can’t he be affectionate with you? Why do you have to be a secret confined to the four walls of his room, to the dirty moment of an empty throne room? Why can he come crying to you and channel out his rage but you can’t? Why can’t you slap him when he’s beneath you for all that he makes you go through, for all the feelings that bear his name and drown you?
And I try to be the chill girl that
Holds her tongue and gives you space
I try to be the chill girl but
Honestly I’m not
You don’t interfere when he talks to her, or to others. You never come talk to him first, unless it’s necessary. You give him space, keep your emotions bottled up to please him.
You play casual, unaffected. Or at least you try to. It works until you don’t have the mind to fake it anymore. Your anger spills out in outbursts, you grumble in a corner and avoid him like the plague when he tries to talk to you. There’s something wrong with you, it just shows.
You’re not the easy girl he would probably like you to be, not when he planted the seed of your love himself. You’re angry, you’re sad, you’re jealous and you’re hurt.
Still, you open the door for him and bruise his opened mouth.
Knee deep in the passenger seat and your eating me out
Is it casual now?
Two weeks and your mom invites me to her house in long beach
I know what you tell your friends.
Baby, get me off again
I fucked you in the bathroom when we went to dinner
Your parents at the table, you wonder why I’m bitter
Bragging to your friends, I get off when you hit it
I hate to tell the truth, but I’m sorry, dude, you didn’t
You shouldn’t have done that. Now you regret every choice you’ve made in the past few months.
Escaping oh-so not subtly to the bathroom the second time his father invites you to dinner, only for Legolas to join you in minutes later; what were you thinking? You should have said no, should have left the luxurious bathroom of the Halls the moment he entered them.
You had not. You just melted in his kiss and melted furthermore when they trailed to your neck. Worse when he hefted you up to sit on the edge of the sink, worse when he gathered the fabric of your dress in his fist to better exposed your already trembling legs.
How could you ever escape him? Legolas was like a trap set to trigger only on you since the very beginning. The sole feeling of his burning skin sufficed to make you lose all sense. He kissed his way into your heart; a prince’s kiss, who is always granted everything he wants. Righteousness be damned, if he wants you he can have you.
You hide your moans in his arm, try not to mess up his hair when he breaks you in half, do everything in your power to keep him pristine and untouched while he does the opposite. Does Legolas even cares about how other people see you? It seems not when he bites your lips, sucks on the side of your neck and pulls your hair just enough to make them seem wild. He does not care when he ends hot on the inner side of your thigh. He does not see you hold back shameful tears when you clean yourself up.
But this time you leave first without looking back at him once, and he is still oblivious to your wrath as he braces himself against the sink, catching back his breath with his eyes closed.
Are you the worse or the best thing that ever happened in his life?
I hate that I let this drag on so long, now I hate myself
I hate that I let this drag on so long, you can go to hell.
When Legolas find the courage to knock at your door after days of not seeing you, he feels his heart sinks in his chest, as if prefiguring something he knows in his guts.
He opens the door, and then he finds your room empty —of you and of any of your furnitures.
You left without a word. Like a shadow, a mirage in the desert.
And for the first time in his life, Legolas doesn’t know what to do.
nini....holy hells, this is so good😩 i love your writing in every format, without fail💕 (took me a while because i've been reading Gideon the Ninth and doing personal research lol)
summary : They say caring is sharing, but to Legolas it becomes keeping upon meeting you. Keeping you from focusing solely on Aragorn and not on him; keeping Boromir from getting too much leisure with you. The feeling in his chest is wrong, yet it catches like fire and the flames are both delicious and excruciating.
request pairing legolas x Ranger!fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : jealous!legolas, aragorn is found family, boromir is a flirt but it’s for the common good, kind of obsessed!legolas, reader has a backstory, foot massage (oops), fellowship timeline
author’s note : it’s finally here! last one shot before a little while; as i said already i’m focusing on my long fics (AHFAK and Bloodborne) for now! although i still have an imagine in my drafts to keep this blog active while i wrestle with exams’ week lolz- ,,idk what to think of this honestly, it’s like i like and hate it at the same time lmao, perhaps i just hate the amount of time this has taken to write because i’m usually faster :(
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A twig cracks in the distance, the forest swallows it before it reaches the ears of the nine men walking. Or at least partially. A blond man with a tall and lithe figure stops in his tracks to listen to it for half a second, before continuing his journey. His senses sharpen naturally, attuning to the smaller noises the woods always make. He knows them by heart, to the point where he knows when a rock on the ground is out of its place or a track freshly taken.
The sound of the branch cracking behind them seems odd, but he does not mention it to the others. A flaw of his kin: elves believe everybody has their acute hearing and perception. If nobody picked it up, it must have been his own mind made too wary by the dread of the adventure awaiting them. After all, who would not be on their guard when undertaking such a perilous journey? The hobbits, apparently. All except Samwise, as always the cautious one — much to his credit —, who keeps on frantically looking around and motioning to Pippin and Merry to cease their trifling and be quiet.
None of them can imagine something is following them in the shadows of the trees, not ten feet away. Someone, in reality. You hide behind a trunk and stop all movements with a grimace that says you’re cursing yourself the moment the twig cracks under the heel of your boot. You had done better discretion work. Weirdly enough, nobody turns your way and the hobbits continue to giggle merrily. You wouldn’t have thought you’d be able to follow them so long considering there was in their group an elf, a Ranger, and a wise magician. Yet, none of them seem to have spotted you. You think all the praise on elven hearing is largely undeserved if this one cannot even spot someone is following them for days now.
You let the group walk away a bit more, putting extra caution in being as light as a feather when you walk to guarantee discretion. You had to thank your life as a Ranger for that. It had taught you to breathe steadily in all circumstances, to walk without a sound, to climb trees with ease, to survive on harsh conditions. Harsh conditions such as spying on a group of nine men, five of them being excellent fighters, without being caught. Arwen owed you for that, she really did.
You hadn’t been able to refuse her when she fell down to her knees with a look so desperate in her eyes you wouldn’t have thought it possible for an elf to worry so much. Timeless beings did not worry over the rest of the mortal world as you did, so it had to be important. And it was. Your journey had taken you to Rivendell to seek the hospitality of Elrond on the night of the Fellowship’s departure. You were a friend of Aragorn, and because of that Arwen believed you were the only one capable to carry on with the task she had for you; and the only one she could trust with it. Moreover, you were a Ranger. She could send you off without worrying about your safety too much; you knew how to take care of yourself.
She told you of the formation of the Fellowship, of the evil that loomed over the world with great malice; however prompting you not to voice its existence to anybody else. Nobody could know you knew, not even Elrond, not even the members of said Fellowship if you could avoid it —for your safety, she had said. You were supposed to follow them until they reached the first hills of the Misty Mountains, where it was not safe for you to go anymore. You could not possibly follow them in secret in the white peaks of the mountains. Arwen wanted you to make sure they were safe until then; to make sure Aragorn was safe.
You had tried to reassure her at first, telling her he was accompanied by mighty warriors and risked little with his own fighting abilities. The elven princess heard only what she wanted to hear, and now you were starting to believe she had been right to an extent. If they had not spotted you yet, many more discreet evils could have been ambushing them.
Of course, you didn’t know the elf of the party had noticed an additional presence days ago —without being able to catch it. If he really did want to catch you, he would have, but again, Legolas thought everybody knew you were here. Aragorn knew; a little bit. He knew something was odd in the forest, but was unable to name it clearly. It manifested in crunching of leaves that echoed, making it impossible to track the noise, or sometimes it was just the eerie feeling that something else was enjoying the warmth of their fire in the shadows.
It made you laugh undercover: he should have seen you from the first day on. After all, it was Aragorn who had taught you everything you knew. You were a teenager when the Ranger found you begging for scraps of food to the mean innkeeper of a small tavern in a poor human village. The town was nastier than Esgaroth back in the days of the Battle of the Five Armies; Aragorn had visited it once a few months before the dragon Smaug burnt it to ashes. It was one of those humans slums whose inhabitants were either drunkards or bandits.
Aragorn figured it was not a place for you to dwell in, women were not fairly treated in those parts. He offered you a dirty hand, which you took with your equally dirty one, and his company until you could both reach a friendlier town and the Ranger could buy you a proper meal. How long had it been since your last meal? Weeks, it seemed. You had gotten used to eating the mud-covered stale bread you found on the street, and drinking off of animal troughs in the back of old crumbling farms here and there. Sometimes the cows and goats gave you curious company as you drank from their water and fed off their food, but they never utter a word, never betrayed your presence to their owners.
Most of the time, animal were more compassionate than men.
After a little while, without knowing why or how or when it happened, Aragorn could not bring himself to let you go your own way anymore. He had discovered you were nice, and funny, and curious. Above all, you were full of undeveloped potential because you had to focus on survival. He could see himself wave you goodbye and then stumbling on your corpse in the forest some weeks later.
No. You were still worth something. He could make a feisty woman out of you, he knew you had it in you. At first, it had been hard being seen as a Ranger by other Rangers. Not that you crossed path much, but sometimes they would reunite and then Aragorn had to bring you there to introduce you; you needed to recognise your people if you were in need of help. They had been hesitant, but if Aragorn had taken you under his wing it couldn’t be for nothing. You didn’t hold it against them: Rangers were wild men, not orphan girls. Yet you had in you something of a wild woman, you had to for having survived in the street so long.
Right now, it seemed Aragorn had trained you so well he was unable to catch your own presence. You had grown to be as discreet as him, though he handled you with a sword like a youngling still. You felt great looking after him in secret, like repaying him for what he had done for you. You made sure he was okay, to prove he could count on you.
Night had set on the Fellowship’s camp for a while now, you had climbed up a tree in silence in the early hours of the night and now took a well deserved rest. The fire of the camp allowed you to not be in complete darkness, even when you had made sure you were far away enough not to be seen. You could use the sleep, the journey was restless and it impressed you the four little hobbits could keep up with it —though Aragorn and another man often carried them up the trail. You didn’t need to fear your environment, for the men you followed took turn in watching the camp at night. Always in pair of two, the elf being the only one to never switch with anybody since he didn’t need sleep.
Legolas didn’t mind maintaining a vigil all night, he was used to it and his body was not even weary of the journey yet. He still felt all the youthful vigour of his muscles like he did the first day, and the small ration of lambas he was entitled to sufficed to keep his belly full.
He didn’t talk much, except with Aragorn. Boromir always seemed grumpy when roused out of bed for watch, Gimli already grumbled too much about having to ‘team up with an elf‘, and Gandalf preferred the wiseness of the quiet, something Legolas had in common with the old man. Only with Aragorn could the young prince exchange words and smiles. They had known each other for years now, and the Ranger was probably one of the most resilient people he knew.
Legolas was waiting for him to come out of his bedroll by the fire when a loud noise suddenly broke the calm of the forest. He shot up to his feet and fell into a defensive stance like second nature; one hand hovering over the arrows in his quiver and the other over the long knife strapped to his thigh. The sound echoed for a second: a loud thump, branches cracking, leaves crushing, birds flighting. Groaning, too? Yes, someone was groaning in pain not twenty feet away.
It seemed the sound had not reached the camp as loudly as it did where Legolas stood, on the border, because he heard no sound of people coming to see what it was or bedrolls rustling.
Right. He was going to have to deal with it on his own. It did not matter, as an elf he could approach the danger without making a single sound; unlike said danger.
Legolas made his way towards the noise cautiously. His boots touched the floor like he was walking on cotton, his breath steadied and his heart rate slowed to something imperceptible. All his composure frayed in a curious frown when he stepped past a tree and fell face to face with a form lying rigid on the ground, at the root of a bigger trunk.
Here, splayed on her back, eyes shot wide and chest heaving up and down in a struggle, laid a woman who had visibly fell from the tree she was perched upon. Legolas’s combat stance loosened a bit at the sight, before he took the long knife out of its sheath and pointed it right her way when she made the slightest move to scramble to her feet.
You couldn’t believe it: you fell in your sleep. You had forgotten the one important thing when sleeping in a tree, which was securing yourself to the bough with a rope. Now your whole body hurt and for a few seconds the force of the impact had kicked the breath out of you. Frankly, you could have passed out here until morning with how much your back and legs pulled with hot blinding pain; if it wasn’t for the man now threatening you with a weapon when you were in no shape for fighting. The pain worsened when you pulled yourself up with your hands to at least sit, but you bit it down and wobbled to your feet, aided with a grip on the treacherous trunk behind you.
Your lungs felt on fire and you wondered if you had not any broken bones that would reveal themselves once the adrenaline wore off, but for now a more important matter was at hand. You were discovered, and the blond elf in front of you seemed ready to end your miserable life if you even breathed wrong. Here, in the dead of night, he seemed menacing: blue eyes glowing in the dark and fair hair floating like eerie gossamer in a halo around him. If you didn’t know better, he could have been a ghost.
From Legolas’s point of view though, you looked nothing like the strong Ranger you really were. He had caught you in a dire position, and he was the one holding you had the end of his knife. From all that he could see, you were nothing but a lost woman. But if you were, why were you following them for days now? It didn’t make any sense, and Legolas knew better than to draw hurried conclusions. You had to be some kind of spy to be able to track them so long without being caught in plain day.
“Who are you? And what is your purpose here?“ his voice is stern and accusing. You cannot tell if it suits him in the darkness, but you imagine it does; elves are perfect by nature.
“I do not mean any harm, I swear it!“
“I have rarely seen someone follow a group of humble travellers without ill intents.“
Of course he lies about the real nature of the Fellowship. Clever, but you can be clever too.
“Only you are not just humble travellers, sir,“ Legolas’s grip on his knife tightens, he takes a menacing step towards you and you shoot your hands up in the air. “I am a friend of Aragorn.“
Closer, he looks even more ethereal, less of a ghost. You can make out the features of his face, the perfect pale ivory of his skin, the smoothness of his hair. There is not one strand that falls out of place, not a single wrinkle in his clothes. You know elves are this way, Arwen is the most beautiful girl you have ever laid eyes upon; yet this one feels different. The underlying storm in his eyes tells you he is less clam than his peers, more prone to the temper of wood-elves —for his blondness tells you he is not a child of Elrond. Of course, this is something you’ve spotted days ago, but now that he is here before you, your mind runs with curiosity.
Upon hearing the name of his companion, Legolas’s demeanour shifts. Instead of becoming more friendly like you would have thought, it gets more defensive.
“What business do you have with him?“
“None but peace. I am not a spy of the Dark Lord, I come from the inquiring of a dearly beloved.“
Legolas frowns. Arwen. But he has to make sure you are not lying, though he feels no ill intent coming out of you. “If you are a friend, you should be able to tell be who is Aragorn.“
Now it’s your turn to frown through the pain still stinging in your back. Is he friend enough with the man to know that?
“A Ranger…?“ you try.
Wrong answer. The elf takes another step to you, the blade of his long knife now inches away from your face. Not very patient for an elf, you note.
He looks like he is about to end you without further ado, and in your panic you cave in. He better know it already. “Son of Arathorn!“
As the name bounces against the trees around you, his knife lowers visibly and something passes over his face. Relief. His expression shifts the tiniest bit, he points at you with his chin.
“Hands behind your back. I am bringing you to camp.“
Okay. Not dying first, trust second.
The camp was oddly unfamiliar as you walked in front of Legolas to its centre by the fire, even though you watched it being set up. You had not stoped for a second than already someone in the distance was walking your way. Legolas stayed behind you without a word, posture straight and perhaps closer than required. Extra caution in case you tried to escape. You would not, but Legolas didn’t know that; it was good that he was careful.
You stared at the woods right in front of you, footsteps growing closer by the second before someone erupted out of the shadows. Not just anyone. Aragorn.
“Legolas, where have you been? I searched for you everywhere, and-“
The Ranger cut himself abruptly when his eyes landed on you. A beat passed before he called out your name: half-surprised, half-pleased, but mainly unhappy. You shouldn’t be here. It was dangerous, even for you. Aragorn’s mind went through all the horrible things that could have happened to you, before settling when it hit him that you were the oddity tugging in the atmosphere lately. This was silly. You were so good he himself had not been able to place you as other than just some strange feeling in the air he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and now he was worrying about you getting endangered when they would have been the endangered ones had you been unfriendly.
You tried a small smile, unsure. The quiet rummaging you three made dealing with an improvised reunion sufficed to stir Gandalf out of his sleep, which subsequently woke Boromir, Gimli and Sam —the hobbit had not slept on both ears since they departed from Rivendell.
Now, you were sat on a log near the warmth of the fire, ditto for Aragorn on the other side. Gandalf stood a bit crooked at his side; the redheaded dwarf mimicked him, leaning on a walking staff he had found for himself; and the other, younger one — Boromir, you thought he had been called —, sat next to him on the log, mirrored by the single hobbit almost like his shadow, only shorter. On your side stood only the blond elf, mute. He had not said a word since Aragorn’s appearance, and when you glanced back at him from time to time, he was already looking at you, a barely-there crease between his brows that said he was turning something in that head of his.
You whisper your name awkwardly to the four men who do not know it, hands flat in your laps to keep yourself from fidgeting. This was not how this should’ve gone.
“She’s a friend of mine,“ Aragorn says to summarise. You were more like family, but saying it would have resulted in questions you did not want to deal with tonight.
“Aye, what is she doin’ here without ya knowing, then?“ the dwarf asks. He has a point.
“This, I do not know, Master Gimli.“
The answer questions you back. You sigh.
“I have been following you on the account of Lady Arwen,“ you begin. “She…asked me to make sure you were doing okay until the first slopes of the Misty Mountains.“
Aragorn cannot help the smile that blooms on his lips. He gently shakes his head and sends you a look that says he trusts you.
“She tells the truth,“ he says. With that, the atmosphere seems to shift to something less tense, more welcoming for you.
In a way, it makes you proud that five grown men could have been on their guard in front of a single woman like you; it often only happened when you knocked one of them down on the ground.
“You can stay the night,“ he continues. “By the first light of day we will resume our journey, and you will turn back to Rivendell.“
You swallow thickly. “I am not, Aragorn. I’ve put great thought into it: I want to join you on your journey.“
The words land right in the fire and it strengthens a little bit with a small blow of the wind. You are allowed one quick breath before the answer is imposed upon you.
“Absolutely not.“
Aragorn’s mouth doesn’t move, and the voice doesn’t belong to him. Behind you, the especially quiet elf spoke up for the first time in what feels like an hour. Every gaze in the camp turns to him. Legolas suddenly feels very self conscious. He doesn’t even know why he refused so categorically, why the idea of your presence around him everyday felt… dangerous. Not threatening but dangerous. He could see the unguarded affection Aragorn had for you in his eyes, and decipher the smirk forming on Boromir’s lips at your feistiness. The prince couldn’t name the weight in his chest, but he could feel it and it was enough.
You were not coming. For his sake, you had to.
“Legolas, I think she made up her mind already,“ Gandalf gently says. Legolas could hear the wiseness in his words; how could he ever reasonably argue with a wise one? “The Fellowship doesn’t have to be restricted to nine people only; we could use with another addition. She has proven to be very discreet, I think you would not even notice her presence among us.“
Everybody agrees with the old man; Aragorn nods solemnly; Gimli makes an approving sound from the back of his throat; Sam seems more wary but agrees anyway; and Boromir looks right at you like he trusts you already. Gandalf had never been more wrong: it would be impossible for Legolas not to notice you. You lingered already and he only met you an hour ago.
Now it was worse, because you were officially a member of the Fellowship and had proposed to take the last night watch round with Legolas to make up for your trouble. He had to spend the hours before morning with you in the dark, just after having threatened you perhaps more than necessary and blatantly refused your presence. He had to make up for it. You were not responsible of the foolish way his mind acted around you. Boromir could look at you all he wanted, why did he care?
Legolas joined you on a log by the fire after everyone returned to sleep the last hours of the night away. He figured the rest of the night would be calm, he could let his careful scouting of the surroundings down for a bit. You were looking in front of you past the fire when he sat down, watching out for the darkness beyond the borders of your small camp.
There were more important things to look at, but the glow the fire casted on your face distracted Legolas from them far too easily. Shadows curled daintily under the angles of your face, emphasising them. You felt him stare, yet said nothing.
Curious for an elf, to be so unguarded. Was he an oddity amongst his peers or were you discovering the blunt pride of some of them could bleed into their other emotions? He doesn’t let you think this through long enough.
“I apologise for having threatened you. And for not seeing right away the trust Aragorn has in you must be fair.“
The sound of his voice is more gentle now, basked in the warmth of the flames as if they serve to loosen the strain in his throat. It takes you off guard at first. You do not rush a reply as you turn your head towards him, inspecting his features as he does you. You had not had the chance to see him this close, with his presence almost seeping into yours because your knees graze. None of you move away, you pretend not to notice it.
In your quiet observation, he seems even more ethereal than back in the forest, emerging from the darkness. He looks different, more like the being of light he was supposed to be: sharp jaw and aquiline nose cast like bronze in a perfect lost-wax mould. You had seen the process once in a forge the blacksmith had been kind enough to let you stay the night in; he was about your age, but a clever apprentice who already knew his master would be far too drunk to realise he had let anyone in without authorisation.
“Legolas, yes?“ you test the sound of his name on your lips. It ripples just the right way in his stomach. He nods. “Do not apologise for being on your guards. I would rather you’d react like this than the other way around, I can hardly blame you.“
It tears a smile out of him. You do not hold any grudge towards him and it’s a relief. Legolas has the strange wish of doing right by you, of showing you he can keep the group safe. He thinks of all the times he had not been attentive enough when you were following them and about how you must have laughed at him.
“I must tell you, I feel I am bound to trust you fully by the end of the night.“
His tone has a playful edge to it, you remember he must be your age in elven years. “You flatter me!“ you laugh softly.
“I wish it was the case.“
Deep in the marrow of his bones, the elf-prince feels the insatiable feeling of you settling. Your presence, your laugh, your good graces; he wants all of it. One thing about Legolas is that he never quits.
It takes weeks before you finally reach the Misty Mountains. Your journey finds itself delayed by several events, much of which are a pain to deal with. The bright side of things is that it allows you plenty of time to get to know your new companions.
The hobbits quickly take a liking to you: Merry and Pippin make it their lives mission to make you laugh and Sam to grouch after them under the amused eye of Frodo. Gimli, as always, doesn’t bother having you around as long as you are not an elf; and Gandalf often offers you wise words you keep in mind for later. Those are your companions. The others, however, are your friends in the Fellowship.
It is great sharing a path with Aragorn again. Nostalgia hurts less around him. It reminds you of a time in your life where everything seemed bright because he made things better. You talk for hours without an end during night watches, entertain yourselves with each other’s company in the day. When battle comes your way — much more than you want it to because you had hoped for a journey under the spell of discretion —, old habits die hard. You find yourself looking out for him again, just like you did back then. In the aftermath, you silently check up on him, scolding on the account of Arwen when he gets a little too reckless.
With Boromir, it feels like you have known each other for years. It is so easy laughing with him, talking about things as small as the weather, teasing the hobbits together. Liking him feels like second nature, like a friend you were always supposed to have. Boromir is the cheer in your mood, the soft man by the fire who sometimes tells you about his brother. He tells you you would like Faramir better than him, and you tease saying you already do, though it is not true.
However, there is one last man in the Fellowship and you do not know where you stand with him. Legolas is everything all at once and nothing all the same. He gravitates around you like a magnet, yet you can count the times you talk on the fingers of your hands. With him, things are different in the most obvious way. They are different because he observes you all the time; you can feel your skin prickling under his gaze, and when you turn around he is already looking at you.
Legolas hovers near you after every battle, silently hoping you would come to him. Each time you deflect and turn to Aragorn, he feels his blood boil uncontrollably. And yet he tries. He picks up every mushroom and berry on the side of the road to offer them to you; often without a word, sometimes explaining how to recognise them in nature. He feeds you to your heart’s content, so much that you can never complain of an empty belly. Legolas makes sure you are always sat close to the fire, he smiles at you when your eyes cross and lets you sleep even when you should scout with him.
The elf-prince doesn’t know why he acts this way, he looks out for you like instinct. He covets like instinct too. His heart squeezes of its own will when he sees you so close to the others. You laugh with Boromir, scold Aragorn, but shy away with him.
He fears you dislike him.
After all, why would you be so agreeable with Boromir and not with him? Has Boromir done half the things Legolas does for you in silence? Does he know your eyes glint in the moonlight? or the scrunch of your nose when Sam cooks somethings that smells delicious? or that you need to cling to something when you sleep?
Why is it that you worry constantly for Aragorn but never for him? Legolas hates that it messes with his mind so much, that you threaten his composure. He hates that you like everyone but him, that you talk freely but become mute once the prince approaches you. It’s sheer torture to the dejected elf; he who asks nothing more than to know the tune of your laughter, the memories of your past.
Legolas refuses to name it because he fears to make it true, but everyone else has noticed the way he acts with you. All of his friends can pinpoint the exact moment he boils with wicked feelings that belie his elven nature. Gimli even makes a great sport of counting the times he can catch him staring at you from afar, eyes soft until they land on either Boromir or Aragorn. Then they turn into a glare that the dwarf cannot qualify as anything else than jealousy.
The princeling is jealous. And he lets him know.
“Not tired of ragin’ in ya corner, princeling?“ his booming voice does little to keep their conversation discreet.
Legolas grimaces at how obvious his friend is being, but also because he has been discovered. “I do not know what is it you talk of.“
“Sure ye do! Can’t stop giving the lassie heart-eyes for a minute, can you?“
“I am not-“ he goes to reply before deciding against it. There is no use denying the obvious. Legolas sighs. “Do you think she dislikes me?“
At the question, Gimli laughs so hard you end up glancing at Legolas quizzically from where you stand. He dismisses it with an embarrassed wave of the hand before frowning at his companion who lands a harsh slap on his back. The strength of it makes Legolas stumble forward a little. Now the annoyance is visible on his perfect features.
“You’re still young, lass!“ are Gimli’s final wise words to his friend. They only serve to leave Legolas as confused as ever.
What does he mean ‘still young‘? He’s two thousand years old!
That night, after having assured Legolas you didn’t need more sleep and could keep watch with him without problem, things unfolded just as every other night. Until you heard featherlight footsteps behind you and a body sitting down next to you second later. You watched Legolas’s elegant frame fold down to your height, his back lean against the tree. If you closed your eyes hard enough, maybe you would be able to imagine the muscles under here rolling with every move he made.
Bad thoughts. You needed to get a grip.
“Endless night, uh?“ his voice drawls in the intimacy of the late hours.
Thing is, you could never get a grip with Legolas. His very presence triggered your alarms, sent goosebumps along your arms. He stepped close enough and your stomach twisted in the same way it did amidst battle. You wanted to befriend him, you really did, but every time he talked to you your words got lost in your throat; you wanted him to like you so much it got you mute. What if you looked silly? You could never rival with all the high society he was accustomed to, you were no elf, just a mere Ranger.
It didn’t help that he was as breathtaking as only an immortal man could hope to be. You hum in reply, fearing you’ll make a fool out of yourself if you draw a single syllable. Instead, it’s Legolas who feels a fool for talking to you. Perhaps you really do not want to talk to him… It’s not the first time you lock back into your shell at the sight of him; it makes the elven prince slightly depressed.
“I uh… am I bothering you?“ he asks without looking at you this time.
The thought makes you feel remorseful immediately.
“No, not at all! It’s just… Well, you’ll find it silly, really.“
“What if I promise I won’t?“
You breathe in. “I don’t know how to talk to you,“ it almost comes out as a whisper. There is naught for a moment but your hammering heart, and then the quiet is broken by the sound of Legolas’s laughter. “See, you think it is dumb.“
“I don’t, I don’t! I’m sorry it’s just– I thought I was the one who did not know how to talk to you.“
You hadn’t even thought about it. For him to be in the same anguish as you! Now you both look like fools as you observe each other in the dark, and the smile you crack widens his.
“How about we both try, then?“
After this, things between you are ten times more obvious for the members of the Fellowship. Legolas lives not five feet away from you at all times, his gifts of food multiply, and now you even talk endlessly on the road. Along with it, the wicked feeling in his chest when you let Boromir make you laugh or when you check on Aragorn increases. You are not just a woman he roots for now, you are the one he desperately searches to please and impress.
Whatever Boromir tells you, Legolas swears he could have thought about it way before him; and all the scratches Aragorn brings, the prince avoids. He can be greater in battle, funnier, more interesting. He can learn the answer to every single one of your questions just so you won’t ask anyone else. He knows he has no right over you, but it’s stronger than him.
Legolas cannot control the glare he sends, almost murderous, whenever he sees Boromir monopolising your attention, nor the cold shoulder he shows Aragorn when he is the one you run to after battle. Legolas can show off his skills and tricks all he wants, it’s like you are blind to them and never look at him amidst battle. If only you would just look at him. Except you do look at him — all the time — you are just more subtle than he is.
Legolas sees nothing and all companions alike have to deal with his newfound temper, with his jealousy. Boromir most of all, is the target of almost every killing glare. He is young and he is handsome, and the prince fears you like him better. From the other side of the camp, Legolas sends dirty, half-concealed looks to the son of the steward of Gondor; which makes him utterly self-conscious.
“Aragorn, why is Legolas looking at me like that?“ he finally asks his friend one day, trying to escape the death glares he gets. Legolas is being unreasonable, he knows it himself.
“I think it’s because you said her braids were lovely,“ Aragorn points at you with his chin. In the distance, you talk with Gandalf, carefully woven hairstyle adorning your head.
“What? because of this?“
“Yes, he did the same to me yesterday when she taught me how to make a flower crown for Arwen.“
The steward’s son snorts and shakes his head in disbelief. “I do not mind jealousy, but this is not justified.“
“At this length, even Pippin will soon notice something is up with him.“
“Of course he will, the kid has eyes everywhere…“ it tears a smile from Aragorn. Boromir continues. “The princeling wants to play jealous elven boyfriend with a woman he cannot even look at without blushing? I will give him something to be jealous of.“
It doesn’t fail.
Legolas feels even more blind resentment towards Boromir as days pass. It’s like the man means to make him jealous, to build up the envy coiling in his stomach. It’s purposeful, the prince knows it perfectly by the way the steward’s son looks right at him every time he talks with you.
But he does not only talk with you: he gets more physical. A hand on your shoulder, a feet grazing yours when you sit, a reach for a wild strand of hair falling across your face: everything is good to make Legolas fume. Boromir knows it and he takes great delight in seeing his usually composed companion struggle to hide away the feelings he has for you. Honestly, it’s as fun as a game of cards for him. Legolas says nothings, he seethes in his corner and glares like a madman until he gets the chance to have you back at his side.
Boromir wonders how long the prince will let this unfold. How much more flirting can he take before he bursts? After all, elves are not known for their nonchalance in matters of the heart, far from it. Everyone knows their friend’s behaviour is far from usual, except you. Of course, you have not known Legolas different than this: from the moment he met you he felt the irrepressible yearning of a man who has his heart’s other half at arms’ length, but cannot reach for it.
The more Boromir taunts him, the more he fails to keep his temper a secret. Up the snowy trail of the Misty Mountains, he has you as close as he can while still being correct. Down in front of the hidden door of the Moria, while waiting for Gandalf to solve the entrance’s riddle, Legolas still hovers close to you.
You see him pacing awkwardly a few feet from where you stand, and for once no one else pays as much attention to you. Aragorn and Boromir are busy with the hobbits, Gimli looks at them from afar, and you are alone at last.
You give Legolas a side glance, inviting him to your space once your eyes cross. He doesn’t waste a second in stepping towards you. Soon enough, his back leans against the same cold stone as you. The ground beneath you crunches under the sole of his boots, the air feels humid and rancid, it bullies your lungs at every breath you take. The heat of the elf’s body next to you smudges onto yours —the only heat that remains behind the frost of the Caradhras.
It seems the chilly wind has frozen your bones and the blood inside your system; even moving a finger is great torture. In your shoes, your toes are so numb it would be painless to chop them off. Your nostrils hurt like breathing underwater each time you inhale. You wonder if the pain will ever pass.
They say you can stay with your limbs frozen by the cold for days before it settles; never had you known such harsh conditions. You were a Ranger of plains and forests, of hilltops at best, not one of summits and caves.
Next to you, Legolas looks as vigorous as always. It’s like the weather is of no importance to him, like the cold avoids him on purpose because timeless beings do not deserve to suffer from climate as mortals do. His cheeks are only coated by a light haze of red, and in his hair you can still make out clinging snowflakes ornamenting his locks.
Proof from his undisturbed state is the warmth of his body. He is not even touching you and yet you can feel him burning like his own sun. Or at least it seems like it against your frozen cold frame. The duality makes you huff a laugh you regret as soon as it scratches your throat painfully. The smile on your face contorts in a wince, and Legolas is quick to lean forward, bracing his weight on his bended knees to better look at you.
“Is everything alright?“ he asks while you lose your voice in a dry cough.
“Yes, it’s–“ another cough. “The air,“ you gesture vaguely around yourself to prove your point.
“Is it the cold?“
You nod, unwilling to speak again.
“Here,“ Legolas unclasps the fibula at his neck, and in a second his heavy cape drapes around you like a shield.
The cloak keeps out every blowing of the wind. It basks you in a heat you have come to forget with time: the warmth of another body. The cape still holds Legolas’s, and his scent. The smell creeps up your nose steadily, soothes the burning when you snuffle.
You look at the elf-prince, incredulous, and open your mouth to begin a thanks. “No need, I will do just as good without it,“ he cuts.
For a moment, you just look at each other with smiles that can be described as none other than dumb. Legolas reaches behind you for the hood of the cloak, which he pulls to your head, and it just becomes worse. The cold is the least of your worries, you feel you could snuggle at his side wrapped like a moth in its papery cocoon. Instead, you just shift your foot to touch his and it nearly equals burning up in flames.
In Legolas’s mind, it’s a war not to take a look at Boromir and hope to see his crestfallen expressions while his own swells with swaggering pride. Childish, but the prince feels like a teenage boy hitting puberty with all that unreserved spite.
He looks at the spot your bodies connect for a few seconds, before delicate fingers wrap around your ankle and lifts it up to lay it down on his leg. Unable to do anything else than let him angle you as he pleases, you just stare at the elf in disbelief, watching the way his brows crease in concentration when he unties your boot and eases it off your foot. Through your woollen socks, you can feel the weight of Legolas’s fingers as he presses them right on every painful spot. It’s like the palm of his hands that grazes the slope of your foot can pinpoint them, like he knows exactly which way your body hurts and how to make it better.
The pressure is both delicious and soothing. It alleviates the soreness of your muscles, the stiffness in your tendons. Without thinking about it, your head lolls back against the stone and your whole body relaxes. You feel yourself sink in the ground: your leg stretch in his lap, your lips half-open to let out a shaky breath.
Through content, lidded eyes, you see him smile softly and chuckle; you mimic the pull of his lips by instinct and push your foot in his hand to coax him into the massage. It’s like his fingers lace a magic thread around your toes, for you feel them move again.
“Funny feeling?“ Legolas asks with a quick glance.
“You are a wizard with your hands, it can’t be any other wa–!“ the rest of the sentence goes lost in a deep groan, almost a moan that cracks towards the end, as he pops an especially tight knot in the flat of your foot.
Legolas’s stomach twists at the sound, worse when you shot a hand to his shoulder to stabilise yourself. Your fingers dig in the fabric of his tunic until your knuckles turn white, he can see yours toes curl despite the thickness of your sock.
Now that’s a bad thought to have. How else can he make you go all stiff and breathy, how much whiter can your knuckles turn, how much harder can you grip at his shoulders? Would your legs fit upon them?
He casts the idea away and rolls his thumbs where he pressed seconds before to soften the remaining pain.
“Better?“ now there is a slight edge to his voice, a danger you itch to plunge into.
Your fingers loosen their hold on his vest, they extend to reach his gossamer hair until you can easily slip them in between each digit. Slowly, you wrap some around your index before releasing your prey and repeating the process. Legolas observes as you play with his hair, inches away from the vibrating pulse in his neck. If you so much as graze it, you would feel how ready it is to come out of his chest.
“Infinitely.“
You both go quiet as he eases the last bits of tender flesh he finds, eyes sometimes boring into yours when your breath so much as hitches. His elven magic must play a part in this, though you do not know how. It is of no importance as long as you can wiggle your toes again and feel Legolas’s deft fingers creep as high as your shin, as if he were slick.
You tighten the cloak around your neck and it stays yours all throughout the Moria. It is safely wrapped around you when you step in and escape the aquatic monster, when you defeat the cave troll, and even when you cross the bridge away from the Balrog: a hair’s breadth from meeting Gandalf’s fate as you fight against a strong pair of arms which ultimately leads you out of the mine.
Out in the sun again, you do not collapse on the ground like the others. You do not cry, you do not look back. You only stand here paralysed, death replaying again and again in your mind. Death so quick it feels fake, leaving you so unprepared. Death like a rattlesnake, following you around as its noise gets louder the closer you think you are to safety. Death beautiful for the fear it casts upon you mortals, for the pain it achieves to give those like the elves.
The walk to Lothlorien is long, yet quiet. Nobody speaks much, only Boromir lightens up your mood with small talk. It doesn’t matter if you talk of things as trivial as the weather, as long as you talk the darkness away. You talk to make sure you don’t have time to find a missing piece to the Fellowship, to never stop and ask yourselves where do you go now.
But in the back of the group, there is a pair of eyes that never leave you. When you turn to them, it’s not you they look at but your companion, and Legolas seems so far away in his thoughts he might be unreachable. His steps are less concealed, his focus less sharp, like he sees only a tunnel bordered by darkness and leading to the scene playing before him.
It quickly becomes awkward, and it stays that way until Lothlorien. There, the elves sing obituaries you do not understand. They invite you in for a while, to eat and rest as much as you should. But to you and the rest of the Fellowship, separating after having spent so much time together feels weird. You find yourselves always in the same room as another, never alone with yourselves.
As a matter of fact, it is Boromir you stay with in one of the communal areas, though deserted by everyone else. You carefully tend to a wound of his he got while escaping the Moria. With as much precision as you can, your fingers assess the extent of the problem. You begin motion to stand up and search for a basin of clean water when movement catches the corner of your eye. By the doorway, standing at the threshold and looking at you with something in his eyes far from composure, is Legolas.
The elf-prince’s gaze switches from you to Boromir, from Boromir to you, and then to his wound and how awfully close it is from your fingers. He feels his blood loop in his veins at the idea, and takes a step forwards without thinking this through. Then another. And another. Until he stands in front of you both, sitting on the edge of a carved in bench.
You try to give him a reassuring smile, but Legolas ignores you altogether. Or rather he does not see you. His gaze is fixated on the steward’s son, frown evident on his usually perfect face. You frown too: there is something obviously strange in his attitude, a tension in his shoulders.
“I think she needs rest, Boromir,“ he eventually speaks. “You can seek for Lothlorien’s healers, they are the best in all the elven realms.“
“Thank you Legolas, but I will stick with this one.“
The twinkle in Boromir’s eyes and the sharp wit of his cunning smile pushes all of the prince’s buttons. The wrong ones. They drag out his impatience, his pride, his jealousy.
“She is quite skilled, you know?“
Legolas clenches his jaw so hard it shows. “I know. And skills come with rest. The healers are waiting for you, I called for them on your behalf.“
He lies. It is so evident he lies Boromir does not know what to do of it for a second. His reply hangs without falling for a while too much, so does the glare the two men send each other. But on Boromir’s side of the coin, he only rejoices in seeing Legolas so unabashed —so human. Jealous and yearning: those are traits unfit for an elf, yet they are the prince of the Woodland realm’s.
“Sorry, Miss,“ Boromir bows lightly as he stands to his feet. “It seems the princeling here really hates to see me taken care of.“
He steps away from you and past Legolas, so close their shoulders bump and the prince’s elven ears catch something in the breeze following the Gondorian.
“Thief,“ Boromir whispers with a smirk.
It makes Legolas burn and his inside knot in shame and anger. The feeling quiets when he closes his eyes, breathes in and opens them to you. Still here and still free to be his. Though this time he knows if he keeps on cowering, someone will take actions before him.
Legolas steps to you, but you raise to your feet the moment he does so. For a second, he thinks you will leave. You look like you will. Instead, you voice your obvious annoyance. It is not the first time you catch the prince drive away whoever is talking to you. In other circumstances, it would be sweet that he seeks for you so much, but not here. Not when you face death everyday and find your only comfort in your friends. You do not need to suffer the emotions he cannot keep in check.
“That’s enough, Legolas. I am growing tired of whatever this is.“
His breath catches in his throat. Legolas feels his heart stop once and his eyes slowly widen in surprise. “Excuse me?“
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. I am not a servant in your Halls appointed to your side.“
“Far from me is the idea of thinking of you as one,“ the calmness in his tone infuriates you. He who seemed so distressed a mere minute ago.
“The idea may be far, but the actions are not,“ the rest of your sentence comes after a moment of silence, as if you weight it in your mind. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk anymore, if you cannot see me befriend others.“
A punch in the guts.
It makes Legolas dizzy, turns his thoughts into a blurred mess, but he lets nothing be known of it. His mask of composure slips on again, just as it does whenever you make him nervous. Elven court had taught him that the greatest defence of his soul was clam, wiseness. Even if the situation did not call for it; even if his heart throbbed with conflictual emotions.
“We are in a fellowship together, it would be unreasonable,“ the flat tone of his voice emphasises your building anger. He talks like you are the one to blame, like you’re acting hysterical.
“Me, unreasonable? You are the one who is acting irrational here, Legolas!“
“I know, and I wish I could help it.“
“I thought elven self-control was remarkable,“ you scorn, not having it in you to be the sensible one.
“It is,“ he replies. “Usually.“
“What makes you so different?“
“You.“
Another punch in the guts. Aimed at you, this time.
He looks at you like someone whose thousand of years on earth have taught him words can be fruitless in the face of a devout pair of eyes. Words are meaningless and empty when rivalled with the way he looks at you: deep, sapphire blue. He says ‘you‘ with his eyes in all the languages of the world, with the force of a man who has been ripped from his common sense the moment he met you.
“Wh-what does that mean?“
He wishes his intensity could scare you away; he deserves only this for the way he has been acting. But Legolas swears you lean forwards. An instinct of your body rather than your mind. It snaps his restrain, cracks his perfectly carved out facade.
“It means I wish I knew how to stop but I cannot stand here unwavering when Boromir courts you so blatantly. Or watch you make sure Aragorn is alright after battle without being envious.“
There. He said it. You have the right to know. You should know.
In your eyes, the tempest softens. The frown you wear is no longer accusing. Perhaps you should condemn his jealousy, perhaps you should tell him it is no problem of yours, but it is impossible. Your hand lifts in the space between you without thinking about it, you stare at his cheek for a second before deciding against it. Somehow, it freezes the elf before you even more when your palm goes to rest on his chest, right above his heart.
Beneath the fabric of his clothes and the tender flesh and muscles of his body, you feel the steady hammering of it. Too fast to be casual. Matching yours without knowing.
“Legolas…“ you murmur as your eyes lift to his. “I do not look out for you as much because you never get hurt. Your elven abilities are so sharp it would be looking down at them to doubt you can protect yourself better than others. I am not doing it out of spite, I am doing it because I trust you,“ you do not let him the time to speak back. “You are the only one I can lean onto. It’s a relief having someone I do not need to look out for, but it does not mean I don’t care for you. Far from it.“
There is a shift at your waist. A steady warmth settles here, it pulls you a step closer to him. Dangerous. Innocent.
“What about Boromir?“ his voice is as low as a whisper, sheepish like he knows he shouldn’t push the subject. It’s stronger than him.
“What about him?“
“He courts you,“ Legolas states, like it is flagrant.
“I do not think he does, he acts just as you do.“
“That is the problem,“ your mouth opens but no sound comes out of it. “Would you let him court you?“
Legolas hates that you seem to think about it. He hates that your response is not immediate and in the negative. He resents that he even has to ask, that he is not confident enough to just know you won’t.
“I do not know. Why would it be a concern of yours?“
The answer comes out hurried. You could vanish if he waits too long. You could end up in another’s arms, and Legolas would have had the chance to tell you nothing. He would sail to Valinor or die with unrequited feelings that know only one way out. And it’s you. “Because I am afraid you would. And if you do it means you cannot be mine after all of this is over.“
Time stills. None of you speak. The shift of your hand from his chest to his cheek is slow, agonisingly so. With half a mind to the external world, Legolas leans into your touch. Your pinky strokes the underside of his jaw, you see the prominent slope of his throat bob as he swallows.
“You are willing to wait until our mission is over?“
“I am.“
At that point, it’s a whisper to the wind. The space between you closes, slowly, unhurried. You lean until your noses brush, and every time he breathes it’s into your mouth.
“But human patience is not as great as yours, my prince,“ your lips graze when you speak. It’s already a kiss but you know you both need more.
Legolas’s pulse jolts under your fingertips in his neck, and it’s not for the mere ghost of your mouth: it’s for you whole. He is not satisfied until your jaws hang slack to welcome the other against your mouth. He wraps his lips around yours in barely concealed hunger, nibbles at them softly when he feels you melt in his hold.
His hands slip from your waist to the small of your back to bring you closer. You let your chests collide. Legolas pushes you impossibly close, like he wants to absorb you, to watch you dissolve in him like a body his same size.
Your fingers crawl up his nape, twist the golden hair here and massage his scalp until he gets breathier into your mouth.
In the distance, the elves have stopped their singing. You fist at Legolas’s tunic with your other hand, still clinging when you pull away to catch your breath, pulling his bottom lip between your teeth in the process. Your ragged breath calms after a little while where you stare only in his eyes, the blue of them swallowed almost whole by the width of his pupil.
You can see your distorted reflection in them: flushed and out of breath, bordering the little orphan you once were. You came a long way from here, and the road before you still has no end.
Legolas cups your cheek lovingly, leans to rest his forehead against yours. You watch his lids close in awe, marvel at the disheveled state of his hair now that you ruffled them. It is such a rare sight to see: an elven prince made wild by a woman.
His breath hits against your face when he speaks, barely above a sigh.
“You were not made for mortal hands,“ he says, referring to your Gondorian friend.
Indeed, you have yet to address his jealousy. It seems you take joy in toying with him; he deserves it a little.
“Neither were you,“ you point out.
“You are mistaken. I was carved to the exact pattern of your palm, and my lips to fit the hollow space between your knuckles.“
To prove his point, he lifts your hand up to his level and places soft, lingering kisses to your scraped knuckles: fighting does not spare them. It is so odd that you should be the one an immortal prince chooses to bestow his affection upon; you, a mortal. You, an orphan made Ranger. You, wild against his calm, roughed where he is smooth.
“Then stops doubting the Valar made me to fit you back.“
It is a promise that needs not to be said as one. You seal it with your lips melting back against his, this time with a newfound strength as you pull him down to you by the collar.
In Legolas’s stomach, the rot turns to spring and he feels no longer consumed by ugliness. Flowers bloom in his chest where you rest your palms, all the other men of the world are forgotten, and you taste like the path to righteousness. Caring is not keeping you for himself selfishly, the elf-prince knows it now, but by rights if he will not marry you when all this is over.
He can see it for yourselves: a life in a beloved forest, at place to settle to for once and a bed to share until you grow old. Maybe he can even convince the Valar to let you go to Valinor as his only and very last wish. And if they do not, he will smuggle you in like a burglar; for where there is a place for him, there is also one for you.
okay, i'm late (again). but oh my gods. nini, this is written gold — who cares if it took longer to write? it's perfect! 10.2k words of utter perfection, i swear to apollo — your writing genuinely never fails to be amazing (and i will hear no slander of it [kinda joking]). i genuinely aspire to write as good as you when i finally begin to write again.
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
girl.....i got a million (at least, it felt like it) tiktoks about this and oh.my.gods. this is fucking amazing, holy shit. your writing? immaculate. the tone and diction? amazing. the mood? perfect. the set up? yup, you guessed it, perfect😩🧡
Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong
Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!
—
It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.
Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.
It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.
What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.
“Dr. Abbot?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”
“Will it be a while before handoff?”
Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”
“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”
“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”
Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”
Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.
“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”
“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”
“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”
Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.
“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”
Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”
You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”
Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.
He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.
“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”
Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.
Then he scoffs.
“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.
“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”
“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.
“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”
Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”
“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”
“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”
Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”
“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”
Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”
—
A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.
You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.
The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.
“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.
“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.
“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.
“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.
“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”
“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.
“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.
“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.
He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.
“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”
Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”
Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.
You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.
“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.
“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.
“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”
Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.
“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”
“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”
“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.
You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.
“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.
“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.
“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”
You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”
“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.
But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.
“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.
“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.
A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.
Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.
Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.
“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”
“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”
A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.
“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”
“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.
“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.
“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”
“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”
The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.
“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”
“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”
June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”
“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”
Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.
“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.
“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”
But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.
Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.
“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”
“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”
“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”
“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.
“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.
“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”
“S’there a problem here?”
Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.
Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”
Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”
“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”
That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.
“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.
“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”
But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”
“I didn’t consent to that.”
“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”
Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.
Jack nods at you.
“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”
“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”
You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”
—
After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.
Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.
Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.
Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.
“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”
When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.
“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”
“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”
He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”
“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”
But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”
You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.
You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.
Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.
Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.
That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.
That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.
That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.
That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.
And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.
And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.
“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”
“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”
—
Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.
“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.
He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”
“Penny?”
“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”
“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”
Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”
You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.
“You handled that really well earlier.”
Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.
“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”
“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”
Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.
It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.
“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”
“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”
“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”
You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.
But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”
He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.
But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”
“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.
“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”
“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.
You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.
“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.
But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.
“Oh, that was painful to watch.”
Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.
Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.
“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”
—
The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.
“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”
“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.
Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”
Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.
“Jack,” Robby says.
“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?
“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.
Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.
Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.
Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”
Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.
“We don’t have any of those here.”
“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”
Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?
Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”
Robby shakes his head.
“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.
Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.
Not Pittsburgh at all.
“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.
“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”
Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”
As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.
But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.
His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.
Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”
“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.
The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.
“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”
Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.
“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”
Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.
“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”
“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”
Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.
Jack breathes.
“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”
Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.
He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.
“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.
“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.
When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.
He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.
“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”
—
“You’ll definitely get in.”
“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.
You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.
“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”
You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”
“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.
“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”
“So not peds, then?” he presses.
“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”
“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.
“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”
“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.
“I learned that from you.”
“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.
You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.
“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”
You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”
“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.
There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.
You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.
“I would miss this place, too,” you say.
“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.
You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.
“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”
He winks.
“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”
You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”
Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.
“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”
You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.
You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.
“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”
The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.
His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.
“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”
Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.
“What’d he say?” he asks.
“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”
“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.
“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.
Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”
“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”
You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.
It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.
“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”
If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”
Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.
—
Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.
He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.
“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.
Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.
“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”
Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”
Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.
“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”
“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”
“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”
Jack’s stomach sinks.
You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”
Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”
“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.
“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.
“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.
He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.
Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.
Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.
But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.
So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.
Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.
—
Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.
“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.
“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”
“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.
“Mhm.”
“Did it help?” you ask.
He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”
“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”
Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.
“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.
The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.
“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.
“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.
“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.
“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.
But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have eyes.”
His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”
You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”
“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.
“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”
He nods seriously. “Got it.”
“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.
“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”
You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”
Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”
Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.
“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.
You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.
“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”
“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”
“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”
Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”
“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”
But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.
“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”
You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”
“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”
“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”
“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.
—
You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.
It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.
When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.
“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”
You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”
“Dr. Abbot—”
“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”
You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”
“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”
“But I—”
“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”
It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.
“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”
He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.
“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”
He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”
“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.
“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”
“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.
You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.
“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”
You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.
“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”
Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.
But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.
“Y/n,” he says slowly.
“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”
“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”
“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”
“What?”
“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”
“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”
He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.
“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”
You nod.
“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”
His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.
“Please,” you say anyway.
Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.
And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.
“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”
“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”
—
“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”
Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.
“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.
He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”
“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.
“Talk me through it,” he says.
You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.
“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.
“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.
He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.
“What is that?”
“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“What? You said—”
“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”
He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”
“Go.”
You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”
“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”
“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”
“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.
“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.
Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”
You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”
A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.
“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”
“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”
Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”
“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”
He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”
“You mean me?”
You nod.
“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”
“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.
“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.
“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.
He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”
You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.
“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.
“No?”
You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.
“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”
—
A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.
The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.
And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.
The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.
You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.
You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.
Both in Pittsburgh.
But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.
“Is that something I need to know about?”
Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.
Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.
“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.
He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.
He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.
You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.
Because it’s still coming home to him.
“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”
tags: human/elf, angst/fluff/happy ending, background aragorn/arwen, legolas/gimli friendship (and drinking games), drunken confessions, first kiss, injury, tending to said injury, post battle of the black gate, legolas gets drunk
a/n: love you all!!!
divider cred: me!
The light that filtered through the clouds made you wince, your adrenaline giving way to the dull ache from your side. A weak whimper left your lips, unable to lift your head from the grass. The shouts of soldiers echoed around you, making your head throb.
➵
“Have you seen our ace?” Legolas asks, rushing to find Aragorn as he looks over the battlefield.
“Last time I saw her, she was killing orcs one by one. Never seen her like that.” Aragorn smiles proudly.
“But have you seen her since?” The panic in Legolas’s voice makes Aragorn’s brows furrow.
“I don’t think I have.”
“Last time I saw the lass, she was fighting orcs to the west! She’s like a blur of blades, that girl.” Gimili snots, making Legolas’s gaze shoot up, scanning the bodies of orcs and their shoulders. He rushes down the stone stairs, stepping over the bodies and filtering through the faces he passes.
Your blood is the first thing he notices about your limp form on the ground. Your eyelids dropped with pain, teeth clenched in discomfort. He drops to his knees, face covering the sun as you blink up at his form. “Legolas?”
“I’m here, I’m here… you stupid human…” He mutters, grabbing a knife to cut through your pants and find the gash on your leg.
“I think I’m bleeding…” You hum softly, making him scoff and cup your cheek.
“You need to stay awake, alright?”
“You called me stupid…” You murmur with a smile as he rips a piece of fabric and ties it around your wound. Apologies leave his lips as you let out a soft whimper of pain, Aragorn and Gimili’s steps moving closer to the two of you.
“We need to get her to the medics!” Legolas cries out, the tears in the elf’s eyes making Aragorn’s eyes widen. He’d never seen the elf so distraught.
“Can you carry her?” Legolas nods, lifting your form into his arms and softly kissing your forehead with apologies at the cry of pain that leaves your lips.
“Legolas?”
“Yes?” He asks softly, clutching you closer as you move towards Gondor.
“I’m tired…”
“I know, my love… but I need you to stay awake for a little longer, ok?” You groan, making Legolas’s tears fall harder.
“Your love?” You murmur slowly.
“Stay awake… please stay awake.”
“I’m getting blood all over you.”
“I don’t mind at all…”
➵
The first noise that leaves your lips is a soft whimper of pain, making Legolas’s head shoot up and grab your hand softly. “Hey, hey, hey…” He whispers, grabbing a wet rag and pressing it to your brow.
“Legolas?” You whimper, shifting in discomfort. “What happened?”
“You took a sword to a leg… you’ve been sleeping for almost three days.”
“It hurts…” You whimper helplessly, making Legolas’s brows pinch in discomfort.
“I’m sorry, my love… I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.” You squeeze his hand as another wave of pain crashes through your body.
“I want to keep– sleeping–” You grunt, making Legolas nod, thumb running across the soft skin of your cheek.
“Keep sleeping… it’s alright…” You nod weakly.
➵
“You haven’t left her bedside.” Aragorn’s voice rings out softly, Legolas’s head resting on your stomach, watching your face as you sleep.
“I left her on the battlefield, and look what happened.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Legolas.”
“I could’ve been there for her!” Legolas sits up, his hand in yours, as Aragorn sets a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“She’s going to be ok.”
“She shouldn’t have been hurt in the first place.”
“This anger isn’t like you.”
“She’s hurt! You, stupid humans, don’t understand your mortality! She almost died! I almost– I almost lost her!” He shouts, tears filling his eyes as Aragorn watches sympathetically.
“You love her, my friend.”
“What?”
“You love her. The thought of her… the thought of losing her is your worst nightmare, yes?” Legolas turns back to your body, shoulders heaving with breath.
“I cannot lose her.” Legolas’s voice breaks, the emotion echoing through the space.
“Why?” Legolas’s silence makes Aragorn nod softly. “Do you need food?” Legolas shakes his head.
“I need her awake.”
➵
Legolas’s form was warm against your back, a large hand cradling your skull, the other arm around your middle. Your head was tucked against his chest as you writhed in pain as your bandage was changed. “You’re alright…” Legolas soothes, heart, tearing at the sound of your suffering. “Almost done.”
The wrinkles you’d eventually leave in his blouse from your grip couldn’t bother him as he helped you tighten. Aragorn apologises softly as he cleans the wound, weak sobs leaving your lips, the breath hitting Legolas’s neck.
As Aragorn finally finishes wrapping your wound, the tightness in your body eases, and your muscles limp against Legolas. “It’s healing well,” Aragorn mutters softly.
“This is the worst pain I’ve ever felt.” You sniffle softly, curling closer to Legolas. His hold tightened, swaying softly.
“I’ll leave you two. Make sure you rest.” You nod against Legolas’s chest, watching the other man leave the room.
“Not much of an ace now, hm?” You mutter softly, making Legolas let out a soft snort.
“We won the battle.”
“But here I am… a mere human… hurt… weak.”
“You are not weak.” His lips press to the crown of your head. “You’re a warrior. A beautiful one at that.”
“You flatter me.” He smiles softly. You shift uncomfortably in his arms with a weak breath.
“Does it hurt?”
“Horribly.” He hums, kissing the crown of your head again, letting it linger, ignoring the feeling stirring in his chest.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” You whisper, lifting your head to look at him. A weak smile crosses his face as he gently cups your jaw. “Why haven’t you gone home?”
“I want to stay till you’re better. And Aragorn refuses to have his coronation until you're able to stand beside him.”
“Well, that’s stupid of him.” You mutter, making the elf snort out a laugh. “I cannot imagine I smell nice.”
“I’ll forgive it, considering your condition.”
“You cannot talk, elf.” You tease, gently hitting his chest. “You smell like fresh pine and river.”
“Fresh river?”
“Forgive me!” You giggle happily, making a smile grace his face.
“I will. Always.”
➵
“Legolas!” You call out, the elf quickly making his way into your room.
“Are you alright?”
“I’ve been cleared to bathe!” You grin, making his brows pinch in confusion for a moment. “Would– if it’s not too much to ask– can you help me bathe? Please?” Legolas’s heart stutters, frozen for a long moment as he looks at you.
“Are you sure?” You nod gently.
“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to.” He shakes his head, moving to take his boots off and set his things down. He helps you stand and moves you into the bathroom. “Aragorn already filled the tub.”
“You didn’t want him to help?” You shake your head lightly, and Legolas ignores the way the revelations make his shoulders stiffen in pride. He helps you undress, being conscious of making you feel safe and avoiding irritating the wound. He slowly helps you into the water, moving to sit by the edge of the tub. Your chest was hidden beneath a layer of bubbles, and the air smelled of elven remedies.
“Arwen must’ve brought some things.” He hums softly in agreement, watching you. Your eyes meet his as you give him a light smile. “Are you alright?”
“‘M glad you’re alive.” He whispers, making your expression soften. “You humans play too often with your mortality.”
“I didn’t want to get stabbed.” He snorts. “Will you wash my hair?” He nods, sitting up as you move to have your back face him. You hum happily as he begins to wash your hair, massaging the exhaustion and rest from your scalp. He takes his time, making sure to comb through the delicate strands.
“Better?” He asks gently, making your eyes flutter open with a nod.
“Much… thank you.” He nods, leaning forward to kiss your temple. Your eyes flutter shut at the feeling, humming softly.
➵
“You sure you’re up for this?” Aragorn asks softly, making you smile.
“I can stand for your coronation, sit for the party. Legolas will watch me like a hawk.” You snort, making Aragorn grin.
“He sure does love taking care of you.”
“I’m amazed he hasn’t gone home since the battle.” Aragorn gently ties your dress.
“He refuses to leave your side. I’ve known him a long time, but I’ve never seen him as worried as when he couldn’t find you after the battle. Carried you all the way to your room.”
“Did he really?” He nods, and you gently slip your earrings in and watch the other man’s expression through the mirror.
“Got blood all over his tunic, and he didn’t say a word. Wouldn’t even leave your bedside till you woke up.”
“Are you being serious?” You ask softly, turning to face the man. Aragorn nods with a knowing smile. A knock snaps the two of you out of your conversation, the familiar head of blonde hair making you grin.
“I’ll leave you two to it.” Aragorn smiles, pulling you into a light hug. “Don’t be late!” He teases, making you laugh as Legolas steps into the room.
“You look… beautiful.” He breathes out, making your expression soften.
“It’s just a dress.”
“A green dress.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You look best in my favourite color.” You roll your eyes with a grin. “I mean it!”
“You look nice all… dressed up.” He looks down over his white attire with a bashful smile.
“I hate all of this formality.” You step forward to straighten the crown on his head gently. The red spreads across his ears, making you giggle. “Is your leg feeling alright?”
“I may need to lean on you during the ceremony.”
“You know I do not mind that.”
“And I’ll sit through most of the afterparty.”
“I’ll sit with you.”
“Oh, please, you don’t need to. I know Gimili wants a rematch on that drinking game.” Legolas snorts.
“I won’t leave you if you don’t want me to.”
“I want you to win the drinking game again and then sit with me, deal?” He nods, cupping your cheeks and kissing your forehead.
“Did Aragorn want you wearing a headpiece?” You nod, turning to the vanity and grabbing the headpiece. “May I?” You tilt your head softly but nod, handing it to him. He steps forward, setting the jewelry on your head with a proud grin. “Ready to go?” You nod, taking his arm.
➵
The ceremony drags, the customs are boring you, and your face is pinched in discomfort. Legolas offers his arm, and you send him a thankful glance, leaning your weight against him. You catch a fleeting glance from Aragorn, sending him a gentle glance to which he nods, glancing back to Gandalf.
Legolas’s arm drifts around your middle, supporting you softly and pulling you closer. The ceremony slowly comes to a close, and you smile as Aragorn sees Arwen for the first time, kissing her softly. “I’ve always admired their love.” You whisper to Legolas.
“It does amaze me.” He whispers back. “Giving up your immortality is probably the greatest… effort of love I’ve seen.” You nod softly.
“Someday, hm?” You mutter softly, leaning your head on the elf’s shoulder.
“Someday.”
➵
You watch with an enamoured smile as Legolas guzzles down pints of beer, Gimli at his side, muttering about his mock distaste for the elf beside him. You happily cheer Legolas on, making him shoot you a grin. “Feel it yet?”
“Barely!”
“Don’t listen to the elf, lass! He’s just a liar!”
“Interesting, coming from a dwarf who’s about to be a two-time loser!” Gimli shoots you an offended look as Legolas bursts into laughter. Aragorn walks over, standing beside you to watch, and you smile as Arwen sits beside you, greeting you gently.
Your conversation is eventually interrupted as Gimili falls off his seat, making the four of you giggle and making you cheer happily for Legolas. “Can I keep going?” He asks, making you smile affectionately.
“Why’s that?”
“I want to see if it’ll make me finally feel something!”
“Have at it, my friend.” Aragorn smiles.
“Would you grab me a pint?” You ask softly, gesturing to your legs. The new king nods, moving to stand beside Legolas and grab the drink.
“He adores you, y’know?” Arwen says softly, making you look at her.
“What?”
“Legolas.”
“He’s my friend!” You grin lightly, watching him gulp down another pint with Aragorn.
“He looks at you with more than that. You know how terrible he is at showing emotion… but I can’t help but notice how horrible he is at keeping his facade with you. Especially since after the battle.”
“You really think so?” You whisper, making her smile, and cup your cheek.
“Know so. Elf-to-elf and all.” You smile again, glancing at Legolas as Aragorn hands you your drink.
“How’s he doing?” You ask Aragorn, sipping at the ale.
“He took care of you for a long while, so I hope you’re excited to repay the favour.” You snort softly.
“Do elves get hangovers?” You ask the couple, making both of them laugh lightly.
“Worse than humans.” You nod slowly.
➵
“What are you doing~?” Legolas sing-songs, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and nuzzling the side of his head against yours.
“You’re certainly happy.” You remark, making him giggle happily.
“The ale is working! This feeling is wonderful!” You smile, reaching a hand up to cup the side of his head. He hums happily, the noise similar to a cat’s purr.
“I don’t think you’re going to be very happy in the morning.”
“I’ll be happy if you’re there. You’ll take care of me.” He smiles.
“That I will. It’s how I can repay the favour.” You turn to gently kiss his temple, making his smile widen.
“You don’t owe me anything… Just a smile…”
“You’re a happy drunk, hm?” You tease.
“I’m just happy to see you. Very happy… I love being around you.” His body sinks to the ground, his head resting on your knees, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at you. Your expression softens, combing your fingers gently through his hair.
“You’re like a kitten.”
“Your kitten?” You snort, raising a brow.
“If you’d like.”
“I’d be your kitten… loyal to you… happy to be with you…”
“You're talking nonsense.” He shakes his head softly, his head resting against your good thigh.
“Love isn’t nonsense.”
“What?”
“Loving you isn’t nonsense…” He slurs softly, “It’s easy…” Your heart flutters, cupping his cheek.
“Loving me?” You whisper, thinking back to your conversation with Arwen.
“Dearly… couldn’t stand the thought of losing you in battle… Sometimes I think about giving up my immortality to be with you.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“Every word”
“Hopefully, you remember every word while you’re sober,” You mutter, making him raise a brow. “We need to get you back to the rooms.”
“Must we?”
“Let’s go.” He groans, standing unsteadily and holding onto you tightly.
➵
The morning comes slowly, Legolas’s form wrapped tightly around you as he snores, making you smile as your eyes flutter open at the morning sunlight. Your hand drifts into his unruly hair, a unique sight for the normally pristine elf. “Legolas…” You purr gently, making his nose scrunch up in distaste. “I want to get out of this dress… you’ve got to let me go…” He whines, making you laugh.
“How do you humans put up with this?”
“You should probably go through and then chug some water. If you don’t mind, I’d like to change out of my dress.” Legolas flutters his eyes fully open, scanning over your form and pulling away with an apologetic glance. “I meant what I said about throwing up.” You wink, unknowingly grabbing one of his larger shirts and stepping into the bathroom. You change slowly, trying to linger on the scent attached to the fabric as you pull it over your head.
Legolas pushes past you as you step back into the room, and you wince at the noise of his wretching. “I’m going to go grab you some water!”
When you return, he’s lying on the bed, arm thrown over his eyes. “Did I do anything stupid like you humans last night?” You pause for a long moment, making him move his arm to look at you before letting out a groan. “How bad?”
“I– bad– it–” You sputter, frantically glancing around the room to gather your thoughts. “I’ll tell you after you’ve slept so much.”
“That bad?”
“Not bad. Sleep.” He sends you a questioning glance before nodding.
➵
“He told me he loved me.” Aragorn's fork stops halfway to his mouth, and Arwen gives a knowing smile.
“I told you.” She smiles, making you roll your eyes, desperately ignoring the heat creeping up your cheeks. “And now somebody owes me a new dress.” She teases, making Aragorn smile.
“You bet on us?”
“It was obvious to anyone who wasn’t the two of you. Have you told him?” Aragorn asks, making you shake your head.
“I don’t want to tell him while he deals with his hangover… doesn’t feel very… romantic.” They both nod, continuing to eat.
“Drunk words are sober thought.” Aragorn remarks, giving you a mock toast with his glass.
➵
“Care to tell me what I said yet?” His voice rings out as you stand on the balcony, making you turn to face him.
“Feeling better?” He nods, stepping up to the railing, arm brushing yours.
“Much. Now, please just tell me what I did.” You take in a sharp intake of breath, moving your hand closer to his and gently intertwining your pinkies.
“Youkindoftoldmeyouloveme.” You rush out, making his brows furrow.
“What?”
“You said you’d make a good kitten because you were acting like one, and you said you’d be loyal, and then you said you loved me.” You breathe out, refusing to meet his gaze. “You also said seeing me hurt was the worst you’ve ever felt… and that you wanted to give up your immortality for me.” The silence lingers for a long moment, the only noise the soft hum of the wind.
“Really?”
“Mhmm.”
“Maybe I need to drink more often.” He laughs lightly, making your brows furrow.
“What?”
“It’s easier to say the things I’m truly thinking.” You turn to look at him, faced with a loving smile as he cups your cheek.
“Truly?”
“I… I do love you… almost losing you… I… I love you.” He whispers despraley, looping his other arm around you to pull you closer, still minding your leg.
“Legolas…”
“What did the kitten have to do with anything?” You laugh.
“Clingy and basically purring.” He snorts, kissing your forehead. “Can we discuss mortality another day?”
“Only if you’ll let me kiss you today.” Your gaze softens, leaning up to press your lips to his. He hums happily, hand rubbing your side. “I didn’t tell you how much I like seeing you in my shirt.”
“I like it– smells like you.” He tucks his nose beneath your jaw, pressing a kiss to the warm skin of your neck.
➵
“About that dress?” Arwen smiles, looping her arms around Aragorn’s shoulders
summary : Where you cross path so often with Legolas your relationship seems written in the stars (or in Thranduil’s matchmaker’s mind —the king can be an embarrassing father).
author’s note : tried a different format, it’s less heavy than the rest i feel and frankly this idea fits in this sort of imagine format best! also can you tell i love adding thranduil everywhere? i don’t play about their father-son relationship. also i’m so slowww these days, final exams are coming in two weeks for me so it’s going to be a bit of a tight schedule but istg i’m working on updating the fics and fulfilling y’all’s requests and working on the different wips i said i was going to post (especially part two of meleth nin and rwbk haha trust)
➢ nini’s masterlist
➢ read on ao3
Where humans and elves have a party to celebrate the end of the Battle of the Five Armies and you see the prince here for the first time.
—Of course you have been invited to the gathering, as a member of the elven army, but you are not the only one here: the prince of the Woodland’s realm is also part of the crowd. You know it because your eyes cannot stop straying away from their path to lock on his face. The beautifully carved ceilings and walls of the Elvenking’s reception Hall are of little to no interest to you, as breathtaking as they are. It is something else entirely that catches your attention, something far from the realm of decorations and architecture. It is a rare occurrence to see the prince these days; as a matter of fact, you are fairly new to the army and have never seen him before. Your direct superior had always been the captain of the guard, a redheaded elf whom you know entertains fairly close relationships with the prince. It is the first time you see him yet he looks exactly as he was described to you: ethereal, handsomely so, with a lithe and vigorous figure, and something regal in his aura, but approachable still. The prince seems miles away from his father in this way, the king had always intimidated you to a great extent. His son does so too, but you believe with a little courage from your part you could push yourself to speak to him. Such a courage never comes.
Where Legolas feels himself enraptured beyond reason for the first time, but also suddenly taken by cowardice when he sees you.
—The prince could speak to trees in an ancient version of his mother tongue, yet find himself incapable of doing more than staring from afar the moment your form crosses his line of sight in the crowd. He has never seen you before, or he would have remembered, and it makes him regret the amount of time he has spent away from the guard. He is stuck to dumb staring, listening to what Tauriel has to say only from an ear. If Legolas could lie to himself, he would say it is the very fine fabric of your dress which flows in elegant cascades at your sleeves and waist that appeals to him, but elves are very bad liars. Especially to themselves. There is nothing Legolas can hide proficiently because being truthful and sincere had always been the ways his mother had taught him. It shows like sun in the night sky he has his mind turned elsewhere. It stays that way all nigh. Hours during which he wonders if he should talk to you, before acting upon none of his intentions and staying by himself in a corner. Nobody dares approaching him except Tauriel; the woes of being a prince. They all think him too mighty for regular company, you probably do so too. Legolas could tell tales and sing songs for hours, still he finds himself quiet at the idea of talking to you.
Where your eyes cross multiple times in the evening and you both choose to ignore it.
—It is painfully obvious you are observing each other, dancing around the idea of a stranger, so much that it is possible some people have caught it and found it odd. You look at each other like shy teenagers, shying away as soon as one catches the other staring. It’s almost like a game of cat and mouse, except you are both the fool being played and the player. You rationalise: it’s probably not you he looks at but something or someone behind you. Your importance is not great enough to interest him, your prowesses in the field not so deserving of attention to be noticed and reported to the prince. But his gaze lingers and, of course, he averts it the moment you gather the courage to try a smile.
Where Thranduil notices first the odd way his son is acting and Bard how the Elvenking’s gaze never stays in the discussion they are having.
—The king towers over everyone with his tall figure, blond hair alike to his son’s, but his eyes read only a corner of the room. Well, two. He switches from where the prince stands to where his line of sight ends: on a young elf-woman who doesn’t pay attention to her friends. Just like her, Thranduil is too busy analysing the soft smiles she sends and the way his son’s eyes soften just an instant upon seeing them to answer the question Bard asks him. Soon enough, the fisherman sees he is talking to a deaf man, and his gaze follows the king’s to know what holds his attention so much. It does not surprise him when he sees the prince; what surprises him is the newfound gentleness that lays about him. Legolas had been known for his superior attitude towards the dwarves and his temper lately, but none of that showed up now. On the contrary, he seemed transfixed, changed. Of course he glowed regal still, in the same way all of his kin appeared to Bard who was a simple human; though, if he had gotten used to Thranduil only Lady Galadriel could have bewitched him now. However, there was something unmistakable in his eyes, yet Bard could not read it. He understood what it was only when Thranduil spoke. ‘It reminds me of the first time I saw the Queen,‘ he said. He was referring to his late wife, and upon glancing at him Bard could see the extent of the love he kept for her. Loosing her had been his doom, but in his sorrow he had been left with a son to love and he was understanding too late Legolas was his greatest gift. Bard’s gaze crossed the room, following Legolas’s, and then he saw you. Beautiful in your dress, sweet like a blossom waiting to be picked, turned towards the prince with a smile like he was the sun you fed off of. ‘Do you think he will talk to her?‘ the fisherman asks to his elf friend, unaware of the more intimate character of the prince of Mirkwood. Thranduil’s lips lift with half-concealed tenderness, his silver locks seem to float in the wind against gravity when he shakes his head. ‘If he is like his father, I fear we have more chance of seeing him befriend a dwarf than talking to a nice-looking woman.‘ It makes Bard chuckle to know elves can be shy, even more when the elves in question are the handsome king and his identical son. Immortal beauty could do nothing against the ways of the heart, it seemed, for Thandruil knew Legolas’s palms were sweating at the sole idea of asking for your name and so he avoids it at all cost.
Where Thranduil knows his son as if he made him himself and decides to force the hand of fate.
—The king remembers you from your training as a guard, when your first important mission was being part of a party accompanying him to settle trade South in Rohan, and he suddenly lets you know. First, he asks for your name to a maid like it’s nothing, but clearing a report next to him is his son who doesn’t miss a syllable of the word. Keen hearing allows him to catch everything his father says about you, although it was never intended to be secret in the first place. It is the opposite, the king speaks in a clear voice with the hope that Legolas listens. Then, he deliberately asks for the schedule of all the squads pretending it needs a little remodelling. When he hands it to the elf-prince, he specifically tells him your group may need another hand —omitting the fact that he has been the one getting you rid of a member. And so Legolas finds himself scheduled to scouting like a mere guard by order of his father.
Where the prince grumbles against his task at first but then suddenly feels very inclined to complete it when a shimmering pair of eyes locks with his.
—He’d recognise you in a crowd full of people with his eyes closed. He’d recognise you by touch alone, without ever even having touched you. He doesn’t need it, he imagined the feeling far too many times. He does not speak to you, only glances and looks away when you catch him red-handed. You try to follow him, to subtly fall into his steps when he takes a path or when the group has to split, but it’s hard to know if he is the one being followed or the other way around. It seems the prince is somehow always gravitating around you, like pulled by your orbit. It stays that way all day, the subtle lingering of a glance, the prickling feeling in the back of your neck that tells you he follows behind though you cannot hear him. Leaves do not crack under the sole of his boots, the sap of trees whispers poems as he passes. Only on the way back to the Halls can you manage to steal your first interaction with the prince. Steal is the word, for it would have not happened had you been less lost in thoughts; and whose fault was that? In your fantasy, your footing becomes less assured and more wandering. You trail behind the group, wrapped in your daydreaming, and it takes less than a minute for you to stop paying attention to the ground you walk on. It’s like the forest means to teach you a lesson when you trip over a treacherous root, sticking out of the ground in an odd manner. But you had no time to reflect on the odds for this particular root to catch your foot, already you feel yourself falling head first and your body slice through the air. Unable to do anything about it but wait for the blow to hit, you close your eyes in hope it’ll make this embarrassing moment pass faster. It does not. Because the floor never breaks your nose and the scraped path does not hurt your ribs. Instead, there is a strong warmth wrapped around your arm, right under your shoulder, and it keeps you in a strange mid-fall position. You open one eye first, unsure, and then the second when the person helping you is none other than the prince. Immediately, you startle and think straight again. You cannot look weak in front of the prince you are bound to protect at the end of the day. What would he think of you if he saw that his kingdom was under the protection of an elf who does not even know how to walk properly? You stand firm on your feet in the bat of an eye, holding his gaze as you thank him profusely, though the tip of your ears turns red and you hope your hair does enough to hide it. His hand loosens its grip on your arm only when he judges you stable enough, but you do not motion to catch up with the others. Instead, you stay paralysed here, looking at each other for what seems like an eternity before he speaks; and by the gods would you like for him to never stop. ‘Careful,‘ he says. It’s not a scold or a taunt, Legolas says it with the utmost gentleness, like he really means it. You should be more careful. ‘I apologise, my Lord, I lost my focus,‘ you explain. ‘Pray, what is your name, my Lady?‘ My Lady. It is a title reserved for women of his status, women he esteems, yet he gives it to you like it has always been your title to bear. Until you strip him out of his and get the hang of calling him by his name, he will not call you by yours. Legolas Legolas Legolas Legolas Legolas, he can see it rippling from your tongue and already he knows he will love the way you coat his name with honey.
Where the stars are veiled and Legolas is asked to spend the night reading them, although there are far better star readers in the realm.
—His father schedules you to his protection, overlooking the fact that it is your day off, and you do not fight his decision. How could you? You are in his Halls and he assigns you to the side of his only son, perhaps the king wishes to test your loyalty. You are oblivious to the real schemes he plans, and so is the prince. He groans against his father once more when the information of what is expected of him falls: it is not the kind of quest Thranduil usually deems him fit for. Legolas whines and complains in the intimacy of his family, but when he steps outside the throne room and sees you waiting for him here, the frown pulling his brows disappears. His features soften and he feels his heart flutter, his blood slows like your sole presence is soothing enough. Now star reading seems like the most important task in all the elven kingdoms and he urges you to follow him before you can bow. He hurries to better keep his gaze from lingering where it shouldn’t —on your lips, on the cupid’s bow there especially, but also to escape the watchful eyes of his father. When he looks back, Legolas notices the hint of a smirk on his father’s lips and it does not please him so. If the king is always in his way, then Legolas cannot dote upon you freely. The Elvenking’s eyes catch everything, he has much more experience at observing the world than his son, and he is less oblivious than him to the changes of his character.
Where Legolas’s cape drapes around you while you are stargazing, although you both know elves do not get cold.
—It has taken him quite sometime to have you simply sit down next to him. At first, you refuses everything that could distract you from your task. You had to look after the prince, not that he needed it, but if you failed here it would be the end of your entire career. Legolas had had to sweet talk you for minutes before you could begin to graze the thought that maybe, maybe there was nothing to fear on the plateau he had chosen. Then another minute had been spent persuading you into joining him on the ground, and you had only relented when he said he was losing time reading the sky’s omen because you would not do as your prince told you. Usually, Legolas would have very little use of his privileges as prince, but to have you where he wanted you he was willing to make an exception. When eventually you had settled so close to him you could feel his warmth seeping from his body to yours, the prince let you play the role of the alerted guard while he focused on the stars. It wasn’t a grand success speaking to them tonight, they refused a single world to the immortal prince and veiled even further the moment he tried to read in their constellations. It was as if they wanted him to not be able to fulfil his task just so he had to talk to you to pass the time and then come back another night. That’s exactly what he did. Who was he to deny astral beings? Certainly not someone enough. ‘Is the breeze not chilly, this night?‘ he asks, and you do not want to disoblige him upon so small a matter. You nod once. The movement of your head is not finished before you feel the moonlit silhouette next to you shift swiftly and a weight upon your shoulders. It is warm and it encompasses your back, falls in the hole between your crossed legs in front. Legolas’s cloak feels different than yours: more luxurious and elegant, more heavy because of the expensive fabric, too big for you since he towers even as you sit down next to each other. But more than all that, it smells like him. It’s a rich scent of grass and wet dirt like the smell of the forest after the rain, like humidity leaking down the walls of a rock shelter. You are still on your guards but with a little patience the prince manages to distract you into a proper conversation with him. You don’t even register Legolas is doing all but star-reading, or pick up on the fact that the sky has been veiled since morning and that everyone could have known it was no weather for stargazing.
Where the latest folly of the king is making his son guard the cellar, though he made sure to provide him with good company.
—Legolas had been assigned many tasks as a prince, and of many natures. It was often diplomatic stays in a far away kingdom, or taking care of commercial notes and bonds, but it could be lesser things. It was not surprising to hear he was part of a party clearing the woods, or appointed to train recruits when his schedule permitted it. Still, this was exceptional. Spectacular even. To guard the cellar like a trainee? Never his Adar had done anything of the sort to him. He was a prince after all, was it even proper to schedule him to such an insignificant thing? Doubtful. And Legolas did not miss his cue to brood. But brooding didn’t work much magic with Thranduil. When he was a child, it was his father who spoiled the little prince rotten, and his mother who scolded him for it. But the lively little blond boy grew up and his mother passed away, and so his father became more guarded in his affection. So guarded his son would mistake it for mere luck. It was no luck he was once again scheduled to the same task as you were. Upon seeing you already looking like you would prefer to be anywhere but here, the prince felt his mood cheer instantly. He offered you a smile, which lit fireworks in your belly as it always did, and now you felt like cellar duty was a blessing. You had a hard time believing it when Legolas told you he was assigned here with you. Frankly, you even suspected he had done it on purpose, yet he assured you it was not the case. And just like that, the day passed at an excruciatingly fast speed. You felt you had not been able to talk for more than an hour when another pair of guards came to take your shift. Needless to say word would soon start to spread about the idea of your romance with the prince, for the two elves stepped in on a most intimate scene, they felt; and young elves especially loved gossips. You were sat down on a table in the cellar, laughing sincerely at something the prince had said, and Legolas was leaning with one hand braced on the edge of the table, grazing yours right next. He was smiling too, and his cheeks were slightly flushed. The atmosphere in the room was so warm that it was hard for your colleagues not to believe they had interrupted on something touching upon the realm of romance. In fact, you too were starting to wonder if your familiarity with the prince was not morphing into something else. He was definitely too close for elvish customs, and his shoulders had lost the light tension you noticed was always lingering there. Unfortunately, you could not indulge in having him to yourself any more; your shift was over and he probably had many princely duties to go back to.
Where you start to despair over your feelings for the prince in your room and exactly this moment there is a knock on your door and a blushing Legolas on the threshold.
—He almost trips over his own words when asking you out, something very unlikely for an elf so composed as him. Still, he feels like the utmost fool of this realm though he is only addressing a girl he likes; you strip him from his confidence. ‘I saw you once, fell in love with you because you hushed the tumult in my mind, and you have been haunting me ever since. It cannot be a coincidence you are always where my mind expects to find nothing, like the universe means prove me wrong. I believe the stars crossed our path, it cannot be any other way,‘ he pants at your doorstep, like a madman who has been restraining himself too long. Legolas is right, it is not a coincidence you always gravitate near each other, but maybe the stars are not the only ones worth giving credit to. This, he will never know.
Where Thranduil sleeps better at night, feeling he spoiled his little boy one last time.
Where Legolas sleeps better too with you in his arms, his lips pressed all night in the bridge between your shoulder and neck.
Legolas' confession is the sweetest thing ever, Thranduil is the most sly matchmaker in this instance, and you, nini, never fail to write beautifully💕 (thanks for coming to my ted talk lol👐🏻)
summary : For centuries your kind has lived hidden: unknown to the world, shrunk back in the shadows you belong in. The Great Ball is the only time you come out in the light, the only time you allow yourself to feast. Amongst moulded ceilings and cups of wine, Mirkwood’s crown prince finds an interest in you and your red velvet dresses. But Legolas doesn’t know you have teeth to bite him and an inherited bloodlust.
pairing legolas x fem!vampire!reader (no use of y/n)
author's note : i know nobody in the poll voted for the first chapter of bloodborne to be released first but i just had an itch and i thought it was only fair you guys were not inclined to vote for bloodborne since there's not even a first chapter published, only the prologue, so you can't really root for a fanfic that only exists in my mind lmao?? anyways so here's the first proper chapter, raw dogged this in a day instead of studying for my exam tomorrow —don't even wish me luck i don't deserve it i'm too smug
➢ nini’s masterlist
➢ bloodborne’s masterlist
The sun shrinks in the distance, cold and bitting, when the main doors of the manor are shut for the days to come. The Grey Mountains see their first life in four years, they will soon see the end of some of them too. From your spot at the foot of the great stairs, you read the room for the first time. The atmosphere is the same every year: you can smell the nonchalance of the guests, how merry and unbothered they are. Your gaze slides over the sea of people in the reception hall, your heart feels fuller though you know it is a trick of your mind.
Lying in your chest, the organ is too black and atrophied for any kind of movement.
It has been years you have not seen your home in such a lively state. Chandeliers hangs over people’s head, casting a warm glow upon the room; walls echo with laughters and discussions, their red dripping its hue on every reflecting surface; the moulded ceilings are, as always, the talk of many people; and sun is blocked from the stained glass windows by heavy red curtains. In the corners, tables are set with bites of food to eat, and zigzagging between people, you see the annual butler carry a trail of wine glasses that the guests take willingly. Your lips twitch. Their fingers wrap around the stem; from where you stand, you can make out the grain of their skin as if you were right next to them. On an indoor loggia overlooking the first floor, an orchestra plays the first melodies of the weekend. Many more will be heard in the course of the ball.
The merry hum of the reception tickles your sensitive ears, you rejoice in those last minutes of peace. In a minute, people you know will have you hostage to their babbling and the only way you will have to escape it is pretexting you need to greet the other guests, which is partially true. You make a standing point in greeting those who come back every four years, just as your father did.
You know it, the Great Ball is the event of every bissextile year, it cannot fail. Every mighty royal of Middle-Earth is invited to it, if something appears out of the ordinary word would spread as quickly as catching fire. No news is good news, that is why you have to stay on your guard every passing second; nothing can stray out of the carefully carved out path you have intended. The Ball is a tradition, a life or death one, it has to unfold perfectly. For now, everything goes according to plan. People move before you like metronomes with the rhythm of the music, you already see a woman you recognise from hundred years ago attract a lost young man in the darkness of a leaving corridor. Nobody saw them but you, you bet he tastes sweet. You know he does; men have a way of growing tooth-rotting when they believe you love them.
You take a deep breath, close your eyes upon releasing it and plaster an agreeable smile on your face the moment they flutter back open. For a second, you miss the darkness behind your lids and the solitude, but it all disappears as you take your first step on the tiled floor. The red velvet of your gown flows behind you, like a red sea raising where you walk, your shoes do not clasp against the ground. Nobody can see the concealed purple bags under your eyes; it’ll be better in an hour or so, when the sun will have finally descended fully. You move quietly, though unmistakable by your presence. Many lesser people who were not here the time before, who won’t be here in four years, address you courteous signs of the head. You reply to them with your best smile, the one you practiced for hours in front of your window’s reflection. You know it charms them effectively. It always does, poor lambs to the slaughter. You hope they do not see it coming; it is best when they are not polluted by fear and anxiety. The wine and music serve to make their hearts merry, to lull them into indulgent sins.
The spirit for crowds the Great Ball casts in you begins to rise. You find yourself much more inclined to talk to guests and be frivolous all night, all of a sudden. This too, is a carefully rehearsed number. A lie of the finest kind which nobody but those who play it too notice. You will pretend to be pleased by their jokes, pretend to be frivolous, pretend some of them are of interest to you. The truth is less amusing: you care only for your own party, and it is because duty demands it.
As you cross the room, you lock eyes with someone you know very well: a man and his wife hanging at his arm; your own party. The air whispers around you as you take the last steps to them, and when you reach the couple you bow to the woman, before holding out your hand for the man to kiss. His lips are cold as death on your skin, her eyes glimmer with a flash of vermeil for a split second only you can catch. Your smile widens, the tension in your muscles ease at the sight of familiar faces.
“How do you like the Ball?“ you ask with a movement of the hand showing it out to them.
“As always, my dear, it is magnificent,“ the woman replies. “The new guests are…“ she lowers her tone in secrecy. “Fresh.“
Your grin turns lopsided. You shrug as if you hadn’t hand picked them yourself for month before the gathering. “I should hope so.“
“Nonsense, you have always had the refined taste of your father,“ the man sips on his wine and holds back a grimace that makes you chuckle. “However, I fear I will never get used to… this. What do you call it, again?“
“Dorwinion wine.“
“Ah, yes.“
From the corner of your eyes, you see another familiar face looking at you. The young man broods in the corner, clad in his black jacket, and there is fire in his eyes that doesn’t stray from you. You know it isn’t meant to be taken personally, Izcasus always has that look in his eyes. It used to excite you when you were younger, the danger that laid about him, but not anymore. Danger was alright when you were still teenagers, but now danger speaks great doom to you, and he does not get it.
“Excuse me,“ you bow to the couple, before heading in the young man’s direction. They look at each other knowingly and swiftly turn on their heels, searching for another entertainment. Your people are often considered vapid beings, all they care for is good distractions and good food. Both are given to them at the Great Ball, it is the sole purpose of it.
Upon seeing you walk his way, Izcasus’ lazy eyes seem to open a bit more, and he straightens, crossed arms loosening to hang at his side. He leans further into the tall porphyry column he is backed upon, sly grin creeping up his face. There are a lot of pretty girls this year, no doubt he’ll slake his lust and hunger thoroughly.
“My lady,“ he charms the moment your steps still in front of him.
You reply with a mocking roll of the eyes. “Izcasus.“
The boy takes his time observing you, not hurried in any way. His gaze inspects your dress, gauges the velvet of it and linger where he has no right in the square cleavage of your collar, on the white pearls adorning your neck. Because he takes you in so unabashedly, you do so too. Though there is not much to say, for he looks like any handsome boy of your kin: black jet hair, snow-white skin, plump red lips and chiseled jaw you could cut yourself onto. You can spot many girl in the ballroom who would like to cut themselves on his skin, to have him bite at their neck. They do not know he means it literally.
It is not your case; Izcasus bores you, he is too reckless, too selfish. You do not know selfishness, as opposed to what one could think, everything you do is for others. The Ball is for others, you are only entitled to its setting up.
“You have outdone yourself, you almost make me believe beauty comes with age, nightingale,“ the tone of his voice annoys you, and the silly nickname he gives you too. You hold back from gritting your teeth. It is hard to know if he refers to you or the room’s stature; probably both.
“You should know all about it,“ you taunt. “How old are you again? Almost three thousand?“
“Two thousand seven hundred years old.“
“Women won’t wait for you anymore once you grow your first white hair.“
Izcasus knows it is impossible, just like you he is trapped in eternal youth, but you see him palm at his hair nevertheless as if there could be a single strand of white in their darkness. It makes you stifle a laugh and he sends you daggers with his eyes.
“A shame you’ll be the only one still able to wait, then,“ you hold your chin higher when he leans in, refusing to back up. His breath is cold, it crashes on the bridge of your nose. “We had fun last time.“
The memory sends a disgusted shiver down your spine. Last time was a bloodbath with him, you remember you almost threw up at how violent he had been. Visions of blood staining the floor and gushing everywhere impose themselves to you: staining your dress, splattering on your face, clogging in your hair. It was all but the clean kills you were used to. And the worst? The bastard seemed to enjoy it. You recall the way his eyes had been wide open and shining red, his lips pursed in a voracious smirk showcasing his bloodied teeth. You remember the colour of sin in his eyes, and the sharp coldness of his fangs when he had thanked you for the last day of the Ball in his own sick and twisted way: with a kiss on the side of your neck. The feeling had burnt uncontrollably for days after, you had scratched it until your skin broke out and drew blood.
The mask you wear does not crack, you have known him too long for it to have a visible effect on you whatsoever.
“Last time was a mistake. Behave,“ you whisper the last word like a shameful secret.
That’s the thing with Izcasus, if you are not careful enough, he can turn against you as easily as he can love you.
Glaring at him, you bow courteously and take your leave without further ado. There are many more deserving guests here than him, and some of them will not spend the night. If you can be the last courteous interaction they have before they meet their end, then it would at least ease your guilt. The first day of the Ball is always like that, you reek of guilt until you sink your teeth in soft flesh and the feeling is like being born anew. What can you do against the animal instincts that control you? How can you escape the primal thirst of your soul? You still have no satisfying answer, but you know you should not blame yourself so much: many are those who do not ask themselves such questions. Your kin surely does not take pity as a virtue, you can deplore it all you want but it is true.
Once again, you take to glide amongst the crowd from guests to guests. The easy smile on your face has returned, though you make a mental note of keeping an eye on a certain someone. You wander about the reception hall, chat cheerfully with people clad in their best attire, compliment them on their manners and decorum. It is all a game of appearances: the Lords come with the hope of forming new connections and strengthening the old ones, lesser nobility shows up just because they have been invited and it is the event of their lives, and people like you are here for far somber things. Things that better stay silenced, things you hide in the shadows at the turn of an hallway, things that minimise the number of guests as days pass. Nobody ever notices anything, royals are too busy with their own selves to care about third-rate bourgeoisie. You are also very proficient at making corpses disappear without a trace; a skill that comes with age and experience.
After a while talking with the same type of people who had nothing in mouth but laudatory praises concerning your qualities they were very much unaware of, boredom starts to get the better out of you. A stroke to the ego flatters you, but too much of it gets sickening. Even if you must remain attentive to everything as the host of the evening, the Great Ball is also a moment for you to try and have fun. If you cannot relax fully, you can at least stop pretending all your smiles with some of the guests. This year, particularly, there are two men on the guest list you have been waiting to meet. A king and a prince, whom had both never attended any of the Balls, had been the object of your particular attention.
Straying from the one-sided discussion you are having with two women Izcasus eyes so much you believe he is not beneath a double as his next meal, your own gaze wanders around the room. You hope to find the men you have been looking for, but it seems vain when it comes to the point where you have seen every face in this crowd at least twice. In fact, it is vain; you don’t even know if they have bothered to come.
You are about to give up on any hope of real entertainment when a sort of soft glow catches your attention. In the corner of your vision, something radiates of a pure essence against the closed space of the Hall felted with red walls and red curtains, hushed in the low buzz of never-ending chatters, and swaying with the movement of every ball gown gathered here. Something your soul recognises immediately, something your instincts now scream for. Something, or someone.
When you turn your head to it, there are blue eyes that pierce yours at the same time, as if they foreshadowed your upcoming staring, and the most utterly perfect face you have ever seen. The way your muscles jolt under your skin and your ears block out every sound to a dull hum is nothing but primal. It is instinct hitting back at you, making you erase everything in your line of sight but the aquiline nose and pale cheekbones of your next prey. Except it is not a prey, far from it. It is an elf.
An elf-prince; the one you have been searching for.
Your eyes gleams a flash of crimson for a split second, something unnoticeable; yet Legolas notices it. He notices it because his eyes have forced their way upon you and now that he looks at you the prince cannot help but feel his heart miss a beat. Or two. Maybe four. He frowns at the weird hue that just passed in your eyes, but the wrinkles he has turned into ease as soon as he sees you excuse yourself to your interlocutors to take a step towards him. Next to him, Aragorn looks at you come their way too. There is something slightly unsettling about you; something he would have had a hard time putting his finger on even in his time as a ranger.
It takes you but seconds before standing in front of the two men, welcoming smile plastered to your face, though it is not as fake this time. You bow.
“My King,“ you address Aragorn.
The man takes your hand to press his forehead on the back of it.
“My Prince,“ you turn to Legolas and he does the same with your hand. It is abnormally cold. Freezing, even.
When you feel he presses against the skin more than what is safe, you gently pull back your hand and address him a small smile. For a little while, you stay here silent. Every fibber of your body screams at you, the hand he has touched trickles with small fireworks. You take a small breath, keeping your composure. Of course your own mind would betray you in front of an elf. It is in your nature to be enthralled by them, the excitement you feel in front of the prince is your very first instincts being reminded to you. It is also punishment from the gods for your sins. Beings of darkness should not yearn for those of light, yet your kind does.
It does against all that is right in this world, because vampires have always felt elves were the closest thing to their own perfection. You crave for a light that can never reach you, for a perfection so akin to your own yet so far. The first children of Illuvatar: the alter dei; and then the last: the fallen angels.
“I am glad you could come. I understand it is your first Great Ball,“ you say, though it is evident.
Legolas’s father, king Thranduil, used to come by himself to represent Mirkwood —when he would bother to come; you remember despite being an elf he was not as appealing to you as his son. Perhaps his aloof character made it so. And for Aragorn, it has only been three years since he became king; you had not invited Gondor’s attendant to the last Ball, you did not like the man very much.
“I understand why you call it the ‘Great‘ Ball. You have nothing to envy to the royal feasts of elven and human realms,“ Legolas compliments, and for the first time you are allowed to hear his voice. It catches you off of guard the tiniest bit at first, you had not expected it to be so soft, yet so confident. You think you could do with hearing it all night.
His golden locks fall in front his shoulders as he talks, the subtle movement of the air is enough to bring his scent to your heightened senses. You curse the unslaked ache that has rotted for far too long without relief in your belly. Did every elf smell this mouth-watering or just him? The singular odour clings to your nose, presses like an anvil upon your chest and rushes through your vein. You know the feeling very well: hunger. Bloodlust, more precisely, for it is not his scent you smell but his blood: metallic, and sweet like flower sap.
You force up another tight smile as your stomach coils. It is a scent you have never smelt, and it’s worse than everything that it should be so unfamiliar to you. You have no time to adapt to it, and you have still not fed. There is a filthy want in your stomach that awakes like a monster. One for flesh and bones, one for blood as sweet as Legolas’s must taste. You mentally shake the thought away.
The more you stay in front of him, the more anguish fills your mind. You need to go. You need to tame the creature you are in your core back to its den. You’ll return to him when you will not have the irrepressible carnivorous want to eat him alive
“Thank you,“ you say as you glance behind you, prefiguring you are making for a way out. “I should go greet the other guests; I hope we can talk more in the nearest future. It is such a pleasure having you here,“ you excuse yourself, bowing courteously and taking a step back before fully turning around.
Legolas looks at you go, the velvet fabric of your dress still imprinted in his mind. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can make it out in the emptiness as well as the black lace emphasising your waist and collar. He feels a weird tug in his stomach, a weak growl he does not like. In the back of his mind, Legolas misses completely the plague that is starting to spread.
There is something off about you; something raw. But to the prince, it is so much more than that. He feels this oddity spreads to the whole manor, like the stonewalls murmur to him half-whispers of concealed secrets he cannot make out. And something lacks in the ballroom.
“There is no mirror.“
“Indeed?“ Aragorn frowns, amused. The king does not quite understands the problem with the lack of mirrors, and he certainly did not know his friend a firm judge of decors.
“One should think a ball is the one important place to look at one’s apparel and showcase it,“ Legolas explains.
The observation lands quietly in the atmosphere, but it reinforces its uneasiness. It is too early to be making assumptions, but the prince’s instinct rarely proves him wrong. And above all that, there is you and you perfectly rehearsed smiles and greetings; you and the youth upon your face; you and the quietness of your footsteps. Legolas doesn’t know if you are twenty or a thousand years old, it seems you could be both in the very particular way of the elves; he convinces himself it is merely this which makes him dote on you.
Only, your eyes cross multiple times in the evening and it can hardly be justified as coincidence anymore. So much that you are now both fully aware you observe each other from the other end of the room. Still, you keep on staring, letting him know he is not discreet. A glance above the rim of your glass while sipping on wine, another when speaking to someone who doesn’t quite entertain you as the prince’s ogling does. It burns your skin how attentively he observes you, makes you tingle in anticipation. Whatever this year’s Ball will bring, you are quite sure Legolas’s attention is something you won’t be able to escape for long. A chance you have never been one to deny most welcome attention bestowed upon you. Especially if it was from an elf. Especially if the elf in question made you drool with the idea of his blood coating your tongue.
You know it is just a dream, silly and foolish. You would not wish to hurt him, you love his kind too much, it is ingrained in you like a pattern. You do not like the prince, not yet; but he makes you curious. Curiosity is a dangerous beast for a woman like you to have; it kills the cat. Yet, something tells you all your reactions to the elf will be driven by sheer instinct, whether you like it or not. It is treacherous, but you have never learnt to step away from a warm fire because it burnt: because at least it warmed you, did it not? Because there is something soothing in the burn. A thrill, a pain.
It takes just a second of inattention from Legolas for him to lose you completely.
You’ve disappeared from the crowd. Simply vanished like you’ve never been there in the first place. Your presence does not linger in the atmosphere, it’s like he dreamt you altogether. Legolas blinks at the spot where he was supposed to find you, meanwhile you cross an empty corridor with a guest you’ve lured here.
The corridor stays quiet when you plant your canines in the side of his neck, except for a single whimper he lets out and the slow stopping of his breath. You lick the wound and the blood flows more easily upon touching your saliva; it’ll take a minute for you to suck him dry. With each famished gulp you take, it’s like being reborn full of bad deeds, full of the ugliest sins you will still cradle in your heart until the guilt disappears.
For now, you feel no guilt. Nothing but pure red dripping bliss, a mental Eden that crawls through your veins. You can feel the blood inside of you thicken, get more dense to flow slower and coax your system into a well deserved hibernation. There is a lazy vigour that stretches in your muscles, one you will keep for the rest of the night but will have to sleep off in the morning, like a cat.
It has been so long since you’ve last tasted human blood, and single boy won’t make you last four years. He is the first of a long row; for the better good, you convince yourself. The taste of your first prey in years will linger on your tastebuds until the second one, and at length you won’t even remember his face; how it contorts in ugly blissed out pain. You will come to look past how odd it is that humans always look like they are enjoying the agony. Some of them even moan like you bring them relief. You like to think perhaps it is a pleasurable end for them.
Beneath you, the drawn-out beat of a heart stops. What was his name again? You’re not sure you even asked.
One of my favourite things about a redeemed Dark Urge playthrough, is that it is a Came Back Wrong narrative from the perspective of anyone who knew them.
Oh sure, the face is the same, the voice, the form minus all the scarring. But all the actions have inverted, and they are now deadset against the very plan they put into motion. Fundamentally different then who they were before, it must be like looking in some weird, off-put fun house mirror.
The person who Orin removed from the playing board is not the person who came back. The one she measured herself against has stopped playing the game entirely. every behaviour that should be predictable is wrong
The person Gortash worked with on this plan, partnership, now is deadset against him, systematically dismantling the plan. How odd that must seem.
Yes, sure, The Dark Urge came back. But it isn't really them...
summary : Not only the truth ferments in wine, doubts concerning your love life also do. Your birthday grows closer with each passing day, and during a drunken night with yours friends you realise something: you never had your first kiss. And you're the only one.
request pairing legolas x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : friends to lovers, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, drunken kissing, probably very indulgent but hey it's fun
author’s note : this one shot is an anon request :p i'm so so so sorry for the huge amount of time this has taken to write, truly! but i like this one and i think it's mainly because i took my time writing it and did not push,, things are going a bit crazy with uni so i'm kinda slow :(
➢ nini’s masterlist
➢ read on ao3
This is dumb. It really is, you don’t even know why you worry about this. You’re not a teenager anymore, an adult woman shouldn’t care about such trifling things. It was just a joke your friends had uttered, something innocent, said on the cusp of drunkenness. Elvish wine frayed the usual composed attitude of its drinkers, allowed them to be less wise, more frivolous. It was something quite common amongst younger elves such as you were; customs did not prevent you from having fun from times to times.
It was just a joke, yet it lingered in your mind still by morning-come. You groaned in your bed, annoyed, and shut yours lids as tightly as you could, until coloured dots clouded your vision. It was supposed to be a fun night —a girls’ night, as you had learnt it was called in human kingdoms, instead it had left you confused over something you never thought of.
You liked drinking wine with your friends because it allowed you less reserve on intimate matters, you could laugh more easily, talk about taboo things without it being embarrassing. You hated wine because it twisted words together without link while still managing for your mind to give them a sense. A made up sense, needless to say.
Tayrn’s room was dimly lit, candles burned in the corners, the wax beginning to reach its end given how long you had spent here. There was an easy atmosphere about the room, filled with laughers and knowing smiles, though the bottles of wine sitting on the bedside table were mainly responsible of it. Their content still burned your throat slightly, a delicious taste of berries and fruits you were growing too fond of tonight. The colour draped the seam of yours lips, a bruising purple that also coated the flat of your tongue.
On the large bed in the centre of the room, sat down or sprawled across the green silk covers, were a group of five girls; all idly murmuring secrets in the dead of night.
Lying on your side, your fingers deftly braided in your friend’s hair, although not as efficiently as you normally would. A comfortable haze dizzied your mind a little, made your vision swim each time you turned your head too swiftly. The hem of your gown had raked up until the high of your knees, and the plunge of your cleavage revealed more skin than average. None of you cared about the state you were all in, for all that mattered, you could have been naked in front of each other and it wouldn’t have made a lot of difference.
Upon looking at you, one would have spotted the pleased twinkle in your eyes in an instant. This distinct glimmer characteristic of the effects of liquor. Now, you had came down from the fit of laughter one of the girls had thrown you in earlier, and you were listening to Neve and Tihala whisper about things you did not quite catch, too busy weaving Alwyn’s hair. However, the subject of their discussion seemed quite entertaining, for they kept on stifling chuckles and swatting each other’s arm.
A flicker of affection passed in your eyes. Perhaps there was something going on between these two…
“What are you whispering about? It seems fun,“ Tayrn’s voice rises, an underline of confidence about it and a smirk on her lips.
Her gaze crosses yours and you smile too, a bit delirious. Neve and Tihala look at each other, it seems the latter bats pleading eyes for her friend not to reveal too much. It is fruitless, Neve had always been one for a little gossip, and even more if it was harmless to divulge it.
“Tihala was just telling me how her first kiss had been Leigh,“ she says with a devilish smirk. She knows Tihala is such a good sport she won’t hold her too accountable for embarrassing her; it’s just a memory of her youth, after all.
“This brute of a guard?“ it seems the conversation roused Alwyn from her beauty sleep.
“We were only three hundred years old!“ the culprit tries to defend herself. In vain, for soon enough you all end up laughing hysterically and she cannot help but join too.
“Was he as insufferable as a child?“ you manage to ask through deep breaths to calm yourself down.
Tihala is now as red as the volcano on top of Mount Doom, and she shakes her head frantically as an answer. When she looks away to feign vexation, Neve drapes her arm around her shoulders to bring her into her chest, amused smile on her lips. The two of them jest, but Tayrn keeps sending you knowing looks to which you can only agree. Had it been only the two of them, the two elves would have kissed.
Alwyn speaks again through the dying laughing fit, lazy grin adorning her face and eyes still closed. You keep on braiding her hair meticulously with patterns of friendship.
“You are one to laugh Neve, I do remember your first kiss being Olweiin. The elf was so stressed he threw up all his liquor right after.“
Another fit of laughter rings against the walls of the room; it is possible you can be heard laughing all the way to the men’s quarters. You have to pause and catch your breath multiple times, given how hilarious the information is to you. The corners of your eyes wrinkle with joy, the alcohol spins in your head and makes everything more merry than it should be. It is good to be here, with this fuzzy warmth that spreads from your chest to your belly.
Neve’s pale carnation has turned a deep shade of dusty red and she averts her gaze from the four of you as best as she can, arms crossed against her chest like it’s a shield against embarrassment.
“My first kiss was a girl, but I don’t remember her much, we were only younglings and she went for the Grey Havens when orcs multiplied across the country,“ Alwyn continues.
It serves to tame the giggling.
“Mine was Gwingon, and we are still partners to this day, so I don’t have a lot of fun stories to share, I’m afraid,“ now it’s Tayrn’s turn to share her experience.
Neve rolls her eyes playfully at the mention of the elf —everybody knows she does not like him much. “A late bloomer you are,“ she teases.
“Not really, we have been together for centuries now.“
The information lands easily about the room and a quiet settles. It’s comfortable at first, while you still busy yourself with your friend’s hair, but then you soon feel it is becoming overwhelming. Someone coughs from the back of her throat, another stifles a giggle, one whistles to fill the quiet. It all makes it worse. The impromptu noises emphasise the silence and the gaps in the atmosphere. The wind outside hitting against the window is more chilling than it should be in the warmth of the interior.
In the back of your neck, your skin starts to prickle and burn as if little needles pointed at it. You feel your stomach twitch and twist at the feeling, it tries to warn you of something you are still unaware of. Gingerly, you lift your gaze from the head of hair they are fixed upon, only to be met by four pair of eyes staring at you. The smile on the lips of your friends tells you nothing you like.
The four girls watch you attentively, sending knowing glances to each other as you feel yourself grow red. Oh. They are waiting for you to add your share to the stories. The pressing looks try to coax you into talking, but the amused grins they share say they have already made up their minds on your love life. They think you won’t talk because you try to keep it a secret, yet it is evident to them.
“It’s alright, you don’t have to talk,“ Neve says. “We can guess who was your first kiss.“
You frown. How can you tell them they would be wrong no matter the name they utter as their guess? How can you confess you’ve never had your first kiss? It had never crossed your mind, but now you feel the weight of the fact settles unwelcome in your stomach. Everyone had their first kiss but you. Boy or girl, there was someone they could reminisce on in candid moments like this; you had no one. No first kiss to share, no first love, no name to blush about but cast as irrelevant because it had been years. And it had never been a problem to you before. You had never thought about it in this light: that maybe there was a problem with you. After all, who doesn’t know what a kiss feels like after thousands of years on earth? Nobody. You were the only one, the anomaly. A black sheep unworthy of it.
An elf’s judgment is usually never so harsh and fast, but you cannot help yourself. The composure of your kin frays at the edges under the influence of elvish wine, your mind swims like it hides a tempest as your thoughts rush. You cannot tell them the truth, it would be too embarrassing. Made wary of their judgment by alcohol, you try to think about a safe name to put in your lie. None comes to your mind. If you say someone they know, they will ask questions and probably tease him about it and the truth will be revealed; if you say a name they do not know, they will also ask questions and your drunken mind will lose itself in confusion trying to make up a story.
Tihala’s soft voice cuts your train of thoughts. She speaks with her usual softness, as if she tries to reassure you of your predicament but only achieve to bury you further in it.
“Don’t listen to her. I would be careful too if the prince was my first kiss.“
The prince.
Legolas.
They think Legolas was your first kiss. The thought claws like a beast at your guts and weights against your ribs life fire catching. You look around you to perhaps find that you heard it wrong, but it’s not the case: your friends nod.
You try to push the image away, but it proves to be futile. You don’t have to close your eyes for your mind to impose upon you images of your best friend, of all the situations in which he could have kissed you but chose not to. During your endless walks in the forest, or when he helped you study for the guard’s contest for hours without end in your room. You had known each other all your life, so much that he was an inherent part of it. You couldn’t remember a time without the prince by your side, when his smiles didn’t make you dizzy and dumb. For as far as your memory went, he had been here.
He was your best friend, he had always been, why were you suddenly wondering about how warm could his lips be, or which shade of pink could they turn into once bitten? You shake your head and blame it upon the alcohol, though your heart beats something different. Saying you had never imagined the prince kissing you would be a lie, but it was years ago; you had grown past it.
“Legolas was not… He is not…“ you trip upon your own words; pathetic. “We never kissed.“
Suddenly, the girls look at you like you are either the best or worse liar they have ever met. But upon seeing the distressed look in your eyes, Alwyn is the first to realise you’re far from lying.
“But are you two not courting? He follows you everywhere,“ she says.
“I wouldn’t have guessed the prince was such a prude. He seems like the opposite, being this handsome,“ Neve adds with the delicacy she always has —which is none.
“If a boy was giving me the eyes he gives you, I would assume he is far too smitten for plain courting!“ Tihala reckons, and the opinions of the girls do not stop flowing until Tayrn saves you. She had always been the most sensible of you all.
“It does not matter. They are only best friends, that is great too.“
“Who was your first kiss then?“
Neve’s question turns the subject away from Legolas, but not from the idea of kissing. You cannot grow redder than you already are, but if you could you would. Not having kissed anybody is not a shame… is it? Patience and soul-consuming love was not frowned upon in your culture, on the contrary, it was expected. Younger elves had their experiences, but was it so bad if you pretended you were only waiting for the right one? Waiting for the right one when you were almost two thousand years old… what an obvious lie.
“I never had my first kiss…“ you manage to murmur, so low that your friends have to stop their giggling and moving to catch what you are saying.
The answer hangs in the air for some time. Did Legolas have his first kiss? You imagine he had; Neve was right, he was handsome, and lots of girls had been hovering around him when you were still teenagers. Somehow, you do not recall him courting any of them. Some would say he had eyes for only you, you would simply say his duties as a prince took most of his time and he had no mind to pay to a partner.
The same awkward quiet as before drags on, punctuated by the disbelieved blinking of your friends. Even Alwyn has opened her eyes from her spot in your laps. Perhaps they heard wrong, is what they all try to convince themselves with before Neve blesses you with her ever-so-gentle remarks.
“You never kissed? But your two thousandth birthday is in a week?!“
You try not to crack up a nervous laugh at her indignation. As if a kiss before being two thousand was a rite of passage. It is not… is it? The way in which Neve reacts sure is funny at first, but it quickly puts you in a far more embarrassing place. So you were weird.
Neve was not one to hold her tongue, everyone knew it, but she was not one to lie either. She was genuinely surprised by your lack of experience. You twist the fact in your mind, try to find something that would make it make sense. There must be a reason for you never kissing anybody, right? Your own reserve, an unaware purity of your mind, a lack of interest for love. Nothing sounds right, nothing feels right. You thought it was common occurrence for people not to have any experience in the field of love at your age, you were still young, but it seemed tonight you had been mistaken and were the only oddity in these Halls.
Tayrn notices you’ve turned silent, and you have that far away veil in your eyes that dulls them, the one cast upon you when you are deep in thoughts or overthinking. Clearly, you’re overthinking this; and Neve doesn’t help.
“Neve, I don’t think kissing Olweiin drunk counts as a first kiss, you should not swagger so much,“ she gently scolds to try and help you out of the situation.
Oddly enough, it is not Tayrn who gets you out of it but Tihala. While the two girls bicker over Neve’s own kissing experience, the blonde lets herself fall on her back on the bed after having drowned her umpteenth glass of the night. Her lithe frame bounces on the mattress once; it’s enough to cut the small argument.
“How do you think the prince kisses?“ she asks, twirling a lock of hair around her finger dreamingly.
The smile that adorns her face while thinking of Legolas clearly does not please Neve, who wrinkles in a dubious frown.
“What do you mean?“
“Do you think him a good kisser?“
“I think he kisses like a prince… It would be a royal kiss, probably; perfect like every princely thing he undertakes,“ Alwyn replies before her grumpy friend can send a snarky remark. Her eyes are closed again, you can see her orbs move under the translucent skin of her lids.
She is right, you know Legolas best and if you reflect upon it —not that it takes much reflection because you had already pictured the event in your head countless times you are too unwilling to confess to, you think his kiss would in fact be the one of a prince. You imagine Legolas kisses like the embodiment of elven nature: calm, reverent, composed, and sure of himself. He would kiss like he knows his way around you already, like he had your every trigger figured in a glance. It would be slow, consuming, and oh-so warm. But you know something some don’t: that Legolas can also be proud and hungry. Hungry for battle, hungry for victory, hungry for recognition.
You think Legolas can bite too. He can teeth at what he wants and grab flesh until it bruises yet still be asked for more. The prince can be hurried, teasing, but you wonder if he can snap.
Your eyes fly open to stop the thought from going further. Above you, the roof is still the same and you are still lying down on the same bed, in the same night. It was just a joke. You had all drank too much, the girls had probably already forgotten about all this. But not you. Obviously not you, since it kept you awake at night and tossing in your bed. You kick the sheets off of your body, as if the cold air of your room could do anything against intrusive thoughts, and set on closing your eyes again.
You were not going to let a matter so trifle as kissing ruin your second millennium’s birthday. Especially since it was already partially ruined by the fact that Legolas couldn’t be here. Princely duties had called him West some weeks ago, and he was not to return until maybe another week or so. You definitely were not going to have your first kiss that day.
Feasts like this one are not often thrown in the Elvenking’s Halls, but Thranduil likes you especially and it is not everyday you turn two thousand. Earning the good graces of the king is something very few have the privilege of, you owe it to your everlasting friendship with his son. Had he not known you since your tender infancy and had Legolas not always preached in your favour, perhaps the king would have kept his aloof attitude with you. Except he has not, and feels exceptionally tender towards you today. Thranduil still remembers the day Legolas turned two thousand, and how the boy had been glad you were here to share his joy and hang at his arm all night. Today Legolas is not here, and despite your best efforts, your disappointment shows on your face.
Now that everyone had greeted you and wished you many more happy and healthy years to live, they had all turned to their own party. The centre of the feast was now left to the side like scarps at the market. Your friends were already caught up in a fit of laughter with other guards from the realm, but you had no mind for wine or jokes. The buzzing of voices around you felt dull, meaningless; the lights decorating the Hall without warmth; and the excellent food tasteless. Everyone was gathered for you and still you found the way to be sorrowful. Growing a year older didn’t mean much for elves, but millennia were a landmark. It felt like the world was closing around you, like despite your longevity time was running short. Had you passed the quarter of your life? or maybe half this mark? Were the fields beyond the sea going to call you soon?
Doubtful, but still enough to lurk in the back of your head. You never brooded with Legolas, you wished he could have been there to cheer you up. His sole presence was relief enough, sometimes you did not need more than sitting beside him in the quiet to feel better. His calm could spread onto you like magic, his beating heart show yours what rhythm was best when he made you feel his pulse on the inside of his wrist. But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride; as far as you know, it is not the case yet.
An unmistakable presence steps beside you while you observe the Halls. The king’s stature is like no other, you don’t even have to look at him to know he is here and he is royal. You shift your gaze towards him and nod in reverence, though he does not look at you. Thranduil reads the room with a watchful eye, until it lands on you to take you in. He smiles something amused to himself knowingly; you mistake it for his regal aura glowing further. Though it is a dimmed glow the wood-king carries, it holds the strengths of his power and the iron nerves he rules with. Thranduil does not bend, he never has.
“I see my son influences you even in your choices regarding fashion,“ he notes with the hint of a smirk. Legolas does something quite similar when he means to tease you. Over the years, you have found many resemblance between father and son.
“He cannot influence me if he is not here, your liege.“
“You’re a bright girl, you will find he can.”
Once again, the king is right as you look down at your gown. The dress is not as extravagant as you imagine Thranduil would have given his wife back when she was still here, and it emphasises the differences between the king and his son. If the ellon has pointed it out to you, it’s because it is Legolas’s favourite. He knows it because a father cannot not notice the fondness of his son for something so simple as a garment when he gives you eyes that say he could marry you each time you wear it. Frankly, everyone has noticed. Everyone but you.
Legolas could defend himself by saying it is the blue velvet of the gown that pleases him, or the silver patterns embroidered along the collar and sleeves which were particularly fine and delicate, but everyone would have known it was a lie. You could have worn a hessian dress and it would have been the same to him. Deep down, in a part of him that was not so hidden as it was in you, he knew perfectly well he liked the dress to a reasonable amount at first, and then worshiped it like it was the most precious of fabrics in all Arda as soon as you wore it. He liked the dress, but he liked you best, so when the two were reunited his instincts screamed only to follow you around, to make you laugh, to admire you, and to comply to everything you would have him do.
You did not know it, but you had the prince wrapped so tight around your little finger he could have been the laughing stock of the guard had he not been their superior.
“How do you like your evening?“ Thranduil asked, though he did not seem genuinely curious but rather inclined to receive praises.
The king was of such a nature: he liked having his skills praised in laudatory encomiums. He liked it even more when his generosity was bestowed upon a grateful subject such as you were; his son was not an imbecile, he would not have chosen a foolish girl.
You bow your gratitude once; custom of the elven court. “I am eternally grateful.“
The king dismisses it with a wave of the hand like it’s nothing. “No need child. It is a mere gathering, nothing extravagant.“
You hold back a chuckle at his assertion. It is an obvious lie in front of the opulence of the Halls, but you overlook it to please him. There is nothing cheap in the mouldings of the ceiling and stones, in the lavishness of the buffet, or the overall decorum of the room: every guest is wearing their best attire. Such a high assembly of elves would have blinded the human eye, for the glow it radiated of was mystical, almost divine. Were they not used to the legends of the early days of their world, which were full of elves of the fairest kind, they would have mistaken it for halos, for holiness. The atmosphere is easy, coated by songs made slick by the wine. It is said that elves know how to sing and write melodies by their first year.
When the king pivots to face you, his eyes do not land on your features but behind you, past your shoulder. Whatever he sees there manages to pull the corner of his lips upward, and he smoothly takes his leave from you. You stand staring at his back that draws away in the crowd like his sole aura splits it in half to let him pass, thinking the king had been of good company.
You are about to further despair in the loss of good society when a hand falls on your shoulder, assured like it belongs here. You turn you head towards it, expecting to find Tayrn or Alwyn, but the moment your gaze lands on the person standing beside you, you have to do a double-take to make sure you’re not dreaming. It’s golden hair that catches your eye first, then the pale complexion of skin and a chiseled jaw. You spin so fast it makes your head reel and you almost trip on your own feet, which makes the boy in front of you huff a laugh. You’re afraid he’d vanish with a single wrong beat of your heart.
“Legolas!“
Here he is in all his glory, with that smile you suspect he reserves you and eyes that shimmer like you bewitch him. Because you do. Legolas takes you in and a spell is cast on him; a spell you are the sole cause and cure of. It’s been weeks he has not seen you and now you show up in that dress he would get on his knees for. The prince would kiss and worship the ground you walk on only to feel the velvet of it between his fingers. It suits you like a dream awakened, like a curse. It’s like there’s too much of you he would like to ingrain in his mind but too little time to do so, and already you smile at him and it tears his attention away from the gown. Have you ever been so beautiful?
There’s a pinkish hue on your cheeks, testimony of the shock you feel seeing him here, and your eyes are wide open. You want to reach out for him, to fall in his arm because this might be the greatest surprise of the evening, to laugh uncontrollably because you do not feel down anymore. Of course, you do none of it; propriety forbids it. If you want to act friendlier with the prince, you will have to wait for you to be alone.
“I thought you were not to return before weeks!“ you exclaim, the force of your smile hurting your cheeks.
Legolas smirks something soft, yet teasing. “I could not miss the most important day of the millennium, could I?“
“I thought you would. Royals duties matter more than a silly birthday of mine.“
“I care not for royal duties,“ when it comes to you, he holds back from saying. “You know it.“
You nod once, knowing it would be no use arguing with Legolas once he is set on something. He seems set on the fact that your birthday —that you, are of the utmost importance.
“Would you like to escape for a bit?“ the prince suggests.
There’s instant relief in your eyes and it makes him chuckle.
“Please.“
It’s like the wind carries you away, and in an instant you are far from the noise of the party and disappearing deep in the dimly lit corridors. The music reaches your ears muffled, the sole of your shoes on the floor echos gently against the stone walls and you glide your fingertips along the surface of one; it’s cold to the touch and serves to ground you. Following you, you can hear the faint swooshing of your dress sliding on the ground. Legolas guides you through the maze that is his home, his hand has slipped to yours in the process. It’s bigger than your own, his palm covers yours easily and his thumb rests soundly on the back of your hand, radiating a warmth that seems to spread right to your belly. It makes you giddy, sends you heart beat in your temples. Or maybe it’s his scent that does; it wraps around the two of you like the evening’s dew, fresh yet obviously warm with pine-trees and musk.
The prince lets go of your hand to sneak in the cellar a moment, then comes back with a bottle of wine you should not have hold of. But he is the prince, what can his father do if he discovers his son has stolen a single bottle to share with the star of the evening? Probably not much besides scolding him.
He does not take your hand again and there’s a coldness that remains with the loss. In minutes, you’re slipping inside his room like a secret and already taking your usual seat on the floor of his balcony. This kind of thing is not unusual for you, but this time it feels different. Because he sits down next to you and offers you the first sip of the stolen liquor; because he came back for you; because you snuck away from a party like teenagers. But most likely because his intense blue eyes stare when your lips glisten with the red robe of the wine, and you catch none of it though it hangs in the atmosphere because you are too deep in your mirth to pay such close attention to details.
Every ounce of sadness you had once felt is gone, now you only laugh and talk without meaning for it to end while the prince listens diligently. The wall dents uncomfortably in your back, you shift to relieve the dull discomfort and it takes you closer to him. As the night unfolds, wine flows and soon clouds your judgment. Everything seems more easy, less important. Your laughter rings sharper, his eyes half-lid and his smile softens. Above you, a starry sky is lit but Legolas pays no mind to it, you shine brighter in his eyes.
It takes not half the bottle for both of you to feel a little too warmth; as if the air has closed in on you under a hot afternoon sun in the summertime. Legolas’s shirt ends up unbuttoned down his neck, the strap of your dress slips down your shoulder carelessly; you both notice it but say nothing. Legolas’s gaze drifts down the length of your shoulder, yours takes the slope of his neck while you continue to tell a story you have probably told twice at this rate.
One way or another, the wall feels too hard against your back, and your sense of manners is not so distinguished anymore as to prevent you from choosing the comfortable shoulder of your best friend as a better rest place. Your head falls on it softly as you pass him back the bottle, and his fingers that carelessly brush yours make your heart jolt. Sure, alcohol sets a daze upon you, but those unnecessary touches were definitely intended.
Slowly, the conversation hushes until it dies in the back of a throat; yours or his, none of you can say. The silence washes over you, comfortable, different. Legolas feels warm under you, your knees brush, the tip of his ears is red. The bottle is set aside, almost finished, and you find that dwelling here is the best birthday party you could have asked for. Everything is so easy around the prince, like the world favours him so it refuses to put any hardship on his path. You know it is false, but it feels like it. And you feel favoured too to be the one sharing moments like this with him.
But then, breaking the magic like a curse, something that had settled in the back of your mind crawls back upfront. You’re two thousand, the night will soon end, and you still have not had your first kiss.
You feel your stomach lurch at the thought. Helped by the wine, it’s like you will have wasted your life if you do not kiss someone by morning-come. Your heart starts to spiral out of control, you feel like you are doomed to an eternity without love, but then the breeze rises and brings back to you that specific scent. Him. Pinewood and musk, lilies of the valley and clean sheets, crisp smell of water in the shade on an afternoon in the spring.
If he kissed you, how would it feel? How does he kiss? Is it reverent, is it hurried, is it shy? Is he a fast learner?
“Legolas?“ you ask. He hums and glances at you.
You straighten from his shoulder, where the subtle weight of you still lingers in the wrinkles of his clothes.
“Do you know humans have a custom where they offer gifts during birthdays?“ Legolas hums again in reply. “Have you ever kissed someone?“
Now the correlation between the two sentences is null. The prince frowns, a small wrinkle between his brows. He turns to look at you fully, takes his time to analyse the blush on your cheeks, the pout on your lips and how crimson they look after all this wine. His own mind swims a little, with you and with the alcohol.
“Yes, I have,“ he replies, voice low because he does not feel like bringing it to an upper tone.
Of course he has. You bet she was as pretty as him and kissing like a goddess. You bet he thinks about her sometimes.
“Would you be my first kiss?“
Astonished silence.
It wasn’t supposed to come out that way. You had prepared it in your mind, it was supposed to be more subtle, maybe even alluring. Now he knows you never kissed someone and you look desperate. Heat rushes in the back of your neck, your skin prickles and you want to slap yourself. Stupid elf. Stupid self-control that doesn’t work with him. Stupid handsome prince.
Legolas looks at you with eyes wide open, it’s like the blue in them means to swallow you whole. His lips part, they close again as he thinks, a hundred thoughts a second crossing his mind. You’re here, dashing in that dress, flushed and growing shy, and you ask him to kiss you. The only problem is you’re drunk. He is too, but much less than you are. Legolas still has some sense, which you seem to have lost altogether. Damn all propriety, he would smash his lips to yours right this moment and show you how good he can be for you if only you were sober. If only it would not ruin your friendship. You do not know what you’re asking, he thinks you will regret it by dawn.
It takes a few seconds for you to start panicking when he doesn’t answer. Clearly, the dumbfounded look on his face says it all, and you’re afraid soon enough it will turn into disgust. You can already picture him excusing himself to leave, and then avoiding your path until you’re eventually nothing more than strangers to each other. Strangers with an old, crooked from of affection, but strangers nonetheless. So you take the matter into your own hands and raise to your feet first.
The motion makes your head spin and your legs wobble dangerously; Legolas reaches a hand to your waist in case you would fall.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what has taken me, it’s just- it’s the wine… Forget about it,“ the words come out in a confused blurb, but if Legolas understands something as clear as day, it’s your next sentence. “I’ll just ask someone else, I’m sorry.“
I’ll just ask someone else.
His blood loops in his veins, the words rush in his mind like they are the only ones he knows, and it’s only his body reacting by instinct when he shoots a hand to wrap around your wrist the second you move away. You turn to him, gaze lowering to where your bodies connect, and he tugs gently at your arm to invite you down to his level again. Wind blows around you, dried leaves on the balcony’s ground from the canopy above swirl at your feet.
“I’ll be your first kiss,“ he says. “You should not kiss someone you do not know.“
You should not kiss someone who’s not me.
You follow his tugs and sit back on your knees in front of him, heart hammering in your chest. You grow even redder if possible, and you feel your heart everywhere in your body, like it has swelled to take up all the space and never give you a second of break.
But as soon as you lock eyes with the prince, his blue gaze sucks you in like a tunnel, and it’s like the world around vanishes in pitch black so you only see him. You bite your lips frantically, look at every inch of his face because you do not know where to set your eyes, and he reaches a hand to your cheek to pull your lips from between your teeth with his thumb. The movement freezes you, you try to calm yourself, in vain. Your fists bunch the fabric of your dress in your laps.
This is happening. This is actually happening to you. There’s a fire in your stomach that builds with anticipation.
“How- what should I do? How is it supposed to go? Do I close my eyes?“ you ask a ton of questions to ease your stress, but it does the opposite and Legolas holds back a chuckle. You see it in the way his cheeks hollow when he bites them and his smile widens.
“Don’t think about it too much. Just let me take care of it,“ he charms.
He is already taking care of it. You see him lean in slowly, until you can feel his breath crash over your lips, and he scrutinises you attentively as he does so in case you wish to back down. Next to his ear, there is a wild strand of hair that sticks out from his flawless look. It makes him look the tiniest bit disheveled; you tuck it back in place to give yourself courage. Your fingers linger on the shell of his ear, it makes Legolas hold back a shiver.
Next thing you know, there is two different kind of warmth upon you: his hands that cover your own in your laps, and his lips delicately pressed to yours. The former grounds you, the latter drive you insane in the softest of ways. It’s like there’s fireworks in your belly, or dozens of butterflies emerging from their cocoon. You see him close his eyes in the kiss so you mimic it and plunge yourself in darkness too. You can feel his eyelashes brush your cheeks, his hair tingle in your neck.
It’s the softest thing you’ve ever felt, like you’re in another dimension. Part of you thinks that’s what a kiss feels like, the other knows it’s what a kiss with Legolas feels like. He doesn’t move and neither do you, you just stay pressed to each other like that for a while, both trying to calm the twisting of your guts.
Legolas is the first to part. He does it gently, slowly moving back though his lips still graze yours so you know it’s ending. You keep your eyes closed all the way until his warmth properly leaves, and then you allow yourself to open your eyes. When you do, he is the first thing you see, and it doesn’t help you stay composed. His cheeks are dusted with pink, his lips pout with the remnant of the kiss —even if it was more of a lingering peck. It’s like his pupil tries to swallow the iris, and the small edge of his eye that is still blue has turned a significantly darker colour.
Blessed with elven hearing, you can hear the way his breathing frays just like yours, or the loud thumping of his heart. Such a loud noise could even be spotted by dwarves, you think. In front of you, Legolas observes you like a relic, searches for any frown on your face, a single trace of regret, of disgust. None comes, you feel all but disgusted. In fact, it’s the opposite. You feel delirious with joy, with the feeling of him and the need to have it again like a drug, like a praise of the Dark Lord.
“Can you do it again?“ you murmur before you can double-think what you’re asking.
But you don’t have time to take it back or apologise, already Legolas is leaning back your way and sliding a hand to your cheek to keep you in place. He hovers over your lips and stares at them so blatantly it’s almost amusing how much he yearns for it. Legolas covets so visibly it makes you less timid about your own bluntness.
“I’ll give you a proper kiss, this time,“ he breathes against you.
You don’t know what is a ‘proper kiss‘ before he captures your mouth and the gentle force of it makes you part your lips just a little. Your jaw relaxes of its own will, your hand reaches for his sleeve to hold on to and he tastes so clearly of berries and the sweet remnant of wine coating his tongue. It’s less hesitant now, more open-mouthed and eager to consume. You don’t even brood about what to do, the right gaps to turn your lips into just come naturally, without any effort. You think it cannot get better. Except it does when he wraps his arm around you to bring you closer and you stumble over him in the mess. It tears a chuckles out of you in the kiss, which gives the prince liberty enough to hook your lower lip in between his teeth.
When you part, he is leaned back with his hand supporting behind him, and your own hand supports your weight with a grip on his leg, while you hold on to his shoulder with the other. It’s a glorious disarray of limbs and of laughters as you chuckle when you chase back for his lips, earning yourself a dodge from the elf-prince who buries his nose in your hair.
“Don’t be greedy,“ he lightly scolds, callused fingers grazing up and down your back in a tender motion.
You groan. “Can I not be greedy on my birthday?“
“I think it’s already midnight past that day.“
You smile at his stubbornness. You were right, Legolas could be as eager as he could make you beg. You were both a king’s jester for each other, sport to your hearts’ content.
“At least I had my first kiss before fully turning two thousand.“
“I would have given it to you sooner, had you told me,“ his voice rasps, while he presses his fingertips on your thigh to feel the velvet fabric of your dress. It’s like he maps it, creates a mental pattern of its cut to remember it at night when he’ll bury his face in his pillow, plagued by images of you.
“It was uh… a recent concern of mine.“
Your eyes avert when he straightens up and tries to catch them, and it’s like he reads your mind.
“I believe I have some girls to thank for this…“ Legolas teases and your roll your eyes, pushing yourself further into his chest.
“Focus on me first,“ you plead, fingers grazing his jaw to hold it delicately.
The touch rewires him, the tone of your voice makes him lose his mind way more than he ought to. There’s a grasp on him you don’t know, yet have in your bare hands.
“Anything you want…“
All the gods of righteousness in this world can be damned when he dips into your neck and there’s a fever that follows his lips on the skin there.
The prince would kiss and worship the ground you walk on only to feel the velvet of it between his fingers. It suits you like a dream awakened, like a curse.
This and....
All the gods of righteousness in this world can be damned when he dips into your neck and there’s a fever that follows his lips on the skin there.
this are my uttermost favourites, although it was hard to choose because your writing is always so amazing and wonderful to read! i look forward to reading your work every time, and this time was no different💓💕
Places/Situations for your characters to wake up in after passing out
Got drugged, hit over the head, exhausted or just had a bit too much to drink? Doesn't always need to end up predictable! Have it lead into your character's next adventure!
on the floor of their room, with no idea how they got there
back home in their bed... and someone is sitting next to the bed
in a cage
in a random side alley with a cat or rat sniffing them
in the middle of the woods, with no further information on where they are
tied up in a dungeon
in an extremely expensive hotel that they definitely would not be able to afford
on a bench at a bus station with commuters giving awkward side glances and a random woman offering aspirin
on a dirty mattress in a typical, creepy basement with a single lightbulb and a genuinely nice guy who lives there and just sucks at interior design
in a freshly dug grave
at a human sacrifice... but as sacrifice or attendant?
in a well, with locals in the process of trying to fish them out
to rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor in a hospital room
in a stable, with a farmer poking them with a pitchfork and asking what they are doing here
mdni !!
a/n: this came to me in a dream. JACK ABBOT CAN I BE YOUR CONTROVERSIALLY YOUNG GIRLFRIEND??
cw: fem reader, age gap, fluff, suggestive content, daddy kink, Jack Abbot is a freak (that is MY truth, move along)
For Jack, dominance is less about control and more about proving to himself that he is useful. Useful to you, most of all. That is not to say he does not enjoy control. He loves it, especially when it makes him feel productive, like he is doing something worthwhile, fixing something, taking care of someone. And you make him feel more useful, more productive, than anything else ever has.
He had wanted to be a father once. He had imagined it in the vague, aching way people imagine futures they assume they will have: teaching a child how to drive, reminding them to wear a coat, showing them how to do things properly. But life got in the way of that. He lost his wife, got older, buried the want so deep inside himself that he stopped noticing it was there.
And then you came along. You ask him questions, you let him explain things to you. You roll your eyes when he tells you to eat something, to go to sleep, to stop apologizing, and then you do it anyway. He likes teaching you things, likes the way you look at him when he is showing you how to do something, likes that you come to him when you need help. He likes taking care of you, likes making your life easier, likes having someone to fuss over and guide and gently boss around.
Sometimes he thinks there is something wrong with him for it. Something sick in the way his chest tightens whenever you are around. You are so cute, so pretty, so unbearably tempting that eventually it stops mattering. It stops mattering that it turns him on when you rely on him, when you look to him for help, when you come so willingly at his beck and call. He forgets all of his worries when you're in his bed gasping out for daddy, for him.
He tells himself he is too old for this, too old to get so attached to the way you look at him when he gives you instructions, too old to enjoy how easily you let him take over. He thinks he should feel guiltier about the warmth that spreads through him when you call him "dad" as a joke, all teasing and saccharine, and then look up at him through your lashes to see what he will do. Is it really a punishment if you enjoy yourself so much?
But you are so pretty when you need him, so sweet. And all he ever really needed was to be needed.
So he stops thinking about it eventually. Stops thinking at all, really, when you are curled up in his bed in one of his old t-shirts, breathing softly against his pillows and reaching for him with a soft, sleepy little, "Jack," like you already know he is there, ready to pull you against his broad chest, ready to make it all better. Because he always does, he always takes care of everything.
He is the sort of man who keeps an extra sweater in his car because he knows you never check the weather before you leave the house, and even if you did you probably prioritized your outfit over your comfort. The sort of man who notices when you are cold before you say anything, who wordlessly drapes his jacket over your shoulders and presses a hand to the back of your neck. There's no words needed, just the firm press of his skin against yours.
He ties your shoelaces when they come undone, kneels before you dramatically even when you have asked him not to time and time again, even if you frown and complain, tell him he's not as young as he used to be, he can't be putting all that weight on his prosthetic. But still you rest your foot in his hands as he ties the laces carefully. He cuts up fruit for you when you are working too late, setting the plate beside you with a quiet, "Eat." He stands behind you while you study, one hand heavy on your shoulder, reading over what you have written and correcting you with that low, patient voice of his. He likes teaching you. Likes the way you huff and insist you already knew that, even as you lean back into him and let him explain.
You let Jack choose things for you. What you wear when you cannot decide. What you order when you get overwhelmed at restaurants. Which side of the bed you sleep on, because he likes you closest to the wall where he can keep you safe, away from the door, from possible intruders.
He is always touching you, as if you were his lifeline. It's absentminded, you doubt he notices how much he does it. In reality, you doubt he realizes the extent of his obsession with you, the extent of his possessiveness. A hand at the small of your back. A palm on your knee beneath the table when you get fidgety. Fingers brushing over the inside of your wrist when he takes something from your hands. The lazy, possessive way he hooks two fingers through one of your belt loops to pull you back against him when you wander too far away. Fingers beneath your chin when he wants you to look at him. His palm spread over your thigh in the car, squeezing once when you get bratty with him.
You think he likes when you act bratty because it gives him an excuse to pull you into his lap and hold your face still while he tells you, very patiently, exactly how you are going to behave. An excuse to make you repeat yourself when you mumble. An excuse to tip your chin up with two fingers and make you look at him while he talks.
And you like it too. You like the way he buttons your coat for you with a little frown, muttering about how you would forget your own head if it was not attached to you. You like the way he scolds you for skipping meals, the way he pulls you into his lap the second you start pouting. You like the way he tells you what to do as though it is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it is. For you it is.
Sometimes, when Jack gets home in the early mornings, tired and aching after a draining shift and he finds you tucked under his bedcovers, breathing slowly under the soft morning light, he smooths a hand through your hair and thinks that this must have been what he wanted all along. Someone to love. Someone to take care of. Someone who lets him feel useful.
And maybe that is where it starts to become something else. Something warmer and stranger and just a little embarrassing. Because he is a pervert, really. A pathetic, middle-aged man who should probably know better than to get so worked up over the way a girl half his age looks at him when he tells her what to do.
There is something almost embarrassingly domestic about the way he indulges it. The way he calls you his girl under his breath when he thinks you are asleep. The way he tells you to climb into his lap when you are upset, then strokes your hair and presses your face into his chest until you stop crying. The way he praises you for the smallest things.
He never says it out loud, but there is a part of him that feels almost spoiled by you. Spoiled by how easily you hand him that role, how readily you let him take over. You look to him before you make decisions, ask him what he thinks, what he wants, what you should do. And every time, something in him preens.
He catches himself lingering in it. Taking a little too long to straighten your collar, to smooth his thumb over your lower lip when you are pouting, to keep you tucked against his side with a hand low on your waist. He likes when you wait for him. Likes when you ask for permission even when you do not have to. Likes the little pause before you do something, that tiny glance in his direction as though checking whether daddy approves.
You linger, too. When you wake up before him on the rare day off he takes, and you can take a moment to explore the freckles and scars that litter his back, you can trace them with your fingertips or your lips. You linger when he fixes your collar or buttons your coat, staring up at him hungrily. You like it when he laughs and tells you you worry too much, that he will make it all better as he pulls your lower lip out from between your teeth. You like asking for permission, not because you have to but because it brings Jack a strange sense of comfort. You like it when he tells you to sit still while he fixes your hair, murmurs, “Don’t squirm,” and you do, letting his hand settle low on your waist while he brushes down a stray strand.
And sometimes, when you're sat in his kitchen in the afternoon, watching Jack make coffee; and the sunlight filters through the curtains just right, you think maybe this is what you wanted all along. Someone to hold you when you feel small, someone to make things easier for you, someone who lets you lean in completely.
Summary: the one where Jack Abbot doesn't play about helping his girl get to sleep.
Masterlist
Warnings: porn without plot (what can i say, im just a girl) v sleepy (but consenting!!) reader, light subspace vibes, vaginal fingering, clit play/pussy rubbing, jack talks you through, sprinkle of praise, clothed play. I think that is allll for today's blasphemy
Tbh i cant say anything more than i got myself in a headspace and locked the fuck in, i need those fat finger inside me SO BAD im going insane
Intensely locked in on the thought of lazy fingering/pussy rubs w Abbot
The kind when it starts innocent after a long day, the pair of you cuddled up beneath a blanket on the bed.
You rest practically on top of him, Jacks strong arms looped around you , letting your head tuck into the crook of his neck, keeping close. Its warm, comfortable, safe as the TV play's some show you'd lost focus on a while ago, too wrapped up in the heat of jacks body beneath yours.
One of his large hands drifts from rubbing over your back when you shift against his chest, a soft whine passing pouty lips half conscious. Mind struggling to drift off all the way despite the overtired exhaustion in your bones.
You dont notice that shift, too preoccupied in between dream and drift off. Not when the pads of his fingertips span your belly beneath your top, thumb soothing carefully, nor do you make a peep when they tuck just beneath the band of your sweats. Infact, if anything, you seem to press into the warmth of him like a kitten it's mother.
Still, he waits until you grumble again, scratchy stubble on his jaw rubbing your hair when you nuzzle in, before he lets them dip any further.
They creep down, slow and gentle, until he's cupping you over the cotton of your panties, pressure light to keep you drifting. You feel hot, even with the fabric barrier keeping your pussy from full contact.
Jacks fingers move back up the gusset, two chubby pads offering just a little more pressure, rubbing lazily. His chin dipping to plant a soft kiss to your temple.
The combination stirs you, makes your hand grip into the center of his shirt just a little tighter, sleepy eyes blinking up oh so blearily.
"Jack? What- mmph- what're you?-"You mumble, hips unconsciously tilting into the fingers that are still working your covered cunt.
Jack just smiles against you, cooing quietly, a freckled arm squeezing you a little tighter to him. "Shhh S'okay, Jus wanna feel my baby f' a bit, s'that alright? Jus' my fingers, Help you get all sleepy"
You must think about it for a single moment, a fleeting millisecond of coherence in that fuzzy little brain, before your head tucks back in and your leg drapes over his middle to allow more access.
Every whine, every whimper, you let bubble out holding a fragility that makes Jack's chest (and cock) ache.
And that, for a while, is how it goes. You, mewling into his neck, while Jack rubs your pussy over your panties. Just enough to keep you calm, to let you doze gently without drifting too far.
That is, until he finally slides the now drenched cotton to the side, his fingers making complete contact with the puffy, sticky lips of your vulva. Your head peaks out to moan, a sound that goes straight to Jack's cock.
"Ohh, s'that feel better? Hm?" he breathes, meeting your lips in a sloppy press that just about resembles a kiss.
Every brush, every lick of pressure to your clit has your hole drooling out arousal, pulsing as it tries to pull the digits that tease the outer edges in.
"Whats the matter, you need somethin inside?" your hips only tilt down, letting the tip of his middle dip just a little into where you need him. "Yeah.. Yeah you do, Alright, Nice n easy.. Big breaths, Jus feel it"
You take that breath against his mouth, shakey and tapering off into a soft cry, the thickness of his middle finger snug as it pushes inside your walls to the knuckle. He relishes in the moment, driving the single digit in and out, letting your wetness libricate the move before he begins to curl it with expert ease.
Jack can feel the heat radiating off of you, feel it pushed against his chest, every puff of your breath fanning hot. Even when you begin to squirm, rocking your hips in time as he presses against that spot that makes you keen, you remain devastatingly close- practically on top of him.
"S' Right there isn't it, thats the spot.." he murmers knowly, drawing out to circle your clit wetly. "Gonna give you another 'kay, big breaths good girl"
And If the first finger felt good, the stretch of two is like heaven, his middle and ring finger slipping in with little resistance. The rough pads curling up and pushing so perfectly against you that its obscene. Especially how, with every full plunge into your weepy cunt, you can feel the cool band of his wedding ring grow warmer- wetter.
And then, palm flush against your core once more, you hear it. The Filthy, muffled squelches that only make the lewdness of the situation worse.
Torn between nuzzling in deep to hide and the need to feel Jacks lips devour yours, You end up somewhere between the two when you mewl next, Cheek dragging open mouthed along the stubble of his jaw. Nimble fingers scrabbling to grip onto his forearm as the warmth in your belly burns hotter. "A-ah m' so- s'close Jack"
"Oh i know, i know.. S'right there isn't it" he shushes, squeezing your arm again, a faux kind of sympathy on his tongue. The heel of his palm plap, plap, plaping against your sticky, puffy clit as he curls his fingers perfectly deep. "cmon, cum it out sweetheart. Haven't gotta do nothin but let go, you can do it"
And truly, it doesn't take much more encouragement than that to make you shatter. His rough voice in your ear, fingers deep inside your rippling pussy as it squeezes him tight. The intensity has you shaking, lips dragging along his neck as you cry out. Each breath wracking your lungs as you heave it in. Heartbeat so loud in your ears you just about catch the gravelly drawl of jacks praise in your hair.
"That's my girl, yeaaahhh, there we go, makin me proud"
And jack, nothing if not totally content in your pleasure, doesn't stop, not until your squirming anyway. Struggling in his hold, hips writhing from the sensitivity, his fingers making sure to draw out the final sparks of heaven from your cunt before he snakes them free from you entirely.
Sticky, soaked and covered in the creamy mess of your release as they slide out of your panties and waistband up to his mouth.
You more so feel the guteral grumble at the taste, what with the way sleep finally seems to flood your system, fuzzy little head just about coherent enough to catch his final hum.
